This just goes to show you that SLAYER -- Masters of Speed Death Metal -- have a softer side too. Turn it LOUD, grab them little fuzzy mouse toys, and bang your head 'til you BLEED!!!!! Send this one to that gentle old lady living all alone in her house with 30 cats. I guarantee that within minutes, she'll be throwin' her hip out while smashing her walker into her skull and moshing like a monster while Snookums, Fluffy, Whiskers, Poncho, Mittens, Morris, Garfield, and Mr. Poopers start crapping themselves in fear.
So you want to know how I came up with this concept. Well, allright. Are you ready? It is quite intense, so if you have a weak stomach you may want to turn back. Still want to know? Allrighty then. Here we go. I was laying in bed one night and suddenly thought to myself (because it is much harder to think to someone else):
"Slayer is cool. Kitties are cool. Cool. WAIT!!! Kitties WITH Slayer. Holy mother... that is TWICE the COOL!!!"
So, I sat down for a few hours and put this video together while my wife was sleeping. It made me laugh. While watching it, I would be all like:
"Awww, look at the cute widdle kitty witties, they are so... so... SOULS OF DAMNATION YEAH DEVIL SCREEAAAMMMM AAHHHHHH.. AHHH... aaa.. adorable. Oh, that on has a teeny weeny nose and I... and I... AND DIE DIE DIE DIE I luv her fat jiggly belly welly that is all white and furry... furry... FURY FURY BLOOD AND DEATH DEATH TO PURRY purry purring little happy joy making me so happy inside. I wuv them so much MUCH PAIN PAIN PAIN YYYYYAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHH."
My head was quite messed up after watching this video I created. The conflicting desires of wanting to pet the kitties, yet pummel them at the same time, forced my spiralling mind into an instant drooling coma. I had to take three weeks off work to recover and had to be fed potted meat through a twisty straw (just for fun really -- who DOESN'T like potted meat sucked through a twisty straw).
Because of this video, whenever I see my own cats anywhere in the house, I immediately throw my fist in the air, scream at the top of my lungs, and fling myself off of the nearest available furnishing and straight into a wall, a bookcase, my wife, or a passing neighbor. I call this rather unfortunate psychological afflication the FIST OF FURRY.