There are no bad owners, only bad dogs

2006-04-04

It's a bit DaDa today.

Snippets from the Notebooks of LaZBoy

I’m not the one.

Someone will come riding out of the blue.

—fin—

(One assumes that it is unfinished.)

Between the lines
I spent a lot of hours
Tried almost everything

It’s the middle of the night
And I don’t think I’ve slept in days
It’s a labor of love that will not let me go But
There’s a song I need to write

(Haven’t slept in days? You know what makes you really sleepy? Hard work! Lots of it! You haven’t worked in months! Those things may be related. Just sayin’.)

Everyone tries to postpone death’s arrival
But I’ve been adapted for perfect survival.

I thought of life as a race against death lost in stages
But having survived through its earliest ages
I may never die.

(Just how has LaZBoy been adapted for perfect survival, one wonders. Has he figured out a way to slow his metabolism down to the pace of his actual life, thus rendering his body double or triple the usual time on earth? Self stasis, if you will?)

Anyhoo. So LoudGirl (whom I have renamed ButterBean just because I can) has resigned her post at EduMart due to many factors, all of which are related to Blanche (“But you are in that wheelchair, Blanche! You are!”) aka CrazyWheelChairLady. Here’s the basic scenario: Let’s say that here at EduMart we actually make something useful, like those stuffed toads that are dressed like tiny mariachi bands that you can buy in border towns in Mexico (I looked everywhere for a photo of such, but couldn’t find the exact ones I was looking for – I did find some ”stuffed frogs drinking ”Coronas, though, so you get the idea.). We have departments that find the frogs, that kill the frogs, that eviscerate the frogs, that stuff the frogs, that dress the frogs, and that paint them with shiny shellac. And sales. We have sales, too. And distribution. So imagine that you are brought to EduMart with the express purpose of attaching tiny sombreros to frogs. That is your passion and dream – it’s not what you do, it’s who you are. Then when you get to EduMart, you are told that you attach the tiny sombreros ALL WRONG and that everything you do sucks ass. Your sombreros are always CROOKED or have TOO MANY SEQUINS. You are kicked out of the sombrero department by a crazed woman in a Magic WheelChair. But you are one of the few people at EduMart who can actually attach the tiny sombreros, and the frogs who wear the sombreros you attach are coveted by the clients. There is only one other person at EduMart capable of attaching the sombreros and that person isn’t even in the sombrero department, it’s just that it’s not rocket science.

So EduMart undergoes a regular colonic and reorganizes the people and departments. Now you’re not only not in the Frog Dressing Department, you’re the person who keeps the frog assembly line going. That’s not what you signed up for! And the crazed woman in the Magic WheelChair? She’s now the head of the Sombrero Department, although she is not allowed by anyone to touch either the frogs or the sombreros. As a matter of fact, the Chief Operating Taxidermist has hinted around that we might make all of our frogs bare-headed from now on because the little sombreros don’t add any value to the stuffed frogs. So if you’re a Licensed Frog Milliner, really, your best option is to go to a company that continues to desire a fully dressed frog. So, Butterbean is off to Other Pastures.

I continue to toil away at my job although I have also been displaced by the colonic. I have garnered a reputation as a foul-mouthed, brawling, slutty, lumpy drunk (only two of those are accurate) in our little industry, so the job offers are NOT pouring in. I should have known better than to work hard – it leads to rejection, which is quite depressing and could cause one to drink.

So, to balance out my life as a displaced turd, here’s a story about the greggers’ friend Randy.

Friday night
Phone: Ring! Ring!
The greggers answers the phone, starts laughing. Randy is on the other end of the conversation, and he has apparently called to ask about prostate milking. How does it work? he enquires. How many fingers? There is insane giggling in the background. His main question is: One finger or two? He thinks that “milking” sounds like a two finger operation, because if he could stick a tiny farmer up his butt, surely that farmer would use two hands to milk that little cow. The greggers cautions him against being too ambitious with the fingers on the first try, thinking that it’s always best to start any activity that involves putting things in your butt with a smaller number.

Saturday morning
Phone: Ring! Ring!
The greggers has phoned Randy back and handed the phone to me so that I can ask how it went. They were too drunk to carry the plan through, apparently, but it was going to be their Saturday Project.

Phone: Ring! Ring!
TwoBadDogs answers, asking, “Is her finger still in your butt?” Unfortunately, it is not Randy on the phone. It is the other participant, who wants to know from me if it really feels like a walnut. I’m pretty sure I burst some blood vessels with the laughing.

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birth & death