On August 8, 2017,
by the Gregorian calendar,
the weather in Chicago was awesome, totally chill.
Dusk was settling in.
Night was taking over from day.
A cool breeze carried lake moisture,
filling everything from edge to edge.
Trees rustled their leaves like crumpled paper.
Over the horizon, near a Target store,
the sun faded, slowly dipping out of sight—
darkness was creeping in to take its place.
A black squirrel darted across the lawn by the park entrance.
A bit deeper in, down in a ravine thick with wild berry bushes,
a small, timid bunny hid.
By the dumpster, fenced in with wooden slats,
a sneaky raccoon was loitering with nothing to do.
At the intersection, by the traffic light pole,
someone’s engine screeched and sped off.
Like I said, it was getting dark everywhere—
night was rolling in.
Right then, Oliver, the cat,
leaped onto the wooden fence,
plopped down, letting his cocky tail dangle,
twitched his whiskers, and stared at the sky.
A full moon hung up there.
Oliver squinted,
opened his mouth wide,
and swallowed it whole!
In the woods, not far from the city,
wolves looked up and froze in shock.
“How are we supposed to howl at the moon,” they said,
“if it’s not there where it’s supposed to be?”
They huddled up,
sighing and grumbling,
then wrote a notice
and pinned it to every pine tree:
-------------------
Whoever brings back the moon
and teaches that cat a lesson,
we’ll give you some chickens
swiped from Old Man Johnson’s farm.
We’ve done this before, no scam here.
Look, we’re attaching
feathers from the chickens we nabbed
to prove we mean business.
The Wolves
P.S. Need eggs? Talk to Frankie the ferret.
He’s always sniffing around Johnson’s farm like he owns the place,
sneaks into the coop weeknights from 10 p.m. till dawn,
and comes highly recommended by Rusty the fox!
The chaos that followed was unreal!
Word of this spread like wildfire across the globe!
It got so bad you couldn’t step outside—
every passerby was trying to nab a cat, any cat,
to trade with the wolves for a couple of stolen chickens.
Who knows how this madness would’ve ended
if the U.S. government hadn’t stepped in?
They sent the cops after Oliver,
cuffed his paws,
locked him in a glass cage,
and shipped him off to The Hague
to face an international tribunal as a criminal mastermind.
In The Hague, they grilled Oliver for a whole year,
then finally set a trial date,
inviting every Tom, ****, and Harry to show up.
They assigned him a lawyer—Sly Fox.
Judges in black robes sat smugly at the bench.
Guards with rifles hauled in Oliver’s cage.
The prosecutor, defense, and jury took their seats.
The prosecutor spoke first.
Prosecutor:
Oliver the cat is a clear and present danger to society.
He’s charged with stealing the moon!
His entire life led up to this heinous crime.
I’m sure everyone’s dying to hear his story.
Sly Fox:
Objection!
Oliver’s past has nothing to do with this case.
Judge:
Overruled.
Prosecutor:
The defendant was born into an average family.
Nothing hinted he’d turn into a ****.
At his baptism, they named him Oliver.
He was a sweet, cuddly kitten, went to school,
acted like a good little Christian.
But that didn’t last long—just a few months.
Soon, girls and their parents started complaining.
He couldn’t keep his paws to himself!
The school kicked him out, his mom gave up on him,
and nobody’s ever seen his dad.
At night, he turned to petty street crime,
and by day, he was hustling:
scavenging city dumpsters for food scraps
and selling them as “gourmet imports” wherever he could.
From a young age, he showed a knack for shady leadership!
Instead of doing his civic duty—catching mice—
he teamed up with them.
Under his command, gangs of ten to fifteen mice
ambushed lone women at bus stops,
and Oliver made off with their purses.
Tons of cell phones, makeup, and credit cards passed through his paws.
When he tried cashing out one of those cards,
he got caught
and sent to a reform shelter—basically juvie.
Think he turned his life around there?
Fat chance!
In the shelter, he converted to Islam!
Nothing wrong with that,
but he only did it to blend in with the other inmates,
who were mostly Muslim.
He gained their trust,
then started corrupting them—selling them bacon,
smuggled in by his mouse cronies from the outside!
Thanks to his cute face and fluffy tail,
Oliver didn’t stay locked up long.
A girl named Annie adopted him,
falling for his meows and purrs.
At first, he planned to bolt,
but then figured he could run his scams better
as a “well-mannered house cat.”
Without telling his shelter buddies,
Oliver converted to Judaism—playing the Jewish card to expand his market.
Soon, he trademarked “NOT-BACON,”
and his sales skyrocketed.
When he diversified his dumpster menu
and started frying bacon (dyed with stolen makeup),
his business blew up.
His little gang soon became
an international crime syndicate!
Oliver got canadian citizenship
and started jet-setting like a maniac!
He made two trips to Mecca,
snapped a selfie with the Dalai Lama,
lit a greasy candle at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,
and was spotted in the Vatican three times!
There, he rubbed against a few cardinals’ legs
and licked the Pope’s hand.
Soon, Oliver’s business interests turned political.
He funneled money into every party and movement,
yowling loudest at both pro- and anti- rallies.
Among other things, he was seen in Ukraine’s Donbas region,
fighting in the conflict—
nobody could pin down which side,
probably both.
And last summer, he was vacationing in Miami!
What a ****!
In every city he passed through,
he conned his way into marriages!
Look at his wives and kids—
they’re in the front row, crying and begging for help!
He doesn’t pay a dime in child support, despite his wealth!
And to top it all off,
in August 2017,
with the help of Squirrel Sally as a lookout
and Raccoon Ricky keeping watch,
Oliver climbed onto the dumpster fence in his backyard
and ATE THE MOON!
We still haven’t figured out the bunny’s role in this crime ring.
Nobody’s seen him.
Oliver needs to be locked up for good—or worse.
Judge:
I’ll now give the floor to the defendant’s attorney, Sly Fox.
Sly Fox:
Oliver should walk free!
The moon just fell into his mouth when he yawned.
He’s not a criminal—he’s a victim!
He nearly choked!
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It happens to everyone.
Come on, he couldn’t have been where he wasn’t supposed to be.
There’s nothing to discuss.
Oh, and by the way—he’s not a cat, he’s a she-cat.
Those kids? Not his.
This trial should be thrown out
because the charges are nonsense.
Here’s his statement
demanding a gender change.
We can’t let the global elite
trample on the rights of those who are different!
No to injustice!
(The courtroom erupted, chanting:
“Free Lady Oliver!”)
Judge:
Please, settle down.
Prosecutor:
To prove this crime,
we reached out to the global scientific community.
Sadly, most bailed:
Hawking pleaded disability,
Dawkins said he was too busy,
Perelman played dumb to dodge us,
Geim and Novoselov told us to get lost,
Feynman reminded us he’s been dead for years.
Only Neil deGrasse Tyson stepped up—
he said, “Sure, why not?”
So, I’m thrilled to give him the floor.
Neil deGrasse Tyson:
Ladies and gentlemen, this is…
a total mess!
I hate to break it to you—
trust me, I’m not thrilled about this—
YOU’RE ALL NUTS!
I’ve been saying this for years,
on the internet, on radio, on TV:
GOD DOESN’T EXIST!
HE’S NOT REAL!
It’s scientifically proven.
Stop kidding yourselves!
(A court assistant hands Tyson a scrap of paper.)
—Oh, my bad, looks like I’m here for something else.
Let’s see… “August eighth…” hmm… “in a ravine…”
Nah, we can skip that.
What’s with the bunny, squirrel, and raccoon?
Oh, here we go:
“…ate the moon while sitting on a fence.”
What a tragedy.
So, what do you want from me?
Prosecutor:
We’d like you to tell us what happened to the moon.
Tyson:
To who?
Prosecutor:
The moon.
Tyson:
Ohhh, the moon! Got it.
It’s gone.
Sly Fox:
Is there scientific evidence for this?
Tyson:
Weird question. There’s tons.
Here’s one example:
On the evening of August 8, 2017,
the weather was perfect.
I was chilling on my porch,
sipping a beer, nice and slow.
I decided to check out the moon through my refractor telescope.
The moon was just a few meters from perigee,
hanging out between Sagittarius and Aquarius,
all cratered up, covered in regolith.
Its librations were normal, within the tilt of its orbit.
Everything was standard, beautiful.
Then I ran out of beer,
so I stepped away from the eyepiece,
went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerating gizmo,
grabbed another bottle,
threw on a robe on my way back—
it was getting dark and chilly, and I was just in my boxers.
I look through the telescope again—
and I see whiskers in the sky!
Where the moon was just a second ago,
there’s a hole, and I can see the stars it was blocking.
I logged everything meticulously
and sent my observations
to the global astronomical community.
Sly Fox:
Did you get a response?
Tyson:
Nah.
But I didn’t ask for one…
Judge:
Do you believe the cat ate the moon?
Tyson:
Well…
That’s completely impossible.
You see…
The mass difference…
How do I explain this simply?
Cat’s tiny. Moon’s huge.
Prosecutor:
But you saw WHISKERS!
Tyson:
Yup, I did.
But I can’t give you a scientific explanation for that.
Prosecutor:
Your Honor, esteemed jurors!
Anticipating these difficulties,
our investigators decided to help science out
and present undeniable proof of the crime,
so no one’s left with any doubts.
Take a look at this X-ray of the cat.
(Shows X-ray image of Oliver.)
Look closely at his stomach.
As you can see, the moon’s sitting comfortably inside.
And get this—
there’s still plenty of room in there.
Oh, and it’s already a third digested.
Judge (to Tyson):
What do you make of this?
Tyson:
Well, yeah,
that looks pretty convincing.
And the cat looks… alive.
Can I go home now?
Judge:
Sure, go ahead.
Bet there’s still plenty of beer in your fridge—
I mean, refrigeration unit.
(Chuckles.)
Just a joke, sorry.
(To the courtroom):
Alright, we’ve heard from the defense and prosecution.
Now, I’m calling for FINAL ARGUMENTS
from both sides,
where there’s no chance for truce or reconciliation!
I summon Donald Trump!
Donald Trump (striding forward):
The moon is the property of ALL American people. Sorry!
No debate needed!
I promise to bring it back. I’ll handle it.
If the moon shows up again—and I’ve always liked it—
I’m not giving it to anybody.
I’ll eat it myself.
Half the American delegation
erupted in wild cheers,
while the other half stayed quiet,
shaking their heads in disapproval.
Trump:
The moon theft is a national disgrace.
It happened under the previous administration—
let their leader explain himself.
I’m passing the mic to Barack Obama.
Obama:
Good afternoon, thanks for having me.
The moon is the result of humanity’s collective efforts.
Its disappearance is a horrific crime.
This is unacceptable.
We can’t let it slide.
We must all unite to ensure this never happens again.
That’s my stance.
This time, the other half of the American delegation
burst into thunderous applause.
Though the half that cheered for Trump
hissed and stomped in disapproval.
With that, the arguments wrapped up.
The judges stepped out to draft their guilty verdict
but returned quickly—
it was all crystal clear to them.
The head judge cleared his throat and began reading the verdict.
Judge:
The cat is guilty on all counts. He’s a THIEF!
The cat is sentenced to death by hanging,
while strapped to an electric chair
hooked up to high voltage.
Given the notorious resilience of cats,
the following measures must also be strictly enforced:
A lethal injection—er, shot—into his paw,
and three soldier-executioners will fire four bullets each
from Heckler & Koch ****** rifles
to ensure the cat finally croaks.
No mercy for this cat! As they say, tough luck!
Justice doesn’t tolerate mockery.
Considering other circumstances,
the cat is also ordered to pay massive compensation
and undergo gender reassignment surgery.
He’s owed an apology—
which he’ll receive while serving a life sentence
in the courtroom…
—Uh, no, sorry—
While serving a life sentence. Period.
—In the courtroom…
—Pardon, what a mess.
I think I mixed up the pages.
(To his assistant)
Is this right?
(Adjusts glasses and continues reading.)
In the courtroom,
he must be immediately released—
so he doesn’t suffer,
and everyone walks away happy.
(Looks up at the room.)
I hope I didn’t skip anything and read it all.
Since the points of this verdict
contradict each other,
they should be carried out in any order.
The form doesn’t matter—it’s the substance that counts.
You can’t fool Justice.
Don’t take us for fools, and we won’t take anyone else for fools.
The goal is to restore fairness and punish evil.
I’m confident we’ve punished and restored,
even if it took tremendous effort.
Long live the adversarial judicial process!
The cat, as they say, is toast—because the moon’s no mouse.
Everyone turned to look at Oliver’s cage—
but THE CAT WAS GONE.
The guards, armed with rifles and pistols,
rolled their eyes in confusion, muttering into their radios,
as if asking someone how this could’ve happened,
but no answers came.
Meanwhile, Sly Fox, the lawyer,
slipped through the crowd of spectators toward the exit
and hasn’t been seen since.
From the start, he’d figured
this case was a lost cause and Oliver had gone too far.
So, keeping his cool,
he decided
to bribe the guards with Bitcoin,
so they’d act all shocked and bewildered
while letting Oliver slip out of the courtroom.
At first, the guards were outraged by the offer.
“Stealing the moon is a heinous crime!” they said.
“People are suffering! We’re not letting this cat go, no way!”
But Sly Fox countered their objections:
“You won’t get in any trouble for this!”
And just like that, they agreed.
And, true enough, they faced no consequences.
As for Oliver, he bolted out of the courthouse,
called an Uber, zipped to the airport,
snuck into the luggage compartment of a plane,
wormed his way into the cockpit,
hopped into the pilot’s seat, fired up the engines,
deployed the ***** and all the fancy gizmos,
and flew back home to Chicago to his owner, ANNIE!!!
--------------------------------------------
Little Annie, smart and sweet!
Go to sleep, it’s dark outside.
Mom’s getting mad, she’s had enough—
tucking us in’s no fun anymore.
Hop into bed, make a cozy little nest!
Look—out the window, past the curtains,
see the moon floating above the horizon?
Well, that moon—it’s NOT REAL.
It’s staring at us, all suspicious-like!
NASA engineers painted it on
a plaster ball, coated with shiny paint,
and launched it into orbit by Ken Harris.
Every kid from Mississippi to the Yukon knows it.
Every parent, every scientist—
Einstein, Galileo,
Every teacher, every critter in the woods—
bunnies, raccoons, even that smug squirrel,
Every boy and girl, every politician, every judge — all know it.
You and I know it -
that the real moon—
the one that blazed in the night sky,
the one that lit up the world—
well, last August,
right between sunset and sunrise,
in front of everyone and everywhere,
with his big mouth wide open, -
IT WAS GULPED BY OLIVER THE CAT.
There he is, lounging on the chair, licking his chops, the charmer—
purring and smacking like a pro.
Be careful with him: give him a finger,
and he’ll chomp your arm up to the elbow.
But don’t blame him. He’s just a cat,
not one to fret over boring morals.
When something floats right into your jaws,
it’s hard to say no.
I’m no different—I grab what I can,
hold tight to what I snag,
and I’m not throwing stones at that cat,
lest they come flying back.
I’m drifting off with you, not thinking of a thing,
already half-asleep, unsure of what’s what:
is it night finally chasing day away,
or day swapping places with night?
I’m stumbling through this sleepy haze,
can’t make sense of it all—
did Oliver really gobble up the moon,
or did the moon swallow us all?
And now, tilting its head just a bit,
it gazes down, full and satisfied, on the sleeping city.
Sleep now, my little bug, I love you
because I’m REAL.
We’ll snooze, we’ll lounge,
wake up tomorrow and have some fun,
play with the stolen sunlight,
say a prayer, make up with friends,
then change our minds and bicker,
rejoice in life—
because it’s OURS,
and we’ll shout it loud—IT’S HERE!
Look, the Creator’s got the whole sky held hostage:
where’d He swipe all this for our sake?
So let’s thank Him for the light, the water,
for our daily bread, for Wi-Fi,
for what we have and what we don’t,
for the tiniest sliver
of what’s left of the moon,
for the dark of night, for the blue of the sky,
for the gifts of life, for the losses of death,
for the pile of temptations and trials.
Let’s thank Him for it all.
Amen.
And for that sly cat, too—
who we’ll scratch behind the ears, shake a fist at, sigh over,
and then, finally, go to bed.
How much more of this nonsense can we take?
This story’s worn me out.
School’s tomorrow.
GOOD NIGHT!
