through an oft-filled clime
great, now I got herps
I never finished my Rocksmith story I see, and maybe I'll do that one day... in the meantime;
I got a dog. A dog I fucking picked, not my wife. A dog I like, that is a man's dog, enormous in physical stature, but with no brain whatsoever. Observe:
So I was walking in to work 20 minutes late as usual (if I leave for work when I'm supposed to actually already be there I don't feel like I'm giving the muthafuckin man extra) and I notice there's a huge damn black dog leaning against the building in the breezeway, looking at me and wagging his tail hopefully. He's huge. For some reason, I'm not scared though, like Smeagol always was when the police got behind him or when some bitch niggie pulled up in a Mustang Dominator; sure, it didn't matter that he was in a 1992 Pontiac Grand Am with 200k miles on it, he was still gonna race, trust... he just knew he'd lose unless he REALLY slicked his hair back and clawed the wheel.
Anyway, people are wandering by and feeding this dog their lunches, which he gobbles up and then greedily keeps sitting there waiting for more, which should have been a red flag, but I'm fucking dumb. I call my wife and tell her there's a puppy that she needs to come get. She gets all excited like when I promised I'd watch Pretty Woman with her as long as she put out during the boring parts, but unlike that situation she did not leave unsatisfied and disappointed and wondering what I'd done to her credit.
She shows up, opens the door to get out, the dog jumps in the backseat and we now have a dog.
Couple weeks after we get him, we're making spaghetti with garlic bread. We put the industrial sized Country Crock butter up on the counter, and next to it a smaller 1lb tub of garlic butter. The dog (Link), is tall enough he can walk up to a counter and just take things off of it, but we assume since it's not meat, it's goddamned BUTTER, we'll be fine. At this point we learn a black lab/ Great Dane mix is a popular dog because they are super nice, but not super smart. I come downstairs a few minutes later to put stuff up, and the butter is gone. The 4 fucking pound tub, and the smaller 1 pound garlic butter tub.... gone. Link is sitting there like he has no idea what happened, but when you have a pure jet black dog with a large dollop of butter on his nose, you know what that asshole did.
Later that night, I'm on the computer in my room, and Link is doing his evening ritual of jumping around in a circle bucking his back legs out like a moron. All of a sudden he stops and looks at me. I just have enough time to turn and smile because he's adorable, and out comes 4 pounds of curdled warm butter and cat shit with pee flavored sprinkles on it, all over the carpet in the boys' room. We had to use a snow shovel to clean that shit up.
"Who gives a fuck about your fucking dog asshole where's the Smeagol stories" you may be saying aloud on a crowded bus, possibly while masturbating to a picture of Jeremy. Fuck you, asshole, but here is something I CAN offer you:
JJ has been complaining a little more than usual recently about Mystical's animal repository. I have some stories that I'll share at odd later dates, but suffice it to say she has too many animals. 8 cats, to be particular. They have odd fucking names like Sir Sergio Villalobos, Duke of Espanoza, and other random fucked up names. Has anyone ever called a cat and had the little shiteater turn and recognize their name? No? Dogs know their names. They don't know anything else, like "heel", "fetch", or "eat this peanut butter real slow", but they know their names. Cats do not, which is another reason they are stupid. But I digress.
Anyway, to hear JJ tell it, these cats run the fucking house: they constantly throw up, piss or shit wherever they damn well please, everyone is expected to know their names and give up their seats for them, and Mystical has these intricate back stories for each one. In very short form, I offer my favorite:
One of her cats, Sergio Jr., got out. This is cause for concern. For a week on Facebook she wrote these long, inane, incoherent diatribes about how Jesus and her favorite band are working to bring her damn cat home, and that it is a test by both of them to see how resolute she is and it's all to do with Mercury being in retrograde and I have no fucking idea. 7... fucking... days... of these long, LONGER THAN MY POSTS rants about this fucking cat. Finally JJ goes into the backyard and sees him, he runs from him and Mystical eyes him on the front porch. That night, after profusely thanking both Jeebus and Band Which Shall Not Be Named, she says she picked Sergio up off the porch, and whispered a prayer and then the name of the band into his ear, and he looked at her with solemn eyes as if to say: "I know"...
WTF. No, he fucking didn't. The cat wanted food, and was willing to reenter the abbatoir of fucking doom to get food. He didn't care about your random prayers. He doesn't care who your favorite band is. He didn't come back because the new album was coming out. He was goddamned hungry and that's all that mattered. He had a choice to make: fillet and eat my own asshole or go listen to the same CD every day all day for the rest of my days but get fed. For now... he chose the latter.