There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Torture contained herein: Read at your own risk.

We had a great weekend and I have a doctor's appointment later so I'm not going to work until lunchtime which is allowing me to sit on my partially-eaten couch and blog instead of running around and cursing because I'm late for work again. I loves me some run-on sentence.

All weekend long, Greg kept yelling at me, "Get in there and blog about this!" But I didn't because I like to save stuff for those special blogging-alone moments.

On Thursday we were told that WorkSlut isn't bothering to wait until she's divorced to begin "dating," or even bothering to wait until her husband moves out of the house. I'm not sure what distinguishes this dating from the old routine of just having affairs, but she's calling it dating. She also forbade people from telling us about it because she knew I'd think it was slutty and crappy and stupid, but if you want people to keep a secret, don't tell them. Especially don't tell them "Don't tell 2BadDogs and the greggers," because that's your information highway right there. So it turns out this guy is managing a restaurant nearby (although I'm guess he's an assistant manager based on the next thing you'll read) and he doesn't. own. a. car. That's right. I don't know if he still lives with his mom or not. That's quite a step up for the professional, right there.

So on Friday, I was telling the greggers that this could be either very good or very bad for us. It could be a distraction, meaning that she'll stop bugging us to go out drinking every single night (it's not the drinking I object to, it's the bugging), or it could mean that she'll just bug us to go to his workplace all the time, where the service is horrible and everything is overpriced. The greggers asked me if I thought she could get us some free Whore d'oeuvres. Or maybe an order or two of any clappetizer. I laughed and laughed and... Then he said he hopes she doesn't end up with a case of the crab cakes. Hoooo.

So Friday night one of the out-of-towner friends (S) was in town so we went out and had a lovely time. I got to talk to people I don't ordinarily get to converse with. The last time S was here, at this very same tavern a debate arose. It had to do with the importance of nipples. One participant made the claim that nipples weren't that important, and of course he was unable to defend his position. The greggers demanded clarification: were we discussing color (pink, brown, or clear)? Size? Placement? Symmetry? As it turns out, what sparked the original debate was whether or not erectness was important, with S taking the side that perky, upright ones were simply more attractive than flat pancakes. She demonstrated using her fingers. A lot. Over and over again. Of course, the opposition was crushed and the phenomenon of the clear areola once again made people shudder in disbelief.

We got up early on Saturday, having learned a hard lesson the weekend before: Central Market runs out of crawfish early. So we headed on down and purchased us some bugs. When we got home, we did one of the meanest things ever. It's embarrassing to even confess this, but we did it and I shan't lie. Background: Buster, the 75-pound Malador (or Labramute), plays like a kitten. He tosses toys high in the air, then pounces on them, yips and growls at them, and just generally acts very silly. So we gave him a crawfish to play with.

He picked it up very gently and took it into the living room. He set it on the rug, and it pinched his nose. He tossed it, pinwheeling through the air, then pounced. Pinch. Toss, cartwheel, pounce. Pinch. At this point I was so very ashamed and yet laughing my ass off. But we took the critter away from him, rinsed off the dog hair, and put it into a bowl of water where it proceeded to be very cranky until we cooked and ate it. Photos are forthcoming. I know it was cranky because kittens came by to see what was up in the kitchen, and it didn't particularly care for them, either. It was delicious, by the way. I even sucked a few heads.

While at Central Market, we also debated having an Expensive Butter Taste-Off. The idea isn't dead, either (in spite of the fact that we're attempting to eat healthier food because we're a lot fatter than when we started dating), because we ended up getting just one variety of $4 butter (there were several high-end butters to choose from, including some from Ireland, France, and Denmark). Let me tell you something abour $4 butter. It's worth every penny. It's worth every Euro, every Euro cent, every centime.

We had planned on shopping for couches and looking at apartments, but we stayed up too late Saturday night -- another redneck porchfest, drinking wine and using the dog dish as an ashtray for the cigars -- and Sunday turned into a day of productive napping.

By the way, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is overall pretty good. They left out a lot, probably for the sake of length, but the actors were all ghetto fabulous. Sam Rockwell is perfect, but so is most everyone else. But if your funds are limited, you may be happier with the $4 butter.

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