He said, "Jack, tell 'em. You know the routine."
He's a bit bummed because the Ukrainians were no match for the Italians today!
All his wishful-thinking was for naught.
Naught bad for a cat huh? To know a word like "naught"?
Then he slithered off to the couch, where he is now heaped like a bag of potatoes, drinking a beer.
Humans are sooooooo lazy!
But on the way there he was mumbling something incoherently... [the guy is a regular Charles Bukowski, I'm telling you] and I think it was something like this, he was mumbling...
"I wrote it for you. I wrote it for you, Jack."
Something like that.
Now he's passed out.
So here's this "work of art" of his....