The Last Catrobin of Springtime.
By Evan McBride
1: First frog of springtime.
2: You mean robin?
2: Never mind.
1: Frog. You say robin?
2: Jizz-gurn-it! Not again!
1: Back in my day, we had what youíd call catrobins.
2: Ayuh. Catrobins.
2: A cat with a red stomach that flies.
1: What the hell you gaffiní on about?
1: That ainít what a catrobin was like at all!
2: Oh, ayuh?
2: Címon! Catrobin! Flashing talons, toothy beak, feathery ear tufts,
twitching tail, the terrifying ďMecaw! Mecaw!Ē. Catrobin.
1: Iím telliní ya, that ainít what a catrobin is.
2: well, gall and consarn it! What do you think a catrobin is?!
1: Like a regular robin, only... realer.
2: I suppose.
1: Them were the good old days.
1: Men were men, women were plentiful and the catrobins were... catrobins.
2: Then what the hell was I thinking of?
2: Not frogs, consarn it!
1: Then what?
2: I donít know. You know, back in the war...
1: Always with the war!
2: I lost my sense of carnal awareness to that war!
2: Skelter implosion.
2: That explains what I saw!
2: Whatever we were talking about!
2: Say, there goes the first frog of springtime.
1: Didnít I already...
2: I donít think so.
1: Maybe I didnít.
2: You know, back in my day, we had what youíd call a catrobin.