[this is satire]
I talked with Rocky while he supervised men working in the basement of our house. “What are you building down here?” I asked.
“The first royalties from the Italian edition of my book Night Thoughts: Reflections, Aphorisms, Epigrams Etc. are paying for the construction of my personal bachelor pad down here, complete with billiards table, big-screen TV and espresso bar,” he said. He turned to the workmen and yelled, “Hurry up, guys! I’m going out tonight, so let’s wrap things up!”
“Where are you going?”
“Angie and I are going out to see my favorite band, the White Trash Frasiers. What are you doing?” the cat asked.
“Nothing. I’m feeling rather tired from the latest attack of my affliction,” I replied.
“Ah yes, your affliction. You and Dostoevsky both! Unfortunately for you, the similarities end there. Oh, well. Did I tell you my agent called with a bunch of offers for the American market?” he inquired.
I clenched my teeth in annoyance. “No, you did not,” I replied.
“Yes, there is an offer to develop a reality TV show called Litterbox Hell with me as host; a pilot for a leftist version of The O’Reilly Factor called, provisionally, The Rocky Factor; and an offer from a pornographer to do a film called Cat on Ten Hot Ruths,” Rocky gloated.
I exploded. “All I hear all day is Rocky this, Rocky that, guess what Rocky did, Rocky Rocky Rocky blah blah blah!”
The cat looked amused. “My, dear fellow, you are full of anger, aren’t you? Jealous, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes I am,” I said.
“Well, my man,” the cat replied, “I dare say literary irrelevance is your crime, and obscurity, therefore, is your punishment!”