Likes: not much.

Dislikes: the litter box.

(right) Judas' evil vibe affects even the camera's focus. Shortly after the photographer turned his back, Judas deftly pissed into the pot housing the croton plant (R.I.P.).

Learning-Disabled, or Merely Pondering Her Place in a Learning-Disabled World?

Coma (formerly Magduhlene) is approximately 12 years old and was adopted three years ago from the SPCA across the street. As you can see, she is a cow-colored mixed breed with the most ADORABLE little soulpatch! Unfortunately, she was kicked in the head by one too many butterflies in her formative years, and things just don't scan with her like they used to. Literally and figuratively toothless, armed with breath to knock you senseless, and prone to ringworm, her charm and innocence are equalled only by her uncoordination and the depth of her blank stare. But being a cupful of kibbles short of a full dish just makes us love her more.

Likes: Rainy days, warm, secure laps, and YOU.

Dislikes: Loud noises, crowds, Rubik's Cubes.

(right) Coma reacts to someone calling her name. Unfortunately, that person gave up and left the building ten minutes ago.

MASCOT PROFILE

(Judas: A Year in the Life of a Fucked-Up Piece Of Shit)

by el Bobo (reprinted from Gym Teacher 95/96 Edition)

(below: Judas contemplates life on the outside)

5/2/94 No longer able to handle the daily routine of stepping on turds, cleaning urine off records and pulling cat hair and flea larvae from his lunch, Revolver/Scooby Doo employee Sweet Leaf Bennett Stafford joins the ranks of Emma and Sr. Chunky and resigns in disgust. Ensign Rookie is welcomed aboard.

5/16/94 In an effort to staunch the slow morale hemmorhage, el Bobo shrewdly invents "The Earl Kuck Story" essay contest to keep the ever-frustrated-by-the-feline salesman occupied judging submissions. Ensign Rookie begins to exhibit symptoms of urine inhalation, a rare nervous disorder that affects most of the staff.

5/23/95 Old Grinder becomes the first fax machine to die. Judas is escorted outdoors and disappears for two weeks.

6/6/94 El Bobo's position with the firm is placed on probation following complaints of smarminess, uncooperative behavior, attitude problems and incompetence.

6/13/94 El Bobo is reinstated after being discovered happy to "finally be rid of that damn cat."

7/11/94 Judas returns, unrepentant, and immediately hits number one (so to speak) on the Revolver/Scooby Doo Top Ten List of Things That Should Be Drawn, Quartered, and Burned at The Stake and celebrates with another night in the bushes.

7/25/94 Due to his apparent lack of interest in the post, Judas is relieved of all duties as official Scooby Doo mascot and is replaced by Magdalene, a healthy, well-behaved black and white female. Judas responds by pissing on a box of Drag City returns and infecting Magdalene with worms.

8/29/94 The first One Dollar Judas Seven-Inch Single Sale becomes a painful reality.

9/6/94 Judas claims the number two position on the Scooby Doo Asshole Chart, trailing closely behind incumbent neighbor Jed "Dick" Handler.

10/3/94 Newly christened salesperson Tito writes up his first store order and is rightfully proud. Judas scoffs in his face by puking into the box.

10/10/94 Bulbous Fax becomes the second fax machine to die under mysterious circumstances.

10/31/94 A happy Halloween soon turns sour at the discovery of kitty urine on both Bulbous Fax II and Mortimer's brand new Power Mac. Suffering terribly from cohabitation with the most vile of beasts, Magdalene is renamed "Coma," as she is no longer capable of normal kitty thought. Judas spends a few nights outside in the bushes for crimes against his peers.

11/5/94 Coma celebrates Bobo's birthday by following wrongly in incorrect footsteps and pisses all over the couch.

12/5/94 Sensing the possibility of another exodus, Bobo again breaks out an essay contest. The troops are silent.

1/1/95 Another year; Judas still lives.

1/16/95 Judas honors Capricorn Appreciation Week by pissing in a box of non-Capricorn Mike Schulman's Why Popstars Can't Dance LPs. Wearing his brand new winter coat, Judas takes a couple days' holiday outside in the bushes.

1/30/95 A second strike at Bulbous Fax II.

3/3/95 The First Annual Judas Two Dollar CD Sale. Flea season begins.

4/24/95 No longer able to stand the continual drenching, Bulbous Fax II dies in its sleep.

5/1/95 Welcoming the arrival of springtime to Scooby Doo, Judas attempts to usher in a spirit of workplace cooperation and comraderie by shitting in the sink as a daily affirmation of existence. We thank him for his newfound efforts to keep it off the product by inviting him to spend a couple days outside in the bushes.

5/8/95 In a fresh attempt to show his love and admiration for Earl, Judas climbs the length of a water pipe twelve feet above Earl's desk and drops him a fond token of his appreciation.

5/9/95 A reserve pile is discovered on the pipe high above Earl's head. Earl thanks Judas for his (unfortunately) undying love by offering him a few days paid vacation outside in the bushes.

5/30/95 Bowing to the will of democracy, Special Ambassador Hashbai constructs a comfortable and roomy penthouse suite for our favorite feline playboy. Judas shows his thanks by using the litterbox for the first time in three years.

(above): basking in the rightful admiration of the citizens of the People's Republic of Judas.

(below left) A portait in dumb and evil: Judas (left, shrouded in darkness, natch) and Coma swap telepathic incontinence tips upstairs at 290C.

(right) The trained eye will spot a single evil orb d'Judas casting a baleful glare from the lower portion of the box ('specially labeled by Ship's Counsellor Kuck). How much is parcel post to New Zealand, anyway?

(below) "...are you my mommy?"

AUTISTIC KITTYCAT PROFILE

(Coma, a/k/a Magduhlene, the Lizard Queen)

by Paul Ashby (reprinted from GYM TEACHER Volume 2)

A couple years back Mort (R.I.P.) was entrenched in serial brooding mode regarding the Scooby cat situation. Judas (see "Mascot Profile: A Year In The Life Of A Fucked Up Piece Of Shit", Gym Teacher, 95-96 edition, above) was driving everyone bonkers. The last straw was the evil feline's decision to urinate upon the films for the Sentridoh "Losers" LP. This, in itself, would've been an alarming enough development; however, Judas timed the event to occur on the evening the project was to be assembled and sent off to the plant....as Mort was, simultaneously, preparing to embark on a red-eye business trip later that very morning.

I am at my wit's end, Mort scribbled, in a desperate, last-minute, while-I'm-away letter to staff. This fucking cat seems inexplicably bent on destroying all I hold dear.

Mort was, as usual, working the swing-thru-graveyard shift at the office, and depended upon Judas to keep him company throughout the wee hours. But the animal's increasingly mean-spirited and impulsively-bladdered exploits were only resulting in repeated forced overnight bivouacs in the bushes in front of 290C Napoleon.

The outdoor exiles didn't seem to improve the furry fuck's disposition, and the flea problem indoors was escalating to hertofore unfelt, shin-scratching heights. Something had to give, and that thing was Judas.

Mort's special friend, Lady Jay, decided she'd take measures to ensure that a reasonably well-adjusted facsimile of a cat-mascot would be delivered unto the Scooby warehouse complex, and that her Mort be awarded the loyal and even-tempered feline companionship he so truly deserved.

The hope was, of course, that the new arrival would become a role model for the constantly-abberant Judas, perhaps effecting a quick-fix cure for his unrepentant assholism. In a pluperfect world, another cat's presence would instill the fear of God in Judas-- or, at very least, cause him to straighten up his act in order to get attention.

One fine day our Lady J. made an impulsive pilgrimage to the SPCA and soon thereafter skipped across the office threshold, triumphantly clutching an air-holed cardboard box. Inside was a white-whiskered, black-on-white female adult cat named...um, well, no one can remember her SPCA-given name. Mort immediately rechristened the dazed newcomer Magdelene and welcomed her to our overextended dysfunctional family.

Judas was exultant for the company, and quickly assumed the role of welcoming committee by kicking Magdalene's ass to and fro, showing her who was boss. We all smiled, enjoying the playful kittycat dynamic-- for all cat lovers know that, while one cat equals happiness, two cats equal joy.

And the knowledge that the tables would quickly turn-- and Judas would no longer be Top Cat-- didn't hurt, either. But, being new to the oft-described intimidating (or, at least, indifferent) Scooby surroundings, Magadelene retreated beneath Cabin Boy Jim's desk, where she remained for several days. She gradually came out of her shell....

...but only a little. Everyone began to notice that Magdelene was a bit-- well, special.

Most cats are spacey, of course, but Magdelene's special brand of dislocation boggled the brain. While the majority of kitties channel Peter Criss, Mags had cornered the Ace Frehley spectrum of the feline kingdom. She'd sit and stare at walls for hours at a time, becoming ambulatory only to daintily bat food out of her dish with a cute white paw. Her lovely, fractured-marble green eyes seemed permanently glazed-- and she had a disturbing habit of staring through you, rather than casting the steady gaze that most cats possessed. She was affectionate as hell, once you got her attention. But that attention span seemed a bit....retarded. One got the feeling that Magdelene's evolutionary lineage was descended from single-cell organisms, rather than sabre-toothed mammals.

Magdalene's removed personality quickly caused her again to be rechristened; this time, her given name was Coma. It stuck.

One constant remained: the Cat Filth Factor. Perhaps it was the new territory, failure to adapt, and/or Judas' presence/influence/scent...but Coma soon began "marking". I had lugged an old sofa into the upstairs office right before her arrival, and Mort had taken to retiring upon it during his frequent sleepovers. Coma soon claimed the couch with her essence. The smell became intolerable, and the thing had be dragged, dripping, to the dump. As Admiral Pepintaph and I wrestled the stinking piece of furniture through the hall doorway, Coma celebrated its departure by leaping to Mort's TV easy chair and pissing on it. I freaked out, lost it and screamed at her. Coma panicked and scrabbled gracelessly downstairs to the dark, uncharted catacombs behind the Boner Action Desk-- whence she could not be coaxed for 36 hours. You could almost imagine her crouching among the cobwebbed shadows-- ears back, synapses short-circuiting-- as she rocked oh-so-slightly back and forth to the hit parade of Xenakis tapes to which Earl happened to be "treating" us that day.

Coma shared Judas' propensity for the cruddiest nooks of the warehouse-- only worse. While Judas favored warm, dusty boxes, Coma drifted toward more disused spaces-- such as the area beneath the Boner LP overstock racks, where ten years of coffin-dust, discarded packing material and mouse shit had accumulated. It soon became difficult to remember what parts of her were supposed to be black. She would scurry upstairs to the food dish at the end of the day, trailing dust mice and packing popcorn, and mewl piteously for someone to pet her and coo, yes, you are loved, you are special, you are a child of the universe, little one, and whether you know it or not, the universe is preparing to have you put into a play therapy group for learning-disabled small mammals. Dumbass.

Acutally, that became my pet name for her. Not Magduhlene. Not Coma...but....Dumbass. She wore it well.

It's a given: all cats have fetid breath. The literature (well, Cat Fancy magazine, anyway) says to teach them to tolerate having their little kitty fangs brushed early and often, but honestly, do you know anyone who can find two friends willing to don hockey gloves and hold a kitten down while you make its gums bleed? Coma had gone ten (or so) years without so much as one Crest-with-baking-soda moment, and you could tell; she'd yawn, and houseplants would die. During one flea-bath excursion to the vet, the nice lady there suggested we have her teeth pulled-- "she'd be much happier. They're rotting." Mort reluctantly agreed, after hearing it would only cost forty or fifty dollars. I took her to the Mission Pet Hospital a couple months later. Upon picking her up later that day, I was presented with a bill for $245 (including another flea bath). Turned out the anaesthesia was $80, the antibiotics were $25, and so on-- the extractions were only $45. Coma was returned to the Scooby warehouse and promptly lurched upstairs, still medicated, still spaced out (admittedly, it was kind of tough to tell the difference, although she was four or five teeth lighter in the head).

Mort was appalled by the cost of the dental work. "When do I get some sort of return on my fucking investment?" he fumed. Magdelene didn't seem to be paying attention, preferring instead to walk into the wall. "The goddamn cat's a basket case. I don't even like her."

I don't want to give the impression that Coma was, uh, boring. She could be full of surprises. An innocent scratch under her cute, dusty little chin could cause the unsuspecting fondler to come away with a hand full of blood and pus. "Kitty acne," the vet cheerfully diagnosed, handing me a $20 tube of cream that I should be sure to apply "twice a day."

The idea of hiring an intern suddenly became very attractive.

There was some fairly traumatic talk of returning Coma to the SPCA, or foisting her upon an unsuspecting "cat person" friend who could provide a more gentle, nurturing environment. There were also glib discussions invoking such euphemisms as "setting her out with the recycling" a la the way Eskimos treat their aged, but I threw one of my tantrums, and the suggestion was rescinded. I'd settled upon the realization that I loved Coma the way she was, and that the zen of her existence was best left to hum along the lines the universe had laid out. We had been chosen, as had she.

I'd never quite bought into the concept (let alone the execution, so to speak) of the idiot savant. But I had to admit Coma had something going, something intangible, a sort of (dare I say it?) feline je nais se quois-- despite her underachieving nature.

Plus, I was kind of scared of her.

Postscript:

It's now 16 months later. Revolver has finally executed its much-delayed relocation to a larger, cleaner, more organized place of operations. Perhaps it's due (in part) to our new location directly across the street from her former home, the SPCA...but Coma has acheived a Charly-caliber turnaround!! It's true. She is much more aware of her surroundings, is responding promptly and appropriately to verbal and tactile stimuli, as well as regularly nudging Judas away from the food dish at communal feeding time. I hardly ever call her Dumbass anymore, and when I do, it's a term of endearment. I bet she could now even kick Cliff Robertson's ass in a rat-maze race. Go figure.

Her appearance has changed, as well. She's lost weight, and the dental work caused the pus pockets around her lower jaw to disappear, giving her a facelifted look. Her acne's cleared up, too.

Her favorite place is now Ms. Keddy-Kuck's command chair-- after hours, that is. She seems happy.

The prognosis is good. No sign of regression at this time. We feel that there's hope for her yet. And she's sweeter than ever.

Judas, on the other hand, still shits on the floor.

Photos by Paul Ashby, with the exception of Coma's close-up, which is the sole responsibility of Special Administrator Andrew Spear (Ret.), and Coma Reclining, which was rendered by Mahavishnu Arthur Crawshay.