Sunday, September 26, 2010


To Be Filed Under: I Can't Make This Crap Up

Sam, being the little asshole he is, decided to start barking early Wednesday morning, so I kicked him and Lucy outside, into their big, back yard. Six foot privacy fence, trees, room to run and play. Fresh food and water, and they can stay out there all day while I sleep and not have to worry about what shoes they are destroying, or if they are taking a monster dump on my new area rug.

Because I was slated for a three-day stretch at work, I was sleeping during the day. Around eight or so, I remember waking up to a horrible smell. In my sleepy state, I remember thinking that the cat must have taken a crap on my pillow. So, I stumbled around the house, half asleep, sniffing to find the offending source. I couldn't find one, and by then the smell had lessened, so I figured I dreamt the whole thing and went back to bed.

Around one, I got up for my scheduled potty break, and thought I would let the dogs in. I opened the door and they zoomed in like their asses were on fire. The smell immediately followed. In the middle of the city, my dogs apparently discovered a skunk somewhere in my backyard and tried to play with it. My eyes watering as I ran around the house, rounding them up, to throw them back outside.

Because I had to work that night, the best I could do was call a groomer, but she could only take one the following day. I determined that Sam stunk worse than Lucy, and decided he would be the first to go. Meanwhile, both were banished from the house until further notice.

The following morning, I raced home from work, collected the vile Sam and drove to the groomers. Windows down, gagging the entire way. Some Palin-American in a minivan thought my speeding was an open invitation for a street race. (I won.)
Upon entering the shop, Sam's aroma permeated the entire place. The groomer frowned as I explained the situation.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked. Sure, it was the least I could do because this woman would have to smell my dog all day. "Go get me douche. Lots of douche. As much douche as you can get your hands on."

Never before has anyone made such a request. After explaining that douche solution worked best for the removal of skunk oil, I high-tailed it to the nearest pharmacy and cleaned out their stock. The sales guy wryly asked me if I had left any for anyone else. Well, I saved a couple of them in case an unfortunate woman with a busy social agenda should happen along. I'm not a total asshole.

Douches delivered, and a very distressed and stinky Sam left in the groomer's care, I went back home. But not before stopping by another pharmacy and depleting their stock of douche. I did, after all, have another dog to tend to.

That morning, I was on my deck, a table full of little blue bottles of douche, and I was drenching Lucy. When I was finished, she smelled more like a summer shower-fresh meadow that had springtime ocean spray waterfalls with just a hint of vinegar. I also smelled douche-like, and covered with dog hair. A quick shower, I crawled into bed. Lucy stayed outside, to cure in a multi-scented douche marinade.

I woke up at 4pm, with serious bedhead, so I hopped in the shower again to rinse off. Threw on some clothes, checked on Lucy (who smelled less like a skunk and more like a woman's flowery vajayjay), tossed some dinner in the oven, and went to the groomer to pick up Sam.

After arriving at the groomer, Sam was brought out, all white and fluffy, smelling like wildflowers and baby powder with just a hint of burning rubber. He was happy to see me, as apparently he experienced a bit of anxiety over the last two days. The groomer said she would quickly trim his nails and we would be off. She picked him up under her arm, and I followed as she carried him to the grooming table.

Funny things about dogs when they get stressed out, they internalize it. In their colon. At that moment that the groomer picked him up, he acted like a little pimple, and a spray of the foulest smelling shit shot out of his ass like he was a super-soaker, onto his Mommy who was standing right behind him. The groomer set him down and he began to walk in a circle, shooting poop-spray out of his ass like he was a water sprinkler. If the gates of hell were to open up, and Satan, having judged a chili cook off, were to fart, that's how bad it would smell.

Covered in shit and blood (product of an inflamed colon), I was instructed to please go to the pharmacy for some Kaopectate. (Did I mention I was covered in raw sewage and blood??) But I did, where the oldest woman on the planet was having problems working the register. There I was, the Douche Queen this morning, covered in eye-watering shit sauce and desperately clutching a bottle of Kaopectate. My rage meter was inching towards an all-time high. I was going to explode, and everyone within 20 feet of me would be incinerated.

Armed with vanilla-flavored Kaopectate (I didn't think Sam would care for peppermint), I went back to the groomers, where she immediately dosed him with it. Meanwhile, I called Mother and tell her to go turn off my oven, and to call work to tell them I was running late. The groomer and I decided that the best course of action would  be to board Sam there overnight and pick him up in the morning after he was bathed for a second time. I would in turn, bring Lucy in for her time for bathing, hopefully sans the projectile diarrhea.

I did about 65 going home, showered again for the third time that day. My dinner baked to a crisp and inedible. I then drove like a bat out of hell to get to to work. One of the few times I can say I've had a horrible day, and it not be related to my job.

The following day, I swapped Lucy for Sam at the groomers. Sam was fully recovered, again freshly washed and dried. Thankfully, Lucy had an uneventful day. The groomer, after careful consideration, decided not to charge me for anything and instructed me to go home and have a bottle of wine. Not a glass, but a bottle. I love my groomer.

Sam still carries a slight aroma of polecat, but he caught the spray in the face, and washing around his eyes and mouth are challenging. The house now smells like my house, and not a skunk den. Life is somewhat returning back to normal, and I am eager for this really lousy week to be over.

And I hope that those dogs have the good sense to leave black and white cats alone.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

One of Them That Got Away

I was perusing one of my most favorite news aggregators, when I stumbled upon this story. I damn near fell out of my chair. I actually knew the guy.

Well, maybe "knew" is putting it lightly. He was my M.O.M. That's Moving-On Man to you. Just what is that? Well, it's a term used for a guy who is your rebound. Many people would recognize The Rebound a lot better. He really doesn't amount to much in the long term, but rather, someone that gets you over those residual feelings of your previous relationship. He helps you realize that you are still a desirable creature. He helps you understand that there is life after a breakup, and things move forward.

Nothing came of our brief affair. He moved on to Florida shortly after we stopped seeing each other. As you can see, he turned out just fine. He was a nice guy, and I wish him all the happiness in the world.

Just an interesting story, I thought I would share.

Things I Don't Get: Hip Hop Pants

When that one guy popped on American Idol auditions and sang about Pants on the Ground, it only brought to light a serious fashion flaw that has spread across the country, like Paris spreads her STDs. They are called many things: saggy pants, droopy pants, ghetto pants, but one this for certain. They look tacky. I don't care how many celebrities say to the contrary.

And so it was, in my formative years, that Garth Brooks was IT, and it was mandatory that every roller skating rink played Friends in Low Places at least once a night. With the popularity of Garth Brooks, country fashion surged and boys sported Wrangler jeans so tight, that you had to wonder if their testicles were actually getting any blood flow.

I thought he was hotter as Chris Gaines.

The look was appealing only if you had a decent ass. Rodeo cowboys, have rather nice ones, and sadly, were pretty much the only ones who looked good in skin-tight Wranglers. Everyone else, you just felt bad for. Sort of like the flat-chested girl in a bikini.

And if you didn't hop on the country bandwagon, there was always MC Hammer.

Sadly, I owned a pair of these.

I really don't know what he was hoping to accomplish with the balloon pants, but it wasn't a trend that reached Garth Brooks proportions. Some people bought them, some didn't.

Remember Mark Walberg? Before he went into acting and had two looks: constipated and REALLY constipated. He was a Marky Mark. Tight little body with a huge Calvin Klein contract. What's the boy to do? He couldn't run around all day in his underwear. Women wouldn't leave him alone, not to mention how cold it would be in the winter. Things would shrink, and he would risk alienating his bulge-watching fan base.

Pardon me for a minute, I will be in my bunk.

Of course! Wear jeans just baggy enough to show some underwears. Not everything, but just enough to see they are not Fruit of the Looms, not the skidmark that occurred after too much Taco Bell, and certainly not enough to reveal any shrinkage. Keep the women guessing!

And so that trend took flight, and soon all the boys were buying jeans that were a couple sizes too big, and showing off their Calvins, or whatever they happened to pick up at Walmart.

As time passed, the pants got bigger, and lower and lower they plumber's crack, then mid-crack, then, below the ass cheek.

With a douche bag belt to cap the look.

But then they had to start wearing belts so they wouldn't randomly fall down. Because, ya know, THAT would be embarrassing.

At some point, someone thought it was a good idea to take it even further, and pulling them down to the knees. Because most underwears don't fall at the knee, boys had to get creative, and the invention of the long-assed t-shirt came to be.

Secretly, he has midget legs.

So, my question is: WHY, IN THE NAME OF GOD, WHY!?!?!? Someone played a cruel joke and said that fashions like this is what makes women swoon. Because if you look like you can't dress yourself properly, you gets all the bitches!

Even belts can't help, as evidenced by the countless men you see standing around holding their pants up, because the minute they let go, the puppies have now become ankle warmers. Some guys actually manage to walk in them in such a manner, that the pants don't fall down without a fight. You've seen them, legs all spread out, bow-legged, looking like they have a corn cob shoved up their ass.

Real women with any self-respect, can't possibly take a guy like this seriously. This certainly isn't sexy. Smart men don't go around looking like they need help dressing in the morning.

Maybe it's an unwitting red flag for women, because you can spot saggy pants from a greater distance than a sign that says "I can count to potato". Perhaps this is Darwin telling us that these men are not the choice of the herd, because in the event of an attack, they are obviously not going to be able to run away.

Don't get me started on socks and sandals...