So I married a cat hurter-er

The scene: bedtime, in the bedroom. The fattest cat, HIM (between 18-20 lbs.!), jumps into my spot in the bed about 1.2 femtoseconds after I vacate it to go brush my teeth. Since this is a cat who is too fat to clean his own ass properly (earning him the nickname "A.J.," for "Ass Juice"), I am less than thrilled by this phenomenon, which occurs multiple times per night.

Upon my return, I try to slide him from the bed gently onto the floor, mindful of his bum leg. His not inconsiderable belly sloshes around a bit, but he has somehow melded himself onto the bed. I have no choice but to pick him up and drop him onto the floor, and he lands, - you guessed it - right on the stump. Limping, hissing, and reproachful looks back ensue as he hobbles out of the room, and I'm struck with intense guilt. Booby comforts me.

"Oh, don't worry about it, honey. He's fine," he says. "I do terrible things to the cats all the time."

Why can't we have an amusing LOLcat, instead?