"Cat Bathing as a Martial Art" joke

Some people say cats never have to be bathed. They say cats lick
themselves clean. They say cats have a special enzyme of some sort
in their saliva that works like new, improved Wisk - dislodging the
dirt where it hides and whisking it away.
I've spent most of my life believing this folklore. Like most blind
believers, I've been able to discount all the facts to the
contrary - the kitty odors that lurk in the corners of the garage
and dirt smudges that cling to the throw rug by the fireplace.
The time comes, however, when a man must face reality; when he must
look squarely in the face of massive public sentiment to the contrary
and announce: "This cat smells like a port-a-potty on a hot day in
Juarez."
When that day arrives at your house, as it has in mine, I have some
advice you might consider as you place your feline friend under your
arm and head for the bathtub:
Know that although the cat has the advantage of quickness and lack
of concern for human life, you have the advantage of strength.
Capitalize on that advantage by selecting the battlefield. Don't
try to bathe him in an open area where he can force you to chase him.
Pick a very small bathroom. If your bathroom is more than four feet
square, I recommend that you get in the tub with the cat and close
the sliding-glass doors as if you were about to take a shower.
(A simple shower curtain will not do. A berserk cat can shred a
three-ply rubber shower curtain quicker than a politician can shift
positions.)
Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all th
e
skin from your body. Your advantage here is that you are smart and
know how to dress to protect yourself. I recommend canvas overalls
tucked into high-top construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves,
an army helmet, a hockey face mask and a long-sleeve flak jacket.
Prepare everything in advance. There is no time to go out for a
towel when you have a cat digging a hole in your flak jacket. Draw
the water. Make sure the bottle of kitty shampoo is inside the glass
enclosure. Make sure the towel can be reached, even if you are
lying on your back in the water.
Use the element of surprise. Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply carry him to his supper dish. (Cats will not usually notice
your strange attire. They have little or no interest in fashion as a
rule. If he does notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking
part in a product-testing experiment for J.C. Penney.)
Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to survival. In
a single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub
enclosure, slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and
squirt him with shampoo. You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds
of your life. Cats have no handles.
Add the fact that he now has soapy fur, and the problem is radically
compounded. Do not expect to hold on to him for more that two or
three seconds at a time. When you have him, however, you must
remember to give him another squirt of shampoo and rub like crazy.
He'll then spring free and fall back into the water, thereby rinsing
himself off. (The national record is - for cats - three latherings,
so don't expect too much.)
Next, the cat must be dried. Novice cat bathers always assume this
part will be the most difficult, for humans generally are worn out
at this point and the cat is just getting really determined. In fact,
the drying is simple compared to what you have just been through.
That's because by now the cat is semi-permanently affixed to your right
leg. You simply pop the drain plug with your foot, reach for your towel
and wait. (Occasionally, however, the cat will end up clinging to the
top of your army helmet. If this happens, the best thing you can do is
to shake him loose and to encourage him toward your leg.) After all
the water is drained from the tub, it is a simple matter to just reach
down and dry the cat.
Do NOT try to use a blow