There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


And now it's time for Holstein gymnastics...

Friday was one of those days -- you know, one of those "Am I going to have a job on Monday?" kind of days. Another big shakeup at PubMart, another "Whose head shall we roll this time, LaMar?" kind of days... They are always so bowel-liquefying, those days. Will I be next? Will I end up working for one of the crazy old bitches that just won't die? Where the hell is my resume? At the final buzzer, there were two big cheeses gone, one big cheese demoted to a BabyBel, and most of the other cheeses re-arranged into Soft Cheeses, Aged Cheeses, Stinky Cheeses, etc. Somehow, my department slipped under the radar this time and we went unscathed - too small to notice, perhaps. Whoo. One of the decapitated was someone who always struck me as extremely arrogant, so it's hard to work up any sympathy, even though she was ON HER HONEYMOON when they shitcanned her. Classy, eh?

I was looking at the "news"paper Web site today to sort of re-acclimate myself (yeah, that's right. We don't "acclimatize," we acclimate. Hah.) to the weirdly backwater local culture to which I will soon return, and part of the "news" was devoted to the San Antonio Stock Show and Rodeo , an event I've never attended but which is a big fuckin deal in SA. As I browsed, looking to see what bands were playing, I saw several events that were part of the show: mutton-busting, poultry biathlon, swine racing... Now, I get what two of those are about because I'm from this planet, but what the fuck is a poultry biathlon? Swine racing is clearly pigs running fast. No mystery there. Mutton-busting is just like calf-busting, only with sheep for the more petite cowboy. But how do those chickens pull the little triggers on their tiny rifles when they don't have fingers? How do they manage the cross-country skiing? Who straps the little skis onto their little chicken feet? Good luck, feathered athletes. By the way, they'll kill you and eat you, even if you win the gold medal. You might want to ski really fast and fire your wee rifle at the people chasing you.

I have now spent my last weekend ever driving back and forth across England. Yay! Except now it will be a few months before I can see my monkey. Boo. Sigh. I tried to drive the whole way this time without ever stopping at a roundabout, but that was complicated by the other drivers and their lack of understanding and support of my goal. I have also probably already experienced the last time I feel like I'm living in a maniacally twisted snow globe: Go into the store when it's bright and sunny. While you're in the store, the globe gets shaken! Come out to 50 mph winds that are blowing sleet needles directly into your skin and eyes and a temperature drop of at least 10 degrees. Freeze to death while walking back to the car.

I have asked my boss for an hour of his time to "debrief," wherein no underpants are removed but I might give him a mega-ultra wedgie for being such a cock while I've been here. He's out of the office today, of course, because one of his many infections has flared up again. Pusbag. When someone who broke her own nose can insult you, you know you're a low form of life.

Speaking of which, I have found some new bruises - my right wrist was bruised rather deeply, it seems, as it has turned green-ish yellow, but I never saw the purple phase. My eye bruises are fading slowly, but this weekend my monkey told me my nose looked blue from the bruising. It seems to have reduced in size and is a bit less Ringling Brothers and is now just more Raging Alcoholic in size and hue. Good thing I never got that helper monkey. He would probably have been crushed in the fall.

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