I don't know what you said or did to them, but the kittens hate you -- they hate you bad. I was with them last night at Centerfolds and they couldn't stop talking about how much they hate your guts.

They were all, "We hate their guts."

So I was like, "Why?"

And they were like, "Because."

And I was like, "Wow."

Then Gina gave them a killer lap dance.

I never could get out of them why they hate you, but rest assured: the kittens hate you. Perhaps they aren't yet over how you voted for Hillary. In retrospect, you have to admit that was kind of lame. Hillary? How boring is that? Way boring.

With that said, I think the kittens should cut you some slack when it comes to politics. People should vote for whomever they want to, no matter how uninspired the choice. Still, you have to hand it to the kittens for picking Obama early on. Should he win, I'll bet they'll be in line for an ambassadorship somewhere awesome, like Monaco or Tahiti.

So I wouldn't make any vacation plans to either place, bro. You won't be wanted there, because the kittens hate you -- they hate your fucking guts.

This post is dedicated to rutabagas.