GoodBurger is an anthropomorphic giant orange cat. No, fuck you, he’s nothing like Garfield. Garfield is a fictional, two-dimensionally, orange and black, comic strip cat, that existed once a week on Sunday. The medium in which he largely exists is dying. Goodburger is real. Dimensionally speaking Goodburger is superior, having three. He’s fluffy white in places, never black. Goodburger is magnificent, sometimes cruel. He can't live without passion. He’s a Cajun, from the Bayou.
Goodburger has taken to fake reading. Every time he hears my keys in the door he picks up a book and pretends to read it—though I’m not sure for who’s or to what benefit.
Eventually I asked, "Burger, Why don't you just actually read? I have tons of books to choose from."
"Why whatever do you mean?"
“Don’t try to be coy about it. I know, alright?”
“I’m still not following.”
"Look at the book. It’s upside down.” But he didn’t look at the book he kept his eyes on me. It was disconcerting. He just looked at me. It made me feel guilty, like I’d been the one caught in a lie instead of Goodburger for some reason.
Goodburger began to speak but didn’t. Instead he slowly flipped the book right-side up while smiling, sort of sheepishly.
I decided to change my approach.
“So you’ve been reading the same book up-side down for three days have you?”
“It’s very dense material."
"Huh?"
"You can have it when I’m through but. . .it might be a touch over your head.”
"You’re holding a copy of Go, Dog! Go!"
Goodburger has also taken to smoking a pipe while he reads. He refers to it as his reading-pipe, or occasionally as his thinkin’ pipe. I'm guessing to look more intelligent while pretending to read the greats, like Hemingway, Faulkner, Seuss. . .
I know he secretly hates it. When I'm out of the room he bats it angrily around the apartment. When I walk back in he says, "Oh clumsy me, I dropped my reading-pipe," then chuckles.
He gets pissed when I roll my eyes.
I'm taking him for reading glasses Monday. Again, his idea not mine.
