The Buzz has been a long time fan of the crew over at PostBourgie, and today's rant on 'Cats' is a nice midweek change-of-pace.
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The play is about a pack of stray, singin’-ass cats in an alley. The clowder is headed by a smarmy, lazy, particularly portly cat who sings passionately about his struggle to stay alive in a word full of stupid dogs, overly cute kittens, and lasagna. I think. I think that’s what it’s about. If that’s not what’s it’s about it’s because I didn’t see the damn thing, and I didn’t see the damn thing because who in flea dipped hell wants to see a bunch of grown people pouncing around on stage pretending to be cats??
Honestly. I don’t even like cats in my real life. A two hour play of pretend singing cats? That’s my nightmare. And what’s the appeal, anyway? I mean, if they were actual cats singing? Maybe I’d be impressed. There’s like a 60% possibility.
But, alas, there are 0 real cats in this play, and thusly 0 reasons to–wait. The play is about a prostitute? A cat prostitute? An elderly kitty prostitute who dies and goes to heaven on a tire? Now you can’t even consider real cats in this play because it just feels wrong. That means there aren’t even any imaginary redeeming factors to this play. I’d rather watch a musical about Odie’s struggle with meth and closet homosexuality. Just make it go away.
Chortle.
Straight From 
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