So, let me see if I’ve got this straight, then. First, the M&M people took the colors away. And they made some commercials about that, and we all agreed they were mildly cute. Fine.
And now, just a few short weeks later, they bring back all the M&M colors, and have new commercials to congratulate themselves on restoring the status quo? And we’re supposed to make with the huzzahs and the ‘much rejoicing’ again, for no reason except that these candymongers want to jerk our technicolors around? Well, I say screw them. Yes, screw them, and the nougat centers they rode in on. I’m so not impressed.
Hell, if it weren’t for the black and white commercials during the football season, I would’ve missed the whole monochromatic muckabout entirely. You see, our vending machine at work appears to be refilled once every presidential administration or three, so there are plenty of fun-colored M’s in there right now. Hell, there’s probably some bags in there with the original red dye they used to use; you know, the kind that caused spontaneous armpit leakage and genital throbbing in laboratory mice? That was after years of kids like me popping the things like little scarlet Flintstone vitamins, of course. I wonder if that has anything to do with my armpit throbbing, or the… um… the other thing. Yeah. Never mind. Nobody wants to hear about that.
Anyway, the machine never had any of those damned black and white dealies. I don’t know when they’ll show up, frankly, if ever. We have Fritos in there that could register to vote. Most of the animal crackers have died of old age already; now there are just bags of rotting cracker corpses sitting there, waiting for some poor hungry sod to come along and give them a decent burial. Poor little fake sugary animals. Where’s the ASPCA when you really need ’em, huh?
In a bit of almost completely unrelated news, my dog peed on the couch tonight.
(Okay, you can link through the ASPCA thing, I guess, since we rescued her from a shelter, but it’s really not much of a seque, frankly. She’s never even eaten an M&M, or so much as seen our candy machine at work. I doubt she’s even been in the office building. She doesn’t get out much. Lazy couch-pissing bitch.)
Anyway, it’s not so much that the dog copped a whiz on the cizzouch. Or ‘soiled the sofa’, if you prefer. Or ‘diddled on the divan’, if that’s the way your mind works. (Sicko.) But it’s not any of that, really — it’s just that… well… yeah, okay, it is that, dammit. The dog pissed on the couch! What the hell else could it be? Ungrateful little hairy-assed hag.
See, this is the dog that we took in, right out of the shelter, a few years ago. We brought her into our home, and we feed her, and water her, and give her nice soft blankets to sleep on. We pat her on the head when she meets us at the door, and we rub her tummy when she rolls over and looks pitiful. Well, unless she’s way the hell across the room; the bitch should know where to roll over if she wants her teats massaged, right?
(Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s nasty. Just think of it as one of those ‘Count the number of things wrong with this sentence‘ games. Me, I counted six. Of course, your level of moral outrage may vary.)
Anyway, the dog is just damned lucky that my wife found the evidence tonight. If it’d been me, the dog might be chained to the roof now, or tied down in the back yard, or stuffed in the oven. (Oh, don’t give me that look — I wouldn’t turn it on, dammit. I’m not a monster. Nor hungry. Right now, anyway.) Of course, it’s understandable that I would be harder on the pooch for this little transgression — it was my seat that she emptied her bladder on. Lousy fricking mutt’s got four cushions she could have sat on and let loose, and she just had to hop onto mine. Piss-spritzing fleabag, anyway.
Okay, that’s probably just about enough of that. It’s the last straw in convincing me to find a way to keep the dog off the damned furniture, but I still don’t quite know how I’m going to manage it. I’ve thought of ‘scat mats’, or spraying repellent of some kind on the couches. I’ve even considered rubbing my naked body all over the cushions, to mark them as my own. Or, really, just to pass an otherwise boring Saturday afternoon. Whatever — it’s all good.
But in the end, I’m not sure it would repel the dog. My wife would probably sit in the floor for a few weeks, but the dog seems to dig all sorts of funky smells and such. She might actually end up on the couch more. Which I don’t mind, frankly, as long as she keeps all her juices sealed up in their various pouches. But once she starts leaking on the cushions — and more specifically, my spot — then steps are going to be taken. Look, if I held my grandma to that rule, then the dog’s gotta follow it, too. I’d hate to think that I rubbed my naked ass all over grammy’s sofas for nothing. It’s a principle, dammit!Permalink | 5 Comments