There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Requiem for a Pedophile. I wish.

I think I have carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand, and I think it's directly attributable to diaryland. Damn you, seductive Buddy List! Stop taunting me with your bright red hoochie-colored updates. You know I am too weak to resist.

So I spent most of last night putting up flyers for my missing cats and talking to neighbors about whether or not they'd seen my cats recently. It turns out that Mr. Pedophile has recently run over one of my neighbors' cats in his driveway. I'm keeping the babies inside for a while because these people are sick, twisted, and not fond of bad dogs. A few months ago, eight cats lived in a cluster of four houses on one street. Now there are three cats. I need something stronger and more powerful than Jehovah's witnesses (although until now, warcrygirl's suggestion was way ahead of "sleep with him and tell everyone it was bad") to battle this evil. I am losing hope that my cats are OK and will come back, which breaks my heart. They depended on me to keep them safe, and I failed. Miserably.

Now that I've made myself cry at work, segue to my co-"worker" who leaves work every day, leaving his laptop in the docking station so it looks like he's there. Our boss has been gone all week. LaZBoy has not bothered to come in at all. He's supposed to be going to the Republic of WalMart with me today for meetings tomorrow. My shit has been ready for weeks. I spent all week trying to make sure everything was taken care of. He hasn't done a damn thing. In the past, I have bailed his ass out of these situations. This time, I'm letting him twist in the wind. He sent an e-mail earlier in the week whining about how his back hurt and he couldn't sleep. With coaching from ayred-out, I responded to her (our boss) only, saying that my hair hurt and I had cut myself shaving so I had to go home for the rest of the day. Risky, but it paid off. She didn't reply via e-mail, because she wanted no evidence trail, but she called me, laughing her ass off. LaZBoy's wife is 9 months pregnant (she also works here - it's all very incestuous) and she manages to come in to work every day. These are the people, by the way, who had two separate wedding receptions because they thought they were so popular. Mrs. LaZBoy buys all of her clothes from QVC -- their line of stretchy crap that no one should ever, ever, ever wear. She did not purchase any, I repeat, any maternity clothes. She has been stretching out those stretchy clothes to the elastic-snappage point. It is not a pretty sight. She'll be glad that she didn't waste money buying tasteful clothes that fit, though, when her husband gets his ass canned for not bothering to do any work for a year.

I am thinking that I should probably change careers about now and become an advice columnist. My first column would go something like this:

Have you ever been driving on a highway, looked in your rear-view mirror and noticed that there are 20+ cars following closely behind you? Have you then looked forward and noticed that there are no cars in front of you? If you can answer "yes" to these two questions, then go take out your own spleen with a putty knife, because you are an idiot. Pull over into the right lane and let all of those cars go past you because you're impeding their progress. Pull your head out of your ass and realize that you're not the only person on the road who matters.

Next week's column: People who take all of their luggage as carry-ons that are way too big. The luggage is too big, and/or the people are too big.

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