Hey, Lioness. Whatcha doing?
“Huh? ‘Lioness?’ You’re still doing that?”
“I get that ‘ess’ at the end of my name because I’m, what, dainty? Am I a pretty little princess kitty?”
No. You’re scary as hell.
“Lady that took this picture: what does she do?”
“Not a racecar driveress?”
No, but you’re an animal.
“Ah. Like rhinos and rhinesses? And horses and horsettes?”
You might have a point.
“Fuck your equivocation. I’m right. And, you have no say in the matter about what I call myself.”
All right, all right.
“Put some respect on my name.”
Fine. Lemme ask you something: is hunting tough?
“I got a .200 batting average and I’m a freaking lion. It is SO hard.”
Really? What about it?
“Antelope are fast.”
“What else do you need? Tasty little fuckers got some get-up-and-go. From standing still to a dead sprint in half-a-second. Then they run that ziggity-zag on you: it’ll make your head spin.”
What about zebras?
“What about them?”
Are they easier to catch than antelope?
“Nothing’s easy. It’s nature.”
“You couldn’t do it.”
Sure, I could. I’d bring a gun.
“What if you didn’t have a gun?”
Then I could not do it.
“Right. It’s a tough gig. Plus, there’s male lions to deal with.”
“Vain. Always with the hair. ‘Is it thinning a little in the back?’ All day and night. Then he climbs on you for five seconds and starts roaring like he works for MGM.
That sounds annoying.
“Well, he sleeps eighteen hours a day, so you get a break.”
Eighteen hours? That’s a lot. Is he depressed?
“He’s a cat.”