There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


I should be working; instead I'm doing this. It's an addiction.

Thus I spake unto thee, those that carry symbols of both the faith of Christianity and the make of Chevrolet. If thou continue to claim belief in the tenets that are represented by the Jesus fish, you shall be held to those beliefs even though thou art driving. Does the word not claim that he who is last shall be first? Yea, verily. Should one not always do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Is this not the essence of your faith, that one should live those words? Then why the hell do you drive like you're trying to murder everyone else on the road? Does your Jesus fish give you amnesty from all of the commandments? Does it make you better than me? Does it give you some sort of protective cloaking device? The next assface with a Jesus fish who cuts me off will be struck dead with the power of my disdain. Or I'll honk at him/her and show a symbol of my own.

So today was my first full day with no Tina at work, as she has abandoned me to go work at EduServ. Now who will I email all day? Who will keep me up to date on the wacky antics and madcap chase scenes over on the other side of the building? Who can I depend on to tell me that WorkSlut is still sleeping with her husband but has started fucking her new youthful beau, in all likelihood in the house she shares with her husband? Who will fill me in on the little tidbits that drop my jaw until it hits the bar? Huh? We had margaritas with Tina after work on Thursday night FOR THE LAST TIME (thanks, Benedict Arnold), enjoying balmy weather and Jimmy Buffet-esque musical stylings. One thing I did not especially enjoy but could not stop staring at was the hostess. She was fairly ordinary-looking, but was trying so very hard to be attractive that she had a geometrically negative effect on her appearance and rendered herself eye-wateringly, squintingly hideous. She had applied the foundation with a trowel and the eyeliner with...with...a really thick brush, but the piece of resistance was her ever-so-tight polyester pants. Was it camel toe? No -- somehow her pants were just too tight to cleave in the center. They were just tight enough, however, to show every dimple, divot, and ripple in her ass and thighs. It looked like two cats fighting in a pillowcase when she walked. Like a bag of doorknobs. Like she fell out of the Fat Ass Tree and hit every branch on the way down. Between the revelations about WorkSlut and this vision, I looked like a slack-jawed yokel for three hours.

We managed to give Tina a surprise party in her own home on Saturday. She had just retired for a bit of lady-like napping when the handsome and charming Buster joined her in her bed. Dallas had actually managed to keep a secret!! Human sieve. But the mobile party that is us managed to surprise her with fajitas and queso (made with government cheese) and lots and lots of sangria. It was also the TinyTown annual volunteer fire department fundraiser auction, barbeque, and dance, so all 147 of TinyTown's inhabitants were wandering through the intersection they call "downtown." After too much food and sangria, we joined them to ascertain exactly where all of the Wranglers and Justin Ropers go. How the hell do they zip them pants? I mean, really? Unfortunately, when you use the needlenose pliers to zip your Rocky Mountains, that flesh has to go somewhere, and that somewhere is usually up. Didn't stop any of those ladies from wearing a midriff-baring top, though. We got to play the game of "What was that tattoo before it got all stretched out like that?" I'm not saying I'm any thinner than any of those ladies, I'm just saying that I look in the mirror before I leave the house, and if there's any wobbly bits showing, I rethink my ensemble. The greggers' favorite outfit was the mini skirt with tube top, cowboy hat, and cowboy boots. He also was fond of the really big Texas hair.

I returned to the home of Tina and Dallas once or twice to use the loo, heading off once in the wrong direction, off toward the goat farm. Then, the auction occurred. What an event. There must have been hundreds, no, dozens, no, eight or nine fabulous items to auction off. Pillows made by the local needlework club were followed by crocheted afghans and antique bee hives and pickled donkey embryos... Or I may have dozed off on my feet. Dallas bought himself an old fart rocking chair to sit on his deck and shake his fist at the whippersnappers rolling through the one stop sign that lets you know you're in a town. Then we returned to the lovely home of the lovely Tina and Dallas. They have decided that Cheers is the best show ever so they built a bar in their home. It really looks like an actual open-for-bidness tavern so much that people sometimes wander in thinking that it's a bar and not their own a private home. We were watching Eddie Izzard be fabulous on their 4 mile-wide bar TV when I felt the need to pee. I then apparently fell asleep on the crapper (again!) for an hour. Yup. An hour. It isn't really a bad reaction to drinking to simply fall asleep wherever you are because it keeps you from over-drinking. After being rudely awakened (Greg yelled "Hey! What are you doing in there?" and I yelled back "I'm thinking!"), I hauled my toilet-seat imprinted ass off and went to bed. When I went to bed, Tina, Dallas, and the greggers were still up and drinkin'. I woke up some time later and realized I still had my contact lenses in, so I went to the bathroom to take them out. Unfortunately, I had to cut through the tavern to get there. There were now about 40 people in the tavern, all of whom looked at me like I was Bigfoot. Back to bed. Woke up again when Dallas was kicking the freeloaders out. Apparently that occurred at 3 a.m., when Tina had to call him on his cell phone from their bedroom and tell him that it was time to send his new friends home. Then the storms started. Simultaneous lighting and thunder. Rain like Moses was building his ark and the angel of death was looking for firstborn boys. For hours and hours and hours. This wouldn't have been an issue except that five really dopey dogs were waiting to romp in the puddles, dig in the puddles, and roll in the puddles.

So we all stayed in bed til we had to get up and then we watched Meet the Fockers and ate leftover fajitas and went home and took a nap.

Boo Yah.

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birth & death