I am NOT my father. That domesticated…tasteless…freeloader shows up now? On the biggest night of my life and wants to join me? Are you kidding?
Let me give you some context. My name is Chesthair. I'm a cheetah. My mother, Sheba, raised me alone, meowing her way through cat food commercials. Day and night, for years, I heard her practicing in her bedroom, perfecting her voice while choking back tears. Meow, meow, meow-meow… sniffle. Meow, meow, meow-meow, gaaaaack.
Ok, that last one may have been a hair ball, but that's not the point. The point is that Tommi the F-ing tiger, with an ‘I’, couldn't care less about our lives for the better part of 50 years. Just milking that Flake O’Corn gravy train, hanging out with big name athletes and trying to get invited to a Diddy party.
Until I get my big break. BURNING FLAME CHEESE RODS! The snack of the Gods. And my name is going to be all over it. Chesthair Cheetah, son of Sheba, is going to be a snacking star.
NOOOO! You are NOT my father. I will NOT search my feelings. I don't have a sister. I will fight! And no mystic marshmallow-wielding leprechauns will stand in my way. Kids will fear my tricks. Mothers (except my mother) will whisper my name in bedtime stories. My snack will be supreme!
There can be only ONE! Go back to your tired breakfast cereal, Tommi. I choose the dark side. I will use my anger.
I am General Grevipuss!
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