He drinks from a bowl on the kitchen counter.
He bites toes.
He drops to the floor, at your feet, just at the moment you are about to step out... especially if your arms are so full of laundry/lumber/homework, groceries that he can hardly be perceived.
He steals Lego parts, and hides them in clever little caches around the house. Always grey or black pieces.
He sneaks into my sewing basket and runs off with anything wool, never mind the needles and pins, which we have to search for in the wake of his destruction. Needle in a Foo stack!
Mister Washburn Foo stalks chickens, birds, lizards, and sweet fluffy unsuspecting things. His intentions are of the fatal variety.
He jumps on grandmothers, and great-grandmothers, kind women, small children, and sleeping bodies. He is unrepentant.
He torments Chango Biddy Bongo the Cubano Cat, and poor Chango is too old to do anything more than endure and suffer his usurper.
He sleeps on his back, in a heap of unashamed kitty confidence and contentment, tempting passers-by to indulge him with affection and cariños.
He poops two inches outside of the litter box.
When he gets outside, and knows he's about to be captured, he throws himself to the ground and rolls in the dirt, super-magnetically affixing all loose particles to his fur.
He indulges in all manner of uncivilized behavior, like parking his butt in the middle of a card game, then wears a smug expression, as though the game, or the company, is dissatisfying, or dull.
He seduces us with his polka spots, lures us with his deep purrs, tempts us with his swishy tail, snuggles us on chilly nights, and charms us with his Fooish ways.
And when I decide to make the bed, sweep the floor, sort the laundry, do paper work, or take the table cover to the washing machine, he is there, eager and ready to spare me the trouble, because he is such a thoroughly, adorably, irresistibly bad kitty.