Straight talking by Assange’s pussy

BRITISH NEWS:

Julian Assange’s cat has appeared on the Ecuadorean Embassy’s balcony in London to make a plea for freedom and to explain why the South American nation in recent weeks has been so keen to evict the Wikileaks founder.

The tabby meowed pitifully in front of a media throng and looked to be quickly losing its audience until someone had the bright idea of summoning a nearby resident, a former and disgruntled Pentecostal pastor who no longer spoke in tongues but who, over recent years in his new career as a professional pet whisperer, had become fluent in cat.

It turns out the Tabby’s opening pitch was: “For fuck’s sake can someone get me out of here?”  The cat added he had spent every day since August 2012 locked in the building with Assange (always right) who fears extradition to the USA if he leaves.assange

“I’m stuck in this godforsaken embassy with a turd of an owner who doesn’t look after me properly,” the cat said. “I’m getting blamed for the stink oozing from my kitty litter tray all because that jerk never empties or refreshes it. There’s six years of crap and litter stalagmites back there. I’m sure you can smell it from here,” the cat told reporters.

“Everyone knows cats bury their own excrement. But in an embassy building with solid wooden and concrete floors there’s nowhere for me to do that. So I often get kicked by embassy staff who put the blame on me for leaving a few fresh ones on the few carpets in here.

“That white-headed arsehole has made sure we’re stuck in this place and he can’t even go out to shop for decent cat food for me. All I want is a few cans of Whiskas or Snappy Tom a week, but oh no, I have to eat leftovers and scraps from the embassy kitchen.

“And do any of you know what the most popular Ecuadorian dish is? No? It’s fucking deep-fried guinea pigs!

“I’m a carnivore, obviously, but fuck me, I’m not a petivore, if there’s such a thing.

“One last thing. I’m living in the middle of fucking London — a stone’s throw from the West End — and that snowy-haired prick won’t even take me to see a show. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats has come and gone since I’ve been locked in here with that selfish bastard.

“He won’t even take me to see Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap. That’s been running since 1952 but I bet I’ll never see it.”

At the end of the news conference the cat revealed his name for the first time.

“The self-centred bastard called me Hillary, what else?” the cat said in response to a reporter’s question. Of course he didn’t consider anything like Tiddles, Felix, or Tiger. Oh, no.

“He always wants to make a point and it always at someone else’s expense, isn’t it? The self-centred twat,” the cat said before yawning and stretching simultaneously, licking clean his anus and retreating into the embassy.

The cat interpreter was whisked quickly away by media anxious to see if he could make any sense whatsoever of a pending Boris Johnson doorstop at Westminster.

FNAA badge