The internet may be a treasure trove of sadsacks, but it’s not without it faults. For every amazing juggalo advice columnist you dredge up, you can basically be assured that it’s already run through the blog-mill and been photoshopped a thousand times with Moshzilla and those brown Japanese whatevers, which kills all the funny. It’s sort of like when you’re seeing a “cult” movie and there’s those four people who laugh really loudly at fucking everything that happens just so that you get that they “get it.” And even if the saturation doesn’t put you off, you’ve still got to read through the astoundingly unhilarious “barbs” put up by places like losers.org and Blue States Lose and that haircut thing to get to the real meat.

Anyway, that’s what makes running across treasures like this in the real world these days so great. If this had been some psychotic’s internet cat page instead of a 99-cent mini-zine for sale next to Soap Opera Digest at the grocery checkout there would already be a fucking webring of fansites to dilute the joy. But as is you can just sit back on the couch, flip off your shoes, and bask in the unadulturated glow of a fully-grown woman writing stories from the perspective of kitty cats. Then, once the Holy Shits have finally subsided, you can tuck it away on your bookshelf and wait until some friend turns it up, opens to a random page and goes, “Um… ‘Pyewacket, as you may have noticed, I was named for the Hawaiian volcano goddess. That’s because I have an Olympian catitude and, when piqued, an explosive temper. I’m very purrtective of my handsome son Andrew, as any momcat should be.’”