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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
Being under the weather last week, I nearly got away with forgot to mention an embarrassing little adventure I had on Valentine's Day. Some days, I don't even have to leave my office to dork up the joint. Whoopee.
There I was on Thursday afternoon, weeping softly at my desk, as is my usual custom. To cheer my mood -- and take my mind off my throbbing sinuses -- I was listening to a few MP3s. Specifically, I had Fatboy Slim's Better Living Through Chemistry queued up, and playing loud. Maybe I was in a techno mood. Maybe I was comforted by the promise in the title -- a little NyQuil (or tequila, or possibly lye) could be just the ticket to a happier, phlegm-free future. Whatever the reason, those catchy tunes were the only bright spot in a sad, sniffly, scratchy-throated afternoon.
"It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it."
At least, they were. Until I re-learned, for the umpeenth time, that timing. Is everything.
(Oh, and don't worry if you're not into ten-year-old techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beats, or whatever the hell such songs are classified as nowadays. I'll walk you through the scant bits of info that are germane to the story.
I promise not to bop or crunk or beatbox or anything along the way. Lord knows no one wants to see that. Also, I could break a hip.)
So, there I was. Alone in the office. Weeping. Listening. Sniffling. Minding my own business. After a while, the song "Give the Po' Man a Break" came on. I like the song. It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it. Good tune.
But Fatboy's lyrics are not the highlight, so much. In fact, the only words in the entire song are those in the title. Three or four minutes in, the first vocal sample emerges:
'Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break!'
No, Mr. Slim isn't revered for his enunciation, either. As a genre, the techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beaters aren't typically 'Hooked on Phonics', as it were. It's usually easier to just call the tunes instrumentals, and treat the lyrics, such as they are, as another instrument or rhythm. That's what I do, anyway. But folks less experienced with the music might have a different view.
Someone like, say, the new kid who started working in our office last week. Turns out he -- who I gather isn't so experienced with the Fatboy Slim oeuvre -- needed to ask me a question that Thursday afternoon. So he walked into my office. While "Give the Po' Man a Break" was playing.
None of which is all that troubling -- except for one thing. Fatboy, you see, being an artiste, wasn't content to simply loop the same vocal sample over and over and over through the second half of his ditty. Instead, he reprised it in shorter and shorter versions -- treating it like another instrument or rhythm, just like I said. Me and Slim, we're on the same page here.
The new kid, not so much.
Of course, it might have helped had he poked his head into my office during the actual instrumental part. Or the part where the whole phrase is looped, as above. Or even the next step along, when the tune shouts:
'Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna!'
That would have sounded like gibberish, sure. But the new kid would have probably figured I was listening to some funky Latvian pop music, or playing MP3s backward, or something. I have a bit of a reputation for doing weird shit around the office.
I know. Go figure.
But he didn't walk in at any of those points in the song. Instead, he came in toward the end, when the sample is really chopped down and rapid-fire. So when he appeared in the doorway, my speakers were veritably blasting:
'Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po!'
Which, to the naive ear unwise in the ways of the late-'90s techno milieu, sounds an awful lot like a guy shouting:
'Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn!'
At eighty decibels. Over a pulsing backbeat. On my speakers.
I didn't realize the misinterpretation right away, of course. It took a while to deduce, from the way the kid opened his mouth to ask a question, then stared wide-eyed at my computer for a bit, and then backed slowly out of the room. But I eventually figured it out, and realized how it must have sounded from his standpoint. So now I've got a whole new genre of odd stares and wacky rumors to work through, no doubt.
On the bright side, the new guy hasn't been back to ask me a question for a whole week. Looks like this po' man got a break, after all.
So, I've been sick.
Not deathly, gasping my last breath, 'I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth!' sick, maybe. But still -- sick. I've spent much of the past ten days coughing up bits of things that may or may not have been attached to my internal organs. And someone evidently replaced my sinus fluid with some sort of napalm-'n'-molasses mixture, to see if I would notice.
Trust me, I noticed. Shove a bean up it and blow, Folgers.
"You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face."
Anyway, I'm better now. But it was a tough week and a half or so. You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.
Yep, you might think karma would cut me a break for once.
You might think that. But then you'd be an idiot.
Instead, I found myself last Friday morning -- at the very height of my infirmary -- standing in the driveway in the midst of a steady downpour, hacking and sniffling and contemplating the very, very flat left rear tire on my car. I was heavily medicated, had pressing work at the office and had already put on my 'out in public pants'. Still, the sight of that soggy saggy deflated rubber doughnut led me to strongly consider giving the world the big fat finger and crawling back into bed.
But no. That's just what karma would want, the little bitch. Instead, I got in the car and drove to a tire repair shop down the street. And things were all downhill from there.
I have this theory, you see. In the long and storied history of mankind, I contend that there has never -- ever been such a thing as a 'repairable tire'. I've personally flattened a few, busted a bunch, punctured a passel, and deflated a dozen or more. Not one of those holey wheels was deemed patchable. And neither was this one. The resident tire care triage expert broke the bad news -- as usual:
Tire Guy: Sir? I'm sorry. We couldn't save your tire.
Me: Ah. I see.
Tire Guy: We can sell you a new one, of course.
Me: Well, of course you can.
Tire Guy: Let's see... looks like the only tire we have in your wheelbase is the Blingerator here.
Me: The Blingerator?
Tire Guy: Yeah, it's great. Platinum-belted radials. Gem-encrusted treads. And the inner bladder is gold-plated.
Me: But... you can't even see it.
Tire Guy: True. But you know it's there.
Me: Peachy. I assume this thing is outlandishly expensive, then.
Tire Guy: Oh, you know it. Way more than those 'peasant tires' on your ride right now.
Me: Fine. Look, how about we just call in one of those ghetto tires, anyway? I like to match.
Tire Guy: Whatever you want, buddy. I'll order one for you, and it'll be here before you know it.
Me: Good. Because I've got an important meeting this afternoon.
Tire Guy: Oh, no problem. I'll check the computer now. Just so long as it's not back ordered.
Me: Okay.
Tire Guy: Uh-oh.
Me: Yes?
Tire Guy: It's back-ordered. You won't see it before August.
Me: Nice. Aren't there any other models you can get?
Tire Guy: Oh, sure. I can think of three others that'd fit your car. Lemme see here.
Me: Great, thanks.
Tire Guy: Hmmm. Back-ordered.
Me: *sigh*
Tire Guy: Back-ordered.
Me: Of course.
Tire Guy: Hey, then there's this one.
Me: Back-ordered?
Tire Guy: Nah. 'Recalled due to spontaneous explosions'.
Me: Really? That's it?
Tire Guy: Also? It's back-ordered.
Me: Naturally. The Blingerator it is, then.
Tire Guy: Wonderful. I'll just need the deed to your house, one of your kidneys and the rights to your first-born child. Nice doin' business with you.
An hour later, I snuffled my way back the car, poorer in mood, wallet, and probably health. But I did have a fancy new tire, I did make it to work, and I did sit through that big, important, interminable, excruciatingly boring meeting.
Yip. Fricking. Pee.
The next time karma comes around, remind me to smack it around with a gold-plated bladder. Kick me while you're down, will ya?
I've gradually come to realize that there's something going on around my workplace. Something different. Unusual. Special.
In the bathroom in the office, the janitors leave bags -- I said bags! -- full of unused, unopened toilet paper in the stall. Bags full. I'm not kidding. Seriously, look:
So many squares to spare.
Now, think about that for a second. Recall the offices in which you've worked, and reminisce over the modus operandi of the typical cleaning staff there. If they were anything like the jani-Nazis I've encountered in my previous jobs, then they were more than slightly stingy with the sanitary supplies. You might find a square, or even a pair. But squares to spare? Squares to tear and share? Pretty freaking rare.
Not so in our bathroom, my friend. In addition to the generous two rolls deployed in the industrial paper holderator device, there's this bag of extra papery goodness hanging out in reserve. Just in case.
My first thought is: Damn, these are some trusting janitors.
And my second: Why the hell haven't we thrown those rolls all over the stupid furniture by now?
I'm pretty sure this is why we can't have nice things. Ah, well.
So, when I was in the rest room this afternoon, I took a quick look in the bag. First, I made sure the stall door was shut, and no one was around. You've got to dig pretty far into the bag to pull out a roll, and the last thing I want anyone to hear from my stall is rustling.
(Okay, maybe not the 'last thing'. Let's not think about that too hard, eh?)
Anyway, I managed to fish out a roll, and found another surprise. Evidently, we're not only getting quantity here, we're steeping gently in quality, too. Check out this pic:
Oh, yeah. That's the good stuff.
First, there's the New England charm. 'HARBOR' brand bathroom tissue, with that classy picture of the lighthouse.
(Unless I'm seeing it wrong, and that's not actually a lighthouse. In which case I suspect it's a lot less classy than I'm giving it credit for.
Moving right along.)
More impressively, we learn from the label that this plucky parcel of paper is also 'Facial Quality'. And they just leave this stuff lying around in a bag. You can almost feel the swank dripping down the bathroom walls.
It started me wondering about what constitutes 'facial quality' tissue, though. Even letting sleeping entendres lie -- and who expected that sort of restraint at this point? -- I have questions. Are there grades between 'regular' toilet tissue and our obviously superior 'facial quality' class? Are less fortunate souls issued tissue only rated for, say, arms and toes? Is my 'facial quality' paper appropriate for all of my above-the-neck wiping needs? Or for that matter, any of them?
I didn't have time to answer these questions this afternoon. I was busy with my hand stuck in a plastic bag, snapping cell phone pictures in the bathroom stall. As you might imagine, I didn't tarry any longer than was absolutely necessary. That's not exactly a situation you want to explain to anyone who might walk in.
(Plus, I can't decide whether it helps or hurts my case that I was alone in there.
Seriously, I thought about it all evening. It's a toss-up at best.)
At any rate, I'm betting a few rolls of that 'HARBOR'-y goodness would look mighty fine wrapped around the machines in the copy room, or strung between the legs of all the conference room chairs.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is definitely why we can't have nice things. C'est la vie.
No, not you. Of course not you.
I'm talking about Amazon -- or more specifically, the 'Recommended for You' bug prank 'feature' on their website. That nasty little bastard can go straight to hell, and I hope as many pitchforks as possible poke it right in the ass on the way.
"I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong."
Don't get me wrong. I like Amazon; I shop there all the time. And I appreciate automagical systems that can figure out what I might like -- when they actually work, that is. I only ask three things of a recommendation system -- or for that matter, a friend, spouse, or government -- and in the past week, Amazon has failed me on all three. Observe:
1. Pay attention to what I'm telling you.
A few days ago, I logged onto Amazon, looking for some CDs. Here's the conversation (only slightly rephrased) that I had with the recommendation system:
Amazon: Hi, Charlie! Welcome back! Can I help you find a CD?
Me: Okay, sure.
Amazon: I bet you'd like Bridge. It's by Blues Traveler!
Me: Oh. Um, yeah, I don't think so.
Amazon: No problem! How about Save His Soul? It's great!
Me: I dunno -- who's it by?
Amazon: Blues Traveler!
Me: You know, I'm really not a Blues Traveler fan.
Amazon: Say no more! I know of a great CD you'll love!
Me: Fine. Just tell me it's not by-
Amazon: The CD's titled Blues Traveler!
Me: *sigh* Let me guess. It's-
Amazon: That's right! It's by Blues Traveler!!! Gosh!
Me: Look, seriously. Not a Blues Traveler fan. I swear.
Amazon: But you said six months ago that you own Four.
Me: Yeah... I did. But-
Amazon: And that's by Blues Traveler!
Me: I know. But it's my wife's, really. And I listed dozens of CDs I own.
Amazon: I know how you feel! Probably like buying Travelogue: Blues Traveler Classics. Right? Right?
Me: Dude. I gave Four two stars. Out of five. Two.
Amazon: That's more than one! Bet you'd love Blues Traveler's Greatest Hits. Betcha would!
Me: No. I wouldn't. Look, see here? I'm telling you not to use Four to suggest music any more. Okay? I happen to own one disc, but that's it. No more Blues Traveler, got it?
Amazon: Absolutely!
Me: No greatest hits, no tribute albums, no cover bands, nothing. Okay?
Amazon: You're the boss!
Me: Great. So. Do you have any other recommendations?
Amazon: Sure! You're gonna love this CD Zygote! It's super!
Me: Okay, I'm game. What type of mu-
Amazon: It's by John Popper!
Me: Wait. Isn't he-
Amazon: He's the lead singer... of Blues Traveler! Yippee!
Me: God, I hate you.
Amazon: How many copies should I put you down for?
Me: I absolutely fucking hate you.
Amazon: Don't forget One-Click Checkout™! It's the best!
I nearly strangled my monitor with the mouse cord. Evidently, I should stop being so fricking honest with Amazon about the music I technically own.
Lord help me if it ever finds out my wife has the entire Madonna catalog somewhere under our roof. Jesus.
2. Don't throw 'paying attention' back in my face.
I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
See, I'm a big British comedy fan. Mostly the older shows -- Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, Kiss Me Kate, Keeping Up Appearances, just about anything. The subtle stuff, the bawdy stuff, the outlandish stuff, it doesn't much matter. I once even managed to sit through nearly an entire episode of Are You Being Served?.
Just once. And I called in sick to work for the rest of the week. But you get the picture.
So, last night I was poking around Amazon again, trying to find a DVD with clips from the old Alas Smith and Jones show.
I'm not even going to bother trying to describe it, other than to call it 'two-man sketch comedy' and point you to the BBC's take above. My wife walked in last night while I was cackling giddily over a Smith and Jones 'Swiss News' clip on YouTube, and -- after I replayed it and made her watch it -- all she said was:
'It's kind of cute. But not laugh-out-loud cute. You're weird.'
Probably. But that's not important right now. The only important detail to note is that the show featured well-travelled Brit comedy stars Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones.
(Hence the name, you see. Clever ones, those British are.)
The astute film buffs among you may remember Mel Smith from his role as 'the Albino' in The Princess Bride, where he tended lovingly to the Pit.... of Despaaaaiiiir.
The less astute among you -- including me -- may not know that there's also a Mel Smith (a different Mel Smith, presumably, what with her evidently being a woman and all) who writes gay cowboy erotica novels, and sells them via Amazon.
Astute or not, I'd like to believe that if my recent browsing history included the phrases 'John Cleese', 'British comedy' and 'Blackadder', but not -- I can't stress this enough, now, NOT -- any phrases such as 'burly cowhand', 'assless chaps', or 'rope my dogie, Tex', then you would probably guess the context of the 'Mel Smith' search correctly.
As opposed to waiting until I logged in tonight and saying:
'Hi! Welcome back! Can we recommend 'To Love a Cowboy' for you today? It's a wild, steamy tale of a young boy and the older man he... no? Okay! How about 'Twice the Cowboy, Twice the Ride'? You'll lose yourself in... not interested? No problem! 'Stallions on the Range' it is!'
A 'Mel Smith' search is one thing. But I still can't see why Amazon loaded up so far on gay cowboy fare. Maybe Blues Traveler fans watch a lot of Brokeback Mountain. I dunno.
3. Make me feel cooler by taking your advice.
Following the Blues Traveler debacle above, I finally managed to straighten Amazon out regarding the kinds of music I like. And generally, those kinds fall into one big category -- old.
I remember the days, back in the mid-to-late '80s, when I would laugh -- laugh! -- at people listening to the Beatles, or the Doors, or early Rolling Stones. 'Geez,' I'd say with a wrinkle-free sneer, 'some of that crap is twenty years old. Get with the times, already!'
I still listen to a lot of the same music I did back then. Which was, it turns out, just about twenty years ago. It seems the sneerer has become the sneeree. Ouch.
In my defense, at least I'm not listening to the drivel you probably cringe over when you think of '80s music. I figure it's pretty hard to point and laugh over somebody 'still' listening to a band, if you have no idea who the hell they were in the first place. I'd like to claim that was a carefully planned strategic decision; actually, it just turns out that I have weird tastes in music as well as comedy, apparently.
The point is, this is where I thought Amazon might actually be able to help me, for once. So while I whipped up an order for a few CDs (by the Broken Homes, Royal Court of China and Buckwheat Zydeco, from 1988, 1989, and 1987, respectively), I asked -- nay, begged -- Amazon to find me something hipper. Something I'd like, but could brag about to all the young whippersnappers at the parties with their droopy trousers and ball caps askew.
So I hit Amazon with my (ever so slightly) more modern preferences. I may have one foot in the auditory grave, but there are some bands I like that have seen the light of this millennium, if only barely. So I rated up my 'cool' bands, like Soul Coughing and the Propellerheads and the Crystal Method. Find me something like these, I told Amazon -- something good that I've never heard of, and that all the cool kids are into these days.
The Recommendorator beeped and booped for a while, and finally spat out a name that wasn't simply the 'limited edition' version of one of the albums I'd claimed. Nor the import issue of the same album. Nor some Blues Traveler shit. Instead, the name was: 'Fluke'.
Nice. I'd never heard of Fluke. The ratings looked good. I saw comparisons to Fatboy Slim, Chemical Brothers and the like -- another positive sign in my book. So I amended my order to include the suggested disc from this hot new act, this 'Fluke' that was no doubt all the rage at the raves and clubs and raves and yes-I-know-I-already-said-raves and clubs and raves and I-just-have-no-freaking-clue-where-else-kids-hang-out-these-days and raves where the kids are hanging out these days. Smugly satisfied with my newly purchased street cred, I eagerly awaited delivery of my CDs.
They came today. Four CDs in total. The old stuff is great -- just like I remembered, catchy and clever and steeped in nostalgia. Better yet, the Fluke CD is awfully good, too. After a couple of turns through the disc, there are only a couple of songs that I'm 'enh' about, and three or four that really stand out as gems. As a newly-bought and never-heard disc, it's really quite a catch.
And as a conversation piece and ticket to street cred, it's a steaming pile of dingo shit.
Turns out this 'new' band that's all the rage with their new CD was, in fact, all the rage back in 1997. They released their first single back in 1988. And the Wikipedia blurb including the CD I bought is two full sections before 'Current work'.
Damn it.
Fluke's not new; I'm just old. And they happened to stay off my radar for, oh, twenty years or so. But I never would have realized the tragic depths of my unhipness, were it not for Amazon's trusty 'Recommendations' system taunting me with decade-old CDs and laughing and pointing.
So thanks for zippo, Amazon. Take your ballad pop and your cowboy porn and your aging techno albums and shove them up your mail slot. Next time I want recommendations, I'm going to fricking Pandora.
(But I can still come back to buy CDs, right? That Super Shipper Saving™ is awesome!!!1!OMGeleventy!)
I've been pretty good recently about not cross-whoringposting my missives from Bugs & Cranks over here. The way I figure it, if you're a baseball fan, you're already over there, because the collective writing is primo top-notch. And if you're a Braves fan, then the link to my area is on the sidebar for easy access, and maybe you're already reading it.
"If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman."
If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman. (For the record, it's .330, over a scant 101 at bats in limited action -- but now I'm just torturing you needlessly.)
The point is, I'm making an exception. My latest B&C post isn't about the Braves at all. Mostly, it's not even about baseball. It's about a shirt -- a really, really stupid shirt -- that ESPN sent me for winning a fantasy baseball league on their site. Or, in other words, for wasting my summer and fall knowing useless things like Martin Prado's career on-base percentage.
(Or rather, slightly less useless things, because if I spent any time during the fantasy season worrying about Martin Prado, then I surely wouldn't have earned the shirt in the first place. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, but not exactly the ore from which championships are forged.
Let's just say that if Prado's grandmama plays fantasy baseball, she ain't drafting him, either. Ouch.)
At any rate, if stupid shirts float your boat -- or oodles of sidelong Spinal Tap references, for that matter -- then please have a gander at:
The Answer Is None. None More Dork.
It's a lot more like the typical fodder here than anything baseball-related, I promise. I don't bother bringing up things like on-base percentage at all in the article, so you know it's entirely stat-free. But hopefully, it'll tide you over until I can carve out some time to get something meatier done here. Play ball, kids.
So, I need a little help here.
As you may -- or may not -- recall, my dog has lymphoma.
That's not the bit I need help with. I certainly don't expect everyone reading this site to be practicing and expert veterinary oncologists.
This time.
Rather, I need a bit of advice on dealing with the staff at the local animal hospitorium. The front desk ladies, specifically, because they're killing me. Which is their prerogative, I suppose, since they're not committed to the well-being of human visitors. Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super.
"Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super."
Anyway, the way they're killing me is this: every week, for each of the last sixteen weeks, I've wrangled my plucky mutt to the animal clinic for some doggy chemo care. Every week, they ask for my name, which is reasonable. Every week, they ask for my pet's name -- which I suppose is necessary, should the crazy cat ladies around the neighborhood start hauling in new kitties every other Tuesday. So while it's tedious to give them the same old boring name every time, they get a pass for asking.
But then, every single stupid week, at the beginning of every visit, they ask:
"And are you still at <my address for the past five years>. And is your phone number still <the only phone number I've had this millennium>?"
Mind you, there are only three or four ladies working the desk at this particular facility. It's fairly large, by animal hospital standards, but it's not that big. We're not talking about the Meow-o Clinic here; I see these same women over and over and over, every trip. And I understand that they see an awful lot of under-the-weathered-animal owners -- but they also ask the questions after they've pulled up my dog's record.
So every week, they see 'APPT. FOR WEEKLY CHEMO' and 'LAST VISIT: CHEMO LAST WEEK' and 'REMINDER: SCHEDULE NEXT APPT NEXT WEEK'. And still, they smile sweetly and stare at me and coo, "So, have you packed up your house and canceled your phone plan any time in the last hundred and twenty hours or so? No? Well, I'll just update your record, then, thanks."
It would be different if we hadn't stepped paw in their lobby for a few months. Or if I were leaving the dog behind and needed to be notified, rather than waiting to take her back home when she's done. Or -- seriously, or -- if all of the appointment reminders and notifications the hospital leaves weren't sent via email, which the triage troupe never asks about. After a couple of months of "No, I haven't freaking moved since last Tuesday," I decided to have a little fun with them.
And that's where I need the help. I'm starting to run out of smartass replies with which to entertain myself.
Oh, sure, the first couple of times were a larf. I said that, oh yes, indeed I had happened to move, and patiently recited back the hospital's own address and phone number as my own. For most of the receptionists, the flicker of recognition (and administrative frown following) were near immediate. One lady only caught it in the middle of asking what zip code that is, and heeeeey, just what are you trying to pull, sir?
(That's the nice thing about being a smartass at an animal hospital; it's your dog or cat that's being treated. They're not going to take it out on you, like they might at a doctor's office, or even a restaurant. What are they gonna do -- spit in my dog's chemo cocktail? Bichon, please.)
I lay low for a few weeks, hoping the desk staff would forget which guy was the jerkbag. Sure enough, they were back to asking me the old routine questions sans stinkeye before the month was out. I took the opportunity to tell one of them, "Oooh, I'm glad you reminded me!" I explained how I was just about to move -- to Nome, Alaska, as a matter of fact, and there really isn't much veterinary coverage up there, and I really like the care my dog is getting here, so... how much postage would she think it would be to overnight a Staffordshire terrier round-trip every Wednesday? And how many holes would she suggest punching in the box? And should I insure the package for just the value of the dog, or should I include the cost of the Snausage tub I'd have to include, so the pooch didn't go hungry?
That was a couple of weeks before Christmas. Since then, when that woman sees me coming, she glares at me and puts her 'Next Window' sign up in a huff. I'm pretty sure I can't go back to that particular well again.
Still, that leaves a few hopefully-still-unsuspecting rubes ready for a ruffling. I'm just not sure quite how I want to go about it yet. I've thought about welling up and pouting next time one of them asks my address, so I can explain that my wife kicked me out and all I have is the dog now, and I'm moving around a bit, but that if they want to reach me, they can always come knocking on my VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!
That might be a bit much, though. Eventually somebody will sabotage my dog, just to get the hell rid of me. So I should probably find something more subtle, but still entertaining. And I only have until next Wednesday to do it. I was a good boy at the appointment today; when they asked about whether my various life details had suddenly changed, I just gritted my teeth and assured them, calmly but firmly, that they hadn't.
But I can't do it two weeks in a row. There's only so much conforming to polite society that one smartass can bear. I just need to find an acceptable -- yet still entertaining! -- level of snark, and get it out of my system. I only hope such a thing exists.
You know, for the dog's sake.
