Suffice It to Say, Tils Is Not a Mel Gibson Fan

[Trigger warning for Gibson rantings of the usual multi-flavored offensiveness and for a picture of a scratch.]

So, I see that Radar Online has posted yet another recording of Mel Gibson ranting uncontrollably at his former partner, Oksana Grigorieva, where he reiterates his contention that if she is raped, it will be her fault, calls her a stream of misogynist epithets, and unleashes this gem: "I'm not giving you my house and you can rot unless you crawl back, suck my cock and say you're sorry, in that order! Do you understand me? You fucking offend my fucking maleness, my masculinity, my being, my soul!"

Yowza.

As heinous as these recordings are, I've listened to each of them because: A) I'm curious; and B) I often find it interesting what parts of celebrity outbursts get reported and what parts get left out (which is something I can only discern by listening/reading a transcript). Remarkably, the media has, for the most part, been uncharacteristically conscientious in reporting Gibson's threats of sexual violence, without couching them in victim-blaming or rape apologia.

Anyway, so I grab my lunch (homemade tuna salad on wheat flatbread, if you're interested) and head back into the office with the intent of listening to this hot mess while I eat, trailed by one doggie and three kittehs who are all desperate for my affections bites of my lunch. I push play on the recording just as Matilda and Dudley are coming through the door, which still has a pet-gate mounted on it, despite the fact we never use it, and, all of a sudden, Tils—who hates the sound of any electronic voice emanating from the computer, or coming through the phone—wheels on Dudz like he's the Devil himself (or, perhaps, Mel Gibson).

CLANG! goes the metal pet-gate.

I turn to see ten pounds of fuzz, all standing on end. Tils yowls at Dudley with an unearthly voice, to which he responds by running to his big pillow next to my desk and collapsing immediately into a submissive position. She walks up to him and HISSSSSSSSSES! I turn off the recording and tell her to be nice. She looks and me, looks back at Dudley, and gives him a low, menacing growl for good measure. He looks at me with an expression that seems to say, "What the fuck did I do?!"

I grab Tils and give her a big squeezy cuddle, and she spits at me and kicks away, leaving me with this:


Shitty picture taken with my phone of a long-ass bloody scratch across my chest.
This is only the beginning, Shakers. If Mel Gibson is not stopped, Matilda may unleash her fury onto the planet in order to stop him herself. And, frankly, I can't blame her.


"Don't make me destroy the world, Two-Legs."