There are no bad owners, only bad dogs



I had to take my monkey to have a haircut before I sent him back to his fascist dad on Saturday. I take him to the closest cheap generic haircut place because he doesn't want it cut anyway. We had to wait a while because there were only 2 haircutter ladies working, so while we were waiting, I had to sit next to this woman who was so odd that I'm surprised that she doesn't work here. She talked non-stop for at least 25 minutes to the guy sitting on the other side of her about iguanas. She knew everything about most things, but she knew absolutely everything there was to know about iguanas. She has 4 of them, although she used to have 5. One had to go to an iguana rescue shelter near College Station because he got aggressive. The poor guy on the other side of her had apparently stumbled into some sort of conversational hell that there was no way out of, unless you count running out of Haircuts'R'Us screaming or faking an aneurysm or something. He just kept nodding and smiling, but I thought I saw a tear trickle down his cheek, like that Indian in the commercials. Blah blah vitamin supplements blah blah. Then there was the kicker that grossed me out completely: She told the guy that she lets one of her iguanas sleep in her bed with her. I'm not disgusted by the close contact with a reptile, although reptiles stink a lot. It's just that this woman was so icky and weird and I felt kind of sorry for the iguana, who I am sure was being forced into servicing her sexually. She probably had a cricket in her crotch right there in the haircut store.

Finally, after a century of iguana trivia, it was her turn in the chair. Then she started in on the poor woman who was cutting her hair, only this time, she was telling her all about how lucky the haircutter girl was to have curly hair. I have the white girl 'fro, so I know that this is complete and utter bullshit. Luckily, it was finally the monkey's turn in the chair and I got to tell the woman who spoke almost no English how short to cut his hair.

Of course, it turns out not to matter at all since the fascist dad got out the clippers the minute the monkey got off the plane and gave him a buzz. See, the monkey had taken his lunch money one day about a month ago and walked up to HEB and bought a box of black hair dye. Like me, he has a white boy 'fro, so he ended up looking like he was wearing a Willie Tyler halloween afro wig. Remember that movie with C. Thomas Howell where he was pretending to be black to get a college scholarship? That's what the monkey looked like. Although I didn't really care -- his friends were going to mock him mercilessly, so why should I bother punishing him? Natural consequences are where it's at.

Later today, I have to go to a meeting to talk about the results of a personality test I had to take for work. I'm wondering if I'll get escorted to the parking lot (the ususal method of eviction from work), due to my results.

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