Thursday, April 23, 2015
Monday, April 20, 2015
Friday, April 17, 2015
Things I have already learned on my birthday
I am half way done with my birthday celebrations and I have already learned some valuable lessons:
Do not shave with an old razor, unless you want to spend the day explaining the gashes on your face.
On a whim, do not get any part of your body waxed for a birthday surprise.
Do not walk downstairs nude for your birthday breakfast, unless your elderly neighbors enjoy that sort of view.
Do not randomly walk into local bakeries, take a bite out of any pastry and declare "thanks for the birthday cake" - it generally does not end well.
As often as possible begin any sentence with "since it's my birthday..."
Explain to friends and family that even though you told them for months that you did not expect expensive gifts, jewelry, bikes or trips for your birthday, you kind of did have those expectations.
Remember to thank everyone for gifting you pets. Now that I have some chickens, two cats, a gassy dog and species unknown three legged "animal" currently residing in my home, friends seem to think I am running a home for wayward and unwanted badly housebroken animals.
Finally, on my birthday I keep hearing a derivative of the sentence "you do not look like you're 28" and I keep reminding people that it's kind of rude to say mean things on peoples birthdays.
Do not shave with an old razor, unless you want to spend the day explaining the gashes on your face.
On a whim, do not get any part of your body waxed for a birthday surprise.
Do not walk downstairs nude for your birthday breakfast, unless your elderly neighbors enjoy that sort of view.
Do not randomly walk into local bakeries, take a bite out of any pastry and declare "thanks for the birthday cake" - it generally does not end well.
As often as possible begin any sentence with "since it's my birthday..."
Explain to friends and family that even though you told them for months that you did not expect expensive gifts, jewelry, bikes or trips for your birthday, you kind of did have those expectations.
Remember to thank everyone for gifting you pets. Now that I have some chickens, two cats, a gassy dog and species unknown three legged "animal" currently residing in my home, friends seem to think I am running a home for wayward and unwanted badly housebroken animals.
Finally, on my birthday I keep hearing a derivative of the sentence "you do not look like you're 28" and I keep reminding people that it's kind of rude to say mean things on peoples birthdays.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Magic Keggo super sale
It's almost shocking that the actual real sale of Magic Keggo containers has begun and somehow no one mentioned it here. So, here you go, Keggo containers, once thought to be super magic, but scientists say are really only semi-magic, are now officially for sale. Click here if you need more information or to just flat out buy one. I mean, seriously, a Magic Keggo? Come on, that's a no brainer.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
One year without Beth
The message came via Skype at about 1 AM yesterday morning. A gang of marauding insurgents from the outskirts of Baghdad were ringing us up and wanted to talk with my attorney. Beth Libitard Esq is well know to insurgents, arms dealers, drug runners, investment bankers and republican presidential candidates, but for at least 6 weeks the Skype calls from Baghdad have been nonexistent.
I woke Beth up from an overdue slumber, she groggily logged onto her Skype account, LibitardExpress and took the call.
“We got Kitty, you want her back, you bring us cash and naked pictures of Kim Kardashian,” came the words, sounding like slurred gunk, from a voice filled with too much smoke and not enough education.
Beth listened intently and responded, “How much cash?”
“A million in unmarked bills.”
“How many pictures?”
“17, but none below the waist, we may be terrorists, but we're not insane.”
“Understood. It will take be at least 20 minutes to get the cash and the pictures, then I need to charter a plane, fly to Iraq, parachute in, exchange the money, pick up my long time lover and figure out a way to get out safely.”
“You have exactly 12 hours, then we filet the Kitty and make falafel.”
The line went dead and Beth was out of my office and running downstairs, screaming orders along the way. A plane was requested, a bag was packed, I heard some keys, a secret door was opened, she pulled out what appeared to be one of many satchels of cash and a bag that read “Kardashian, Kim-pictures.” Beth is prepared for any circumstance and cash and nude pictures of an aging reality show diva would be the exact sort of thing she would have in her files.
Beth is my lawyer. A Harvard graduate, originally from Australia but she has been in this country for so long you can barely hear the accent, unless she stumbles out on the patio during the summer when we are having a barbeque and she says, “throw another shrimp on the Barbie,” then it all seems to come back in an instant.
When I was arrested last year for trafficking in stolen traffic signs, Beth was at the jail before I was, bailed me out with counterfeit monopoly money and before I knew it, we were in Mexico, drunk on cheap tequila and enjoying the good waitressing service of one Marta Portavilla, a famous Chilean artist and Mexican prostitute. That was a month I will not soon forget, not to mention 6 STD’s that I will not soon get rid of. Still, a month I will not soon forget.
I returned to my bedroom and Beth came up to bid me farewell. I told her I would see her in a few days and dramatically she said that if she did not make it back, I could keep all her illegal weapons, her inflatable Antonio Banderas Love Doll collection, the Picasso she stole from her night of passion with Donald Trumps hair piece collection and some dry kibble. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “check the parachute my friend.”
She was dressed in camouflage and a pearl necklace because that is the way she rolls and a horn beeped outside and in an instant she was gone. It was cold and the quiet in our ghetto neighborhood was unsettling. No gunfire, no loud arguments between drug dealers and prostitutes, no screaming from Fat Momma the worst mother in the world who’s only parenting skill is to demean and cuss at her unwanted three year old child. Nothing, quiet. I looked out my window and watched as the red tail lights of the jeep faded into the darkness. I put my hand against the cold window and said, “I will see you soon my friend.” Somehow, in my heart, I knew I would probably need to find a new attorney.
Later that night Beth boarded a plane at Teterboro Airport outside of New York City on the New Jersey side and the pilot, an aging hairless actor named John Travolta sashayed back into the passenger compartment, which only contained Beth and Billy Bob Johnson, who was Travoltas long term secret gay lover. Travolta kissed Johnson fully on the lips and Beth whispered to herself, “get a room.”
“What you sayin?” The closeted former actor said.
“Nothing, I’m kind of in a hurry, I need to parachute into Iraq as soon as possible.”
“I got it Beth, but really, the only time I’m allowed to show affection to my gay lover is on this plane, so cut me some slack, ok?”
“How about you two go at it on your way home from Iraq?”
“Now that’s a good idea. We can do that, right Billy Bob?”
Billy Bob nodded and Travolta traipsed back to the cockpit. The planes engines rumbled to life and soon enough they were in the air and headed toward Iraqi airspace.
During the long flight super gay Billy Bob Johnson made some delicious chocolate chip cookies which Beth enjoyed. He also told her some bawdy stories of old Hollywood, when he and Travolta used to have wild times with the likes to Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffin, Rowdy Randy Piper, Ryan Seacrest, Billy Bob Thornton, the late Robin Williams, oh the list seemed endless and Beth was tired. She slept. That is, until Billy Bob woke her and said they were approaching the jump site.
Beth sprung to action. She grabbed the bag of money, which she had also loaded with the nude photos of the aging and not so voluptuous The message came via Skype at about 1 AM yesterday morning. A gang of marauding insurgents from the outskirts of Baghdad were ringing us up and wanted to talk with my attorney. Beth Libitard Esq is well know to insurgents, arms dealers, drug runners, investment bankers and republican presidential candidates, but for at least 6 weeks the Skype calls from Baghdad have been nonexistent.
I woke Beth up from an overdue slumber, she groggily logged onto her Skype account, LibitardExpress and took the call.
“We got Kitty, you want her back, you bring us cash and naked pictures of Paula Abdul.”
Beth listened intently and responded, “How much cash?”
“A million in unmarked bills.”
“How many pictures?”
“17, but none below the waist, we may be terrorists, but we are not insane.”
“Understood. It will take be at least 20 minutes to get the cash and the pictures, then I need to charter a plane, fly to Iraq, parachute in, exchange the money, pick up my long time lover and figure out a way to get out safely.”
“You have exactly 12 hours, then we filet the Kitty and make falafel.”
The line went dead and Beth was out of my office and running downstairs, screaming orders along the way. A plane was requested, a bag was packed, I heard some keys, a secret door was opened, she pulled out what appeared to be one of many satchels of cash and a bag that read “Abdul, Paula, pictures.” Beth is prepared for any circumstance and cash and nude pictures of an aging reality show diva would be the exact sort of thing she would have in her files.
Beth is my lawyer. A Harvard graduate, originally from Australia but she has been in this country for so long you can barely hear the accent, unless she stumbles out on the patio during the summer when we are having a barbeque and she says, “throw another shrimp on the Barbie,” then it all seems to come back.
When I was arrested last year for trafficking in stolen traffic signs, Beth was at the jail before I was, bailed me out with counterfeit monopoly money and before I knew it, we were in Mexico, drunk on cheap tequila and enjoying the good service on one Marta Portavilla, a famous Chilean artist and Mexican prostitute. That was a month I will not soon forget, not to mention 6 STD’s that I will not soon get rid of. Still, a month I will not soon forget.
I returned to my bedroom and Beth came up to bid me farewell. I told her I would see her in a few days and dramatically she said that if she did not make it back, I could keep all her illegal weapons, her inflatable Antonio Banderas Love Doll collection, the Picasso she stole from her night of passion with Donald Trump and some kibble. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “check the parachute my friend.”
She was dressed in camouflage and a pearl necklace because that is the way she rolls and a horn beeped outside and in an instant she was gone. It was cold and the quiet in our ghetto neighborhood was unsettling. No gunfire, no loud arguments between drug dealers and prostitutes, no screaming from Fat Momma the worst mother in the world who’s only parenting skill is to demean and cuss at her unwanted three year old child. Nothing, quiet. I looked out my window and watched as the red tail lights of the jeep faded into the darkness. I put my hand against the cold window and said, “I will see you soon my friend.” Somehow, in my heart, I knew I would probably need to find a new attorney.
Later that night Beth boarded a plane at Teterboro Airport outside of New York City on the New Jersey side and the pilot, an aging useless actor named John Travolta came back into the passenger compartment, which only contained Beth and Billy Bob Johnson, who was Travoltas long term secret gay lover. Travolta kissed Johnson fully on the lips and Beth whispered to herself, “get a room.”
“What you sayin?” The closeted gay former actor said.
“Nothing, I’m kind of in a hurry, I need to parachute into Baghdad as soon as possible.”
“I got it Beth, but really, the only time I’m allowed to show affection to my gay lover is on this plane, so cut me some slack, ok?”
“How about you two go at it on your way home from Iraq?”
“Now that’s a good idea. We can do that, right Billy Bob?”
Billy Bob nodded and Travolta traipsed back to the cockpit. The planes engines rumbled to life and soon enough they were in the air and headed to Iraqi airspace.
During the long flight super gay Billy Bob Johnson made some delicious chocolate chip cookies which Beth enjoyed. He also told her some bawdy stories of old Hollywood, when he and Travolta used to have wild times with the likes to Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffin, Rowdy Randy Piper, Ryan Seacrest, Billy Bob Thornton, Robin Williams, oh the list seemed endless and Beth was tired. She slept. That is, until Billy Bob woke her and said they were approaching the jump site.
Beth sprung to action. She grabbed the bag of money, which she had also loaded with the nude photos of an aging and not so voluptuous Kim Kardashian. Billy Bob gave her a choice of two parachutes and Beth looked at him like, what’s the difference? Billy Bob explained that there really was no difference, they just happened to have two parachutes available.
That may have been the big mistake right there. See, over the years, Billy Bob had grown tired of the closet John Travolta had forced him to live in and every now and then he had hoped to live a real life, one not confined to secrets and lies. He wanted to be out to his friends, his family and the editors of People Magazine. As long as Travolta insisted on living a Scientology imposed lie, so would he. Every now and then Billy Bob would fill a parachute case with something un-parachute like, say a game of Clue, or mashed potatoes, and last time, an anvil and he would just leave it at that, thinking if the parachute was needed and his long time secret lover used it and fell to his death, so be it.
Instead, in the speed of the moment, when it was time for Beth to make that jump into the wilds of Baghdad, she grabbed the parachute, ran to the open door clutching her bag of money and nude Kim Kardashian photos and jumped because the only thing she really wanted to do was save the life of her long time lover, Momma Kitty.
Instead, an anvil laden parachute bag dragged Beth hurtling into the Euphrates River at a speed that would certainly have killed her on impact, and if the high speed impact was not certain death, then sinking into the scum filled river and drowning most certainly was. Then again, if a miracle occurred and Beth was able to survive falling at high speed, landing in a polluted and toxic river and sinking to unknown depths and she was able to make her way up to the surface, she most certainly would have been eaten by what remained of Saddam Husseins trained alligator attack force. Either way, Beth is dead.
Interesting factoid, the high speed decent caused the case containing the cash and photos to break open, so all morning in Baghdad people have been finding American 100 dollar bills and these disgusting nude images of aging and out of shape Kim Kardashian. Hospitals around the region have been treating people for a variety of eye strain and stomach disorders associated with accidentally viewing the Kardashian images. Completely understandable.
As I write this I look up and sitting on my office couch is none other than a Miss Momma Kitty, who was never in Baghdad, but was actually taking part in an elaborate April Fools day prank on her long time lover. Beth may be dead, but in her death we all got a good laugh out of it, so in that respect, she did not die in vain.
I woke Beth up from an overdue slumber, she groggily logged onto her Skype account, LibitardExpress and took the call.
“We got Kitty, you want her back, you bring us cash and naked pictures of Kim Kardashian,” came the words, sounding like slurred gunk, from a voice filled with too much smoke and not enough education.
Beth listened intently and responded, “How much cash?”
“A million in unmarked bills.”
“How many pictures?”
“17, but none below the waist, we may be terrorists, but we're not insane.”
“Understood. It will take be at least 20 minutes to get the cash and the pictures, then I need to charter a plane, fly to Iraq, parachute in, exchange the money, pick up my long time lover and figure out a way to get out safely.”
“You have exactly 12 hours, then we filet the Kitty and make falafel.”
The line went dead and Beth was out of my office and running downstairs, screaming orders along the way. A plane was requested, a bag was packed, I heard some keys, a secret door was opened, she pulled out what appeared to be one of many satchels of cash and a bag that read “Kardashian, Kim-pictures.” Beth is prepared for any circumstance and cash and nude pictures of an aging reality show diva would be the exact sort of thing she would have in her files.
Beth is my lawyer. A Harvard graduate, originally from Australia but she has been in this country for so long you can barely hear the accent, unless she stumbles out on the patio during the summer when we are having a barbeque and she says, “throw another shrimp on the Barbie,” then it all seems to come back in an instant.
When I was arrested last year for trafficking in stolen traffic signs, Beth was at the jail before I was, bailed me out with counterfeit monopoly money and before I knew it, we were in Mexico, drunk on cheap tequila and enjoying the good waitressing service of one Marta Portavilla, a famous Chilean artist and Mexican prostitute. That was a month I will not soon forget, not to mention 6 STD’s that I will not soon get rid of. Still, a month I will not soon forget.
I returned to my bedroom and Beth came up to bid me farewell. I told her I would see her in a few days and dramatically she said that if she did not make it back, I could keep all her illegal weapons, her inflatable Antonio Banderas Love Doll collection, the Picasso she stole from her night of passion with Donald Trumps hair piece collection and some dry kibble. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “check the parachute my friend.”
She was dressed in camouflage and a pearl necklace because that is the way she rolls and a horn beeped outside and in an instant she was gone. It was cold and the quiet in our ghetto neighborhood was unsettling. No gunfire, no loud arguments between drug dealers and prostitutes, no screaming from Fat Momma the worst mother in the world who’s only parenting skill is to demean and cuss at her unwanted three year old child. Nothing, quiet. I looked out my window and watched as the red tail lights of the jeep faded into the darkness. I put my hand against the cold window and said, “I will see you soon my friend.” Somehow, in my heart, I knew I would probably need to find a new attorney.
Later that night Beth boarded a plane at Teterboro Airport outside of New York City on the New Jersey side and the pilot, an aging hairless actor named John Travolta sashayed back into the passenger compartment, which only contained Beth and Billy Bob Johnson, who was Travoltas long term secret gay lover. Travolta kissed Johnson fully on the lips and Beth whispered to herself, “get a room.”
“What you sayin?” The closeted former actor said.
“Nothing, I’m kind of in a hurry, I need to parachute into Iraq as soon as possible.”
“I got it Beth, but really, the only time I’m allowed to show affection to my gay lover is on this plane, so cut me some slack, ok?”
“How about you two go at it on your way home from Iraq?”
“Now that’s a good idea. We can do that, right Billy Bob?”
Billy Bob nodded and Travolta traipsed back to the cockpit. The planes engines rumbled to life and soon enough they were in the air and headed toward Iraqi airspace.
During the long flight super gay Billy Bob Johnson made some delicious chocolate chip cookies which Beth enjoyed. He also told her some bawdy stories of old Hollywood, when he and Travolta used to have wild times with the likes to Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffin, Rowdy Randy Piper, Ryan Seacrest, Billy Bob Thornton, the late Robin Williams, oh the list seemed endless and Beth was tired. She slept. That is, until Billy Bob woke her and said they were approaching the jump site.
Beth sprung to action. She grabbed the bag of money, which she had also loaded with the nude photos of the aging and not so voluptuous The message came via Skype at about 1 AM yesterday morning. A gang of marauding insurgents from the outskirts of Baghdad were ringing us up and wanted to talk with my attorney. Beth Libitard Esq is well know to insurgents, arms dealers, drug runners, investment bankers and republican presidential candidates, but for at least 6 weeks the Skype calls from Baghdad have been nonexistent.
I woke Beth up from an overdue slumber, she groggily logged onto her Skype account, LibitardExpress and took the call.
“We got Kitty, you want her back, you bring us cash and naked pictures of Paula Abdul.”
Beth listened intently and responded, “How much cash?”
“A million in unmarked bills.”
“How many pictures?”
“17, but none below the waist, we may be terrorists, but we are not insane.”
“Understood. It will take be at least 20 minutes to get the cash and the pictures, then I need to charter a plane, fly to Iraq, parachute in, exchange the money, pick up my long time lover and figure out a way to get out safely.”
“You have exactly 12 hours, then we filet the Kitty and make falafel.”
The line went dead and Beth was out of my office and running downstairs, screaming orders along the way. A plane was requested, a bag was packed, I heard some keys, a secret door was opened, she pulled out what appeared to be one of many satchels of cash and a bag that read “Abdul, Paula, pictures.” Beth is prepared for any circumstance and cash and nude pictures of an aging reality show diva would be the exact sort of thing she would have in her files.
Beth is my lawyer. A Harvard graduate, originally from Australia but she has been in this country for so long you can barely hear the accent, unless she stumbles out on the patio during the summer when we are having a barbeque and she says, “throw another shrimp on the Barbie,” then it all seems to come back.
When I was arrested last year for trafficking in stolen traffic signs, Beth was at the jail before I was, bailed me out with counterfeit monopoly money and before I knew it, we were in Mexico, drunk on cheap tequila and enjoying the good service on one Marta Portavilla, a famous Chilean artist and Mexican prostitute. That was a month I will not soon forget, not to mention 6 STD’s that I will not soon get rid of. Still, a month I will not soon forget.
I returned to my bedroom and Beth came up to bid me farewell. I told her I would see her in a few days and dramatically she said that if she did not make it back, I could keep all her illegal weapons, her inflatable Antonio Banderas Love Doll collection, the Picasso she stole from her night of passion with Donald Trump and some kibble. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “check the parachute my friend.”
She was dressed in camouflage and a pearl necklace because that is the way she rolls and a horn beeped outside and in an instant she was gone. It was cold and the quiet in our ghetto neighborhood was unsettling. No gunfire, no loud arguments between drug dealers and prostitutes, no screaming from Fat Momma the worst mother in the world who’s only parenting skill is to demean and cuss at her unwanted three year old child. Nothing, quiet. I looked out my window and watched as the red tail lights of the jeep faded into the darkness. I put my hand against the cold window and said, “I will see you soon my friend.” Somehow, in my heart, I knew I would probably need to find a new attorney.
Later that night Beth boarded a plane at Teterboro Airport outside of New York City on the New Jersey side and the pilot, an aging useless actor named John Travolta came back into the passenger compartment, which only contained Beth and Billy Bob Johnson, who was Travoltas long term secret gay lover. Travolta kissed Johnson fully on the lips and Beth whispered to herself, “get a room.”
“What you sayin?” The closeted gay former actor said.
“Nothing, I’m kind of in a hurry, I need to parachute into Baghdad as soon as possible.”
“I got it Beth, but really, the only time I’m allowed to show affection to my gay lover is on this plane, so cut me some slack, ok?”
“How about you two go at it on your way home from Iraq?”
“Now that’s a good idea. We can do that, right Billy Bob?”
Billy Bob nodded and Travolta traipsed back to the cockpit. The planes engines rumbled to life and soon enough they were in the air and headed to Iraqi airspace.
During the long flight super gay Billy Bob Johnson made some delicious chocolate chip cookies which Beth enjoyed. He also told her some bawdy stories of old Hollywood, when he and Travolta used to have wild times with the likes to Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffin, Rowdy Randy Piper, Ryan Seacrest, Billy Bob Thornton, Robin Williams, oh the list seemed endless and Beth was tired. She slept. That is, until Billy Bob woke her and said they were approaching the jump site.
Beth sprung to action. She grabbed the bag of money, which she had also loaded with the nude photos of an aging and not so voluptuous Kim Kardashian. Billy Bob gave her a choice of two parachutes and Beth looked at him like, what’s the difference? Billy Bob explained that there really was no difference, they just happened to have two parachutes available.
That may have been the big mistake right there. See, over the years, Billy Bob had grown tired of the closet John Travolta had forced him to live in and every now and then he had hoped to live a real life, one not confined to secrets and lies. He wanted to be out to his friends, his family and the editors of People Magazine. As long as Travolta insisted on living a Scientology imposed lie, so would he. Every now and then Billy Bob would fill a parachute case with something un-parachute like, say a game of Clue, or mashed potatoes, and last time, an anvil and he would just leave it at that, thinking if the parachute was needed and his long time secret lover used it and fell to his death, so be it.
Instead, in the speed of the moment, when it was time for Beth to make that jump into the wilds of Baghdad, she grabbed the parachute, ran to the open door clutching her bag of money and nude Kim Kardashian photos and jumped because the only thing she really wanted to do was save the life of her long time lover, Momma Kitty.
Instead, an anvil laden parachute bag dragged Beth hurtling into the Euphrates River at a speed that would certainly have killed her on impact, and if the high speed impact was not certain death, then sinking into the scum filled river and drowning most certainly was. Then again, if a miracle occurred and Beth was able to survive falling at high speed, landing in a polluted and toxic river and sinking to unknown depths and she was able to make her way up to the surface, she most certainly would have been eaten by what remained of Saddam Husseins trained alligator attack force. Either way, Beth is dead.
Interesting factoid, the high speed decent caused the case containing the cash and photos to break open, so all morning in Baghdad people have been finding American 100 dollar bills and these disgusting nude images of aging and out of shape Kim Kardashian. Hospitals around the region have been treating people for a variety of eye strain and stomach disorders associated with accidentally viewing the Kardashian images. Completely understandable.
As I write this I look up and sitting on my office couch is none other than a Miss Momma Kitty, who was never in Baghdad, but was actually taking part in an elaborate April Fools day prank on her long time lover. Beth may be dead, but in her death we all got a good laugh out of it, so in that respect, she did not die in vain.
A memory for Beth
I was napping on the floor with my lesbian dog this afternoon and let me stop right there. It seems like whenever I mention my lesbian dog, someone will email me and say I should stop picking on lesbians. I never respond to those sorts of inflammatory emails, but let me just say this about that, my dog is a proud out lesbian and I have no problem with that. She gets mail addressed to Lesbian Dog, so give me a break.
As my lesbian dog and I were napping on the floor we heard some keys at the front door and neither of us had realized how long we had been napping and my youngest daughter was home from school. To me, this is really not that big of a deal, but to my lesbian dog you may have just called and told her she won the Nobel Peace Prize, because she literally lost her shit once she heard the jingling of the keys.
She was up in an instant, running for the door, back to me, as I began to sit up on the floor in the living room. Then she would spring back to the front door, push her nose against the window and run back to me in an instant. When the door opened my lesbian dog was all over my daughter who had trouble setting her backpack down because of the wildly acrobatic movements of the exuberant and out of control dog. Her dog spine was twisting in a series of yoga-type movements that I will only be able to do when the mobsters are stuffing my lifeless body into some bag before throwing me into a body of water somewhere.
I was now up and standing a few feet away and I mentioned to my daughter that the dog seems to think she was never going to return and my daughter looked at me with those dead eyes that only a teenage daughter can turn on a father and she said flatly, “maybe the dog loves me and is happy to see me.”
“Ouch,” I thought.
In an instant I was jumping up and down, running up to her and then far away, screaming and yelping and excited out of my mind just to see her. I ran back and my lesbian dog jumped in excitement too, she was in on my game, we were both overcome with incredible excitement to be in the presence of the return of my youngest daughter, it was, literally, a gift from the gods. I jumped, screamed out in excitement, danced around and ran into the dining room, overcome with pure adrenaline, my dog followed, turned on a dime and ran back to my daughter, I followed and when the dog jumped with glee because she saw my daughter, I did exactly the same thing, barely able to get the words out, “we are so incredibly excited to see you, when you left for school this morning, we weren’t sure you’d be coming back and now you’re here and it’s so great and we are so incredibly excited to see you…” all the while as I was spitting those words out my dog and I were jumping and dancing and terribly excited. Me and the lesbian dog could not stop running from one side of the kitchen to the next, jumping and turning and running into the dining room and sprinting back, just to let my youngest daughter know, we missed her so very much.
Then I had to stop because I thought I was in decent shape until I tried to do the welcome home ritual of my lesbian dog and I realized that even though she has put on some winter weight, she could be teaching some serious aerobics class, because my chest was throbbing and I could hardly take a breath. I leaned down and gave my lesbian dog a hug and she too was breathing heavily, but she looked at me and I looked at her and we both kind of held that look for a second, a look that said we had both accomplished something a little bit amazing, that welcome home ceremony. Well, amazing for a dog. I mean, come on it was really just random jumping and running, which for a dog is apparently a pretty big deal.
As my lesbian dog and I were napping on the floor we heard some keys at the front door and neither of us had realized how long we had been napping and my youngest daughter was home from school. To me, this is really not that big of a deal, but to my lesbian dog you may have just called and told her she won the Nobel Peace Prize, because she literally lost her shit once she heard the jingling of the keys.
She was up in an instant, running for the door, back to me, as I began to sit up on the floor in the living room. Then she would spring back to the front door, push her nose against the window and run back to me in an instant. When the door opened my lesbian dog was all over my daughter who had trouble setting her backpack down because of the wildly acrobatic movements of the exuberant and out of control dog. Her dog spine was twisting in a series of yoga-type movements that I will only be able to do when the mobsters are stuffing my lifeless body into some bag before throwing me into a body of water somewhere.
I was now up and standing a few feet away and I mentioned to my daughter that the dog seems to think she was never going to return and my daughter looked at me with those dead eyes that only a teenage daughter can turn on a father and she said flatly, “maybe the dog loves me and is happy to see me.”
“Ouch,” I thought.
In an instant I was jumping up and down, running up to her and then far away, screaming and yelping and excited out of my mind just to see her. I ran back and my lesbian dog jumped in excitement too, she was in on my game, we were both overcome with incredible excitement to be in the presence of the return of my youngest daughter, it was, literally, a gift from the gods. I jumped, screamed out in excitement, danced around and ran into the dining room, overcome with pure adrenaline, my dog followed, turned on a dime and ran back to my daughter, I followed and when the dog jumped with glee because she saw my daughter, I did exactly the same thing, barely able to get the words out, “we are so incredibly excited to see you, when you left for school this morning, we weren’t sure you’d be coming back and now you’re here and it’s so great and we are so incredibly excited to see you…” all the while as I was spitting those words out my dog and I were jumping and dancing and terribly excited. Me and the lesbian dog could not stop running from one side of the kitchen to the next, jumping and turning and running into the dining room and sprinting back, just to let my youngest daughter know, we missed her so very much.
Then I had to stop because I thought I was in decent shape until I tried to do the welcome home ritual of my lesbian dog and I realized that even though she has put on some winter weight, she could be teaching some serious aerobics class, because my chest was throbbing and I could hardly take a breath. I leaned down and gave my lesbian dog a hug and she too was breathing heavily, but she looked at me and I looked at her and we both kind of held that look for a second, a look that said we had both accomplished something a little bit amazing, that welcome home ceremony. Well, amazing for a dog. I mean, come on it was really just random jumping and running, which for a dog is apparently a pretty big deal.
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