There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Tales from beyond the Stupid

This morning I witnessed the most retarded session of Crazy Front Yard Game that I’ve ever seen, including the equivalent of an 80-pound black bear running up to me at full speed and trying to knock me onto my ass with ham-sized paws. There is currently a cord and a half of bamboo piled next to my driveway, causing Crazy Front Yard Game to morph into Crazy Run into the Street Game. Cold weather + dogs = complete insanity.

There’s stuff a-brewing in the fucking NEVER-ending saga of La-Z-Boy. Can’t say any more right now, but I’m hoping the end is in sight.

If you watch Desperate Housewives, you may have paid attention to the odd, not-quite-right, do-people-like-that-really-exist-? character of George and thought (to yourself, like you could think to other people, idiot), “That’s too, like, over the top, because no adult grown man would possibly become obsessed with a woman and start stalking her on his bike.” Now, I’m the exact opposite of Bree, in that I spilled down the front of my sweater at least three times today and I burn about 40% of what I cook, but I, too, was stalked by an insane idiot with a bike.

It started a long time ago when I was in the Dark Days, a time when I was very, very far down the abyss and couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. So there was this weird, nerdy guy at work who I didn’t really know and he started acting all flirty with me and I felt so horrible and awful about myself that someone being nice to me and acting like he liked me was just the only sanctuary I could find. And a LOT of my “friends” pushed me toward this relationship, clearly thinking, as I did at the time, that this freakish, strange, cheap, gassy weirdo was the best I would ever do. I realized pretty quickly that he was crazy as a loon, but kept trying to be the “nice” person, due to his many tales of self-pity, abandonment, woe, and divorce. So I broke up with him over and over and over and over, but it took a long time to make it stick. Then he started with the poetry. Or, should I say, “poetry.” Writing a constant stream of horrible, shitty, awful poetry and emailing it to me. Then he started posting printouts of the poetry on the outside of his cube. Where all of my co-workers could read it. And they did, because, for fuck’s sake, it was highly mock-worthy. (See below, “I am not a chair.”) Then he started riding his bike past my house. His bike. Past my house. There was this one time? At band camp? There is a three-week drunken bacchanal that occurs every year in San Antonio, referred to generically as Fiesta. One of the many events that are held every year is something called Oyster Bake (not much mystery there…) held at a local “university,” one that sports the worst law school in the country (based on the number of student who simply cannot pass the bar exam). So this weirdo, aka BreadBagBoy (explanation to come), decides to ride his bike downtown to Oyster Bake in the mistaken belief that I’d be there with HouseSitterGirl, who is the secretary in the department I used to work in. And stalking me was an obsession at the time. I wasn’t there, of course, because Fiesta is nothing if not VERY VERY crowded, and I can’t fucking stand crowds, but he rode his bike down there anyway and rode it right into a car that was moving. He got knocked off his 15-year-old Schwinn and tore open a knee. It was bloody enough that someone called an ambulance, but he refused the service because it was TOO EXPENSIVE. I’m not kidding. The EMTs wanted to take him to an ER, but he refused. So he called someone to come and pick him and his bike up, then used a motorized scooter at work for a week. And tells everyone who will listen that he was “tattooed for his lost love.”

And then, for some reason I never quite understood, during a meeting with his new boss and a lot of other people, the new boss, to illustrate a point, sits on BreadBagBoy’s lap to demonstrate some point during a meeting. BBB goes fucking nuts, claims SEXUAL HARRASSMENT, and files a complaint in HR. Plus he post a poem on the OUTSIDE of his cube called “I am not a chair.” He took this poem (and I use the term loosely) to the VP of his division to illustrate just how incensed he was. PLUS he claimed that the lap-sitting caused damage to his back. For reasons I don’t understand, the new VP was fired.

This incident inspired a very sarcastic friend of mine to write a parody of “I am not a chair,” called “I am not a lobster.” The last line was “Eye stalk.” Get it?

So. BreadBagBoy. This freakishly disgusting thing told me IN STRICTEST CONFIDENCE that one way he would masturbate would be to shove some books between his mattress and boxspring to create a space, then put an old bread bag in the space, then to fuck the hell out of his mattress into the bread bag.

There have been at least four complaints of sexual harassment against him at EduMart. These are just the ones I know of. He harassed someone who worked in HR. He harassed someone who lived in my neighborhood by riding his bike past her house. And yet, he persists, like the ignoble cockroach. Feh.

I recently invented something I call the White Noggin. It’s egg nog plus vodka plus Kahlua. It’s sheer genius.

The three-legged man (Junebug) is feeling much better these days, although he continues to nap a lot, which I would too, if I could.

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