I fed the new Whigs record to my pet cat and I haven’t seen her in weeks. She ate it with a bit of tuna and some milk, then turned white. She gave me one last look with a set of eyes possessed by the lords of rock and jumped straight through the screen in the kitchen window. It’s for the best as she was starting to become a bit lazy.

The power of the Whigs has the farmhands staying up at night hoping another one of the goats doesn’t disappear. It has my neighbor with the ridiculous tattoo wondering what sort of asshole keyed all of the paint off the bottom eight inches of his Trans Am. It has the local wildlife on its toes with a belly full of squirrels and a bit of an issue with pussies.

My girlfriend told me not to feed the cat The Whigs album. “You can’t feed a cat this much rock.” She said, “You need to start with some Sufjan Stevens, then work up to some Rilo Kiley or something, then maybe a good week of Thin Lizzy just to build up her tolerance. It takes time.” I knew she was right, but refused to listen. It was like feeding a two-year-old a bottle of Jamaica Hell Fire Habanero sauce with her Alphabits, but heck, who was I to deny a kitty a much-needed dose of backhanded-foot-stomping-high-stacked-sinus-cleansing rock? Exactly.

The only thing I’m a bit upset about is I don’t have my Whigs album anymore. Luckily I threw it on my iPod a week ago, but now I feel silly when I clench my jaw and stomp my feet in headphones while Jeopardy is muted on the television and my girlfriend cooks some chicken for stir-fry. It was better when we could both clench our jaws and stomp our feet with the album on the stereo blasting out of the speakers. We would lose our patience and eat the chicken raw. We would shake heads, me: left to right, her: front to back, and then only catch our breath when the album catches its breath midway, slowing down for a much needed slow dance and attempt to figure out the final Jeopardy question… I mean answer…. Then back to the foot stomping glory of three Athenians sweating through your stereo speakers and getting bits of spit on your record collection as they storm the nation with a sound forged in the garages of homes with kind neighbors and an ample supply of earplugs. A sound that wears out sneaker soles and puts barbers out of business. A sound so thunderous, the musicians can no longer donate their corpses to the second year medical students hoping for a ripe cadaver study because every time the scalpel touches the skin, the sleep deprived young student starts headbanging and foot-stomping in the middle of the classroom as if it were a packed and sweaty off-campus basement with a PA system, and that’s just no good for surgery.

So check out the Whigs album and have your pets spayed or neutered.