The Catzilla sweatshirt's manufacturer got me all hyped naming their bitchin' piece of runway domination the "Catzilla sweatshirt," but then pulled a Ben Stiller movie and stunk it up on the garment's description: "Sweatshirt with a sublimation print of a monster cat attacking a city." Seriously? That's worse than Little Fockers.
Where are my sweatshirt usage disclaimers? My warnings of the feline reign of terror that's about to descend upon my chest? Where is my Catzilla backstory?! I want a description of the raging puss' humble and happy beginnings on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. And the tale of the day the scientists moved in to cage all of the property's cats in a cavernous research facility beneath the barn. There they forced the helpless creatures to serve as test subjects for genetically modified milk.
The cats got sick, some dying instantly, others writhing for hours in pain as the experimental milk boiled their blood. One fateful night our terrified kitten lapped up a bucket overexposed to gamma radiation as he watched a snoozing on-duty scientist's Daft Punk Blu-ray play on constant loop in the background. The next morning, he was gone.
So was the dairy farm. Burned and leveled to an apocalyptic wasteland.
Catzilla was born.