By 
Dear “Cat” in the Hat,
You may not remember me, but I sure as hell remember you. I don’t know how many homes you ruin in a given night so I’ll remind you of who you’re dealing with. My name is Conrad, and if my sister Sally and I run into you again it will be the last time you ever see the sun shine.
You may think it’s all fun and games to break and enter a house while the homeowners are gone. It may sound fun to bring two of your hideous friends along to tear apart a residence while two children are powerless to stop you. Guess what, asshole? As it turns out, it doesn’t all sound so whimsical on the police report.
There are so many things both criminally and morally wrong with your visit last night that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Luckily our fish was the lone voice of reason in a world of chaos:
I may not be old enough to drive, but I can still operate a computer and do some basic fact-checking. In fact, I was able to browse the website of a university anthropology class to verify that, in fact, human beings are the only animals on this planet capable of bipedal movement. This means that one of two people lied to me: either the distinguished college professor or the sick fuck dressed in a cat suit.
Disgusting.
Furthermore, I don’t appreciate my childhood ignorance being taken advantage of. I took pity on you for the loss of your “moss-covered, three-handled family credenza”, though I was given no explanation of what it was or how it got misplaced in the two minutes of your intrusion. Until, that is, the internet told me today that there is no such thing as a credenza. What were you really looking for? Was this some sort of Blue Streak scenario in which you hid a diamond in our walls before you went to prison and needed a half-assed excuse to gain entrance again? Or were you just so messed up on cough syrup and Boone’s Farm that you completely lost your handle on reality? Actually, you know what? I think I’d rather be left in the dark on this one; the cops can sort out all of the details.
Speaking of getting messed up… thanks a boatload for slipping us the acid tabs at some point during your stay, you monster. I’m sure the judge is going to have a field day after hearing about that:
As for the state of our house? You may have made everything look nice by using your little magic Zamboni to literally sweep everything under the rug, but my parents didn’t appreciate coming home to pounds of broken china and stemware crunching under their feet. And the next time you decide to horrify a pair of latchkey kids, you might be kind enough to make sure you clean off every nonsensical math equation from every appliance and not leave an enormous one on our fridge. In fact, you could do a more thorough job of cleaning up your mess in nearly every aspect; we’ve so far found about thirty hats around the house, and I’m not about to get beaten up at school after winter break for wearing a red and white striped Oktoberfest hat.
Oh, and one of your Things took a shit in our oven. Yeah. He actually disrespected my family and our home enough to shit in our oven. We’re hosting Christmas Eve at our house tonight, and we were going to bake a turkey. Now our extended family gets to eat a microwaved meal. Happy holidays. And here’s the icing on the cake: Sally and I are grounded for a year because our story about a 6-foot catman doesn’t sound plausible enough to a perfectly sane middle-school history teacher and dental hygienist.
So run and enjoy your last hours of freedom while you can. But before you do, I suggest you burn your little costume; the police database isn’t fooled so easily.
Your latest and last victim,
Conrad
