There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Dogs and crabs and racial slurs... Oh, my!

So many stories to tell…

I am currently flying over New Orleans on Monday afternoon. Yes, that Monday, the one with the hurricane. I thought maybe we would sort of divert around the hurricane, but we just went over it. The plane is pretty bouncy at the moment, making my belly bouncy as well, both inside and out. Queasy on the inside, jelly-like on the outside.

Thursday night we went out to dinner with the visiting Brits, which was, as always, surreal. The bitch who made my life hell wasn’t present, making it easier for me to avoid homicidal mania. For reasons unclear to me, my former boss had picked up a little plastic canister of spicy jerky snuff at a gas station. For those who live in the civilized world, let me explain that jerky snuff is a product made from the sweepin’s at the beef jerky factory. It’s very finely ground beef jerky that is packaged to look like chewing tobacco – I can’t explain the WHY behind any of this, but it really does exist. I guess someone at the jerky factory found a new way to edible-ize sweepin’s. So he bought this product for unknown reasons and proceeded to dump some jerky dust onto the table at dinner, chop it up with his credit card, put some onto his knife, and snort it up his nose. I don’t know if it was because he didn’t understand the purpose of the product (I mean, who could understand the purpose of jerky snuff?) or if he is just in the habit of cramming crap up into his nose.

So anyhoo, the evening was quite pleasant as all reference to the evil, crusty hag was avoided. Then the serious people left and left us alone with BlanketMan, who had had a bit to drink (as did we). So I got to hear the truth about how the project was going (not well) and the actual interesting information, such as gossip, innuendo, and character assassination. Among this interesting information was my ex-boss’s hotel hallway confession to BlanketMan that he’d had to scurry off to the Boot’s at Heathrow to get some “special” shampoo before his journey abroad, because he was dealing with a particularly stubborn case of crabs. Crabs!! Ironically enough, I had ordered crab cakes for dinner BEFORE I knew of this, or I would have made a big fucking deal about “HEY!! Wanna try a crab cake? It has lots and lots of CRABS in it! Crabs, crabs, crabs! (Said in the “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha” cadence)!” So then he shares the additional info that Ex-Boss was going to skip out of a dinner party that my boss Captain Wacky was having FOR HIM because he had already “made plans” for that evening with his local fuck buddy, to whom he was probably going to give a dose of treatment resistant CRABS. I laughed so hard I peed myself (as usual). I wanted sooo badly to tell Captain Wacky how the guest of honor was occupied. Hoooo boy. Boy howdy. So I had to go to a dinner party to which the guest of honor didn’t show up because he was having naughty boy sex with his local hook-up.

Then BlanketMan then digressed into a story about a movie called “The Dam Busters which was made in the 1950s and tells the true tale of some WWII stuff wherein dams were busted. It sounded like an interesting story except that he got off onto this (loud) tangent about how the main character had a dog, a black dog, and the dog’s name was Nigger. He said this about 4000 times in a bar in South Texas, making me laugh and fear for my life at the same time. When we tried to shush him, he kept yelling, “No, you see, it’s a true story! The dog was black!” Then we were killed by an angry mob.

So that was Thursday. Then Friday was the dinner party sans guest of honor, which was a bit on the surreal side, as a substitute had been invited at the last minute to help eat the food. It was this guy I work with, nice guy, and his wife. Captain Wacky has three small dogs. This dude’s wife insisted on bringing their two Labs because they’re not “the kind of dogs who stay home.” Like normal dogs do? I mean, I’m stupid over my dogs, but I know that they’re happier at home, scratching and napping, than they are in most other places (with the exception of Mick and Blanca’s Dog Camp). So she made a big effing deal for two hours about making sure the dogs were OK – dude, the competition was three SPANIELS, for fuck’s sake – and putting them into crates, taking them out of crates, and (this is my favorite) “lulling them to sleep.” She spent approximately 45 seconds interacting with adults because her Labs needed to be lulled or breastfed or something. So that was interesting. I managed to avoid asking if they’d considered naming one of the dogs Nigger because they were black dogs and, you see, it wouldn’t be offensive because that would be the dog’s name. Don’t ask. It’s drunk limey logic.

So then it was the weekend and the greggers took the monkey down to the park to teach him how to drive. The park near my house is easy to drive in because the only cars who use it are the men looking for an anonymous hand job. Imagine the commotion caused by the presence of an adult man and a fresh-faced teenaged boy. They had to leave the park because there was so much attention paid to and attraction toward the monkey.

Then I flew over a hurricane and am now in Florida.

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