So, obviously, now that I have returned my shitty rental car (and apartment keys along with, but don�t get me started again), I have reverted back to my bipedal transportation to and from work. For those of you who didn�t take Latin, and are now confused and thinking I�m riding a bike to work, �bipedal� actually has to do with the feet. You know, from the root words �bi� -- as in �curious about sex with both genders� -- and �ped� -- as in �pedophilia�. Wow, that really went somewhere other than it was intended to go. Strike it from the record.
Anyway, I�ve been walking to work again. This hasn�t been awful -- nor did I expect it to be, really -- just a bit inconvenient. It�s almost pleasant walking in the morning, I suppose, if you like fresh air and all that bullshit. What I don�t like, and pay attention here, kiddies, is the fact that some people just don�t know how to control their freaking animals.
See, there�s this one house I have to go by every single morning on my way to the office, and they�ve got this big, fucked-up, Frankenstein dog with some kind of serious anger management issues that they let just romp around in the front yard, at eight o�clock in the fucking morning! Now, does this seem normal to you? Fucking Cerberus is playing Commandant in the yard, right next to the sidewalk where little baby children and other such appetizers might happen to be walking at any given moment!
And every time I pass by, that little asshole comes charging and snarling up to the gate, barking his big, greasy head off and licking foam from his evil, dog lips and staring hungrily at my femur. I don�t need this at eight o�clock in the morning. Especially not from him. You know, it really throws off the equilibrium for your whole day when it all starts out with some psychotic, deranged, head case mongrel with �roid rage determined to use your neck for a squeaky toy.
I might also add that this animal -- which looks like the unholy spawn of a Doberman Pinscher and a wheat thresher -- seems to reside in one of those houses where they keep all their belongings in the front yard. I don�t quite understand the philosophy behind this. I mean, what if it rains? I know this is southern California, but still. It�s all just out there; clothes, toys, a washing machine�that seems counterintuitive to me. I would want the washing machine inside, closer to, say, an outlet. Of course, since the clothes are out there and the clothesline as well, I guess there�s a certain practicality to it.
Anyway, I�m a little sick of getting pseudo-attacked by this little pissant jerk-off mutt who never seems to fucking recognize me from one morning to the next, or realize that I�m not trying to jump the fence and steal the chewed-up, slobbery, hokey-ass Sit �n Spin he�s been using for a toilet. I mean, I like dogs, generally, but this thing needs therapy.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: Evil/Killer Stuff And: what does dubya mean I�m Watching: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy And Wondering: How I�m going to act straight enough to lure Kyan into my home. Mmm�Kyan.