Beware of prowling cougars and bold eleven-teens

Jon-O Gadzecki

Out there lies a mysterious world, one that seems invisible to the regular eye. It is a world that most people are afraid of, where cougars and eleven-teens dominate the nightlife, and ignorant passersby are none-the-wiser.

For those who are unfamiliar with the term that I have thrown at you, let us refer to one of the greatest, most credible Internet sources known to mankind. According to the Urban Dictionary, cougars can be best described as older ladies (preferably mothers between the ages of 35 to 55) that try to prey on young men (or as I like to call them, the women’s “cubs”). These women are associated with the ferocious animal because they continuously prowl around on the hunt for meat.

So, what could possibly be the problem with cougars? Aren’t they the materialization of most young male adults’ dreams? Apparently, they are not. My biggest hitch when it comes to predatory cougars is that they tend to go for the most aerodynamic people (AKA myself), and after they discover the wind frequencies and moves that one might make on the dance floor, they sneak up from behind and go in for the kill.

Cougars weren’t bred on the grounds of Isengard, like the Orcs in Lord of the Rings, but created in a laboratory facility in the hills above Silicon Valley. The majority of their biogenetic-cybernetic upgrades usually include abnormally large breast implants, an interior blue-tooth cellular-device surgically attached to their brains (funded by the Blue-tooth Republicans, or BTRs), and the deletion of the primary vocabulary of the English dictionary.

Apparently, these cybernetic modifications are attractive to most young cubs looking for a good time, regardless of the fact that in some cases these cougars can potentially be friends with said cubs’ mothers.

These warning signs are ignored due to judgments being clouded by the Sith, or de-molecularized brain cells from abnormal radio-waves caused by hands-free cell-phone technology. Recently, there have been many strange and weird encounters with cougars reported; the horror that follows is one incident that happened to me at a club a while back.

There I was, enjoying my own business tearing up the dance floor with 21st century kinetics, when a cougar came over on all fours walking up to me and said, “You are one sexy boy.”

I got really scared and backed off a little bit. At the time my hair reached down to my chest like a mermaid and the frightening cougar saw her approach to slay me. “Your hair is beautiful. Can I touch it?” she asked.

I thanked her and decided to back off again, but as mind-morphed as the cougar was, she made a move. Grabbing my hair, she wrapped it around her neck, securing our lips centimeters from each other. “I have you locked in my arms now,” she said.

Scared out of my mind, I attempted no defensive maneuvers as she grabbed my cheeks and squeezed them like a grandmother and squealed, “You’re cheeks are so cute, so adorable. I am going to kiss you and your adorable face.”

Somehow, with the grace of God, I slipped from her, jerking my head away violently as I rushed to the other side of the dance floor where my fellow cubs could guard me from the large and scary cougar prowling around the club in my pursuit.

Almost as daunting as a cougar, I must also inform you about eleven-teens. Basically, my only advice is to stay away.

An eleven-teen is best described as a girl between ages 11 and 14 who dresses like an adult, and shares the same predatory instincts as a cougar towards a similar demographic.

At the beach the other day, an eleven-teen armed in a leopard-print tube-top said to me, “Hey your mustache is hot.”

In my best interest, I decided not to say a single word, and after she and her friends passed, I said to my two friends, “I am just not going to respond to that question.” In fear of turning on a future cougar, I opted to let society deal with that one.

Too bad we don’t have a zoo to lock up all of these cougars that prowl our streets. For all I know, that same eleven-teen could be the daughter of the cougar at the dance club.
What are they expecting? Does the eleven-teen really want to have a daughter of her own and another sister born of her cougar mother that I fathered by planting seeds in their garden? I am not going to be sending out any postcards for them to receive nine months later in a hospital.

For all of you cougars and eleven-teens out there, please, go back to your zoo and your daycare centers. Existing in this society, you are all a crazy breed; I hope you are not lonely without me.

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