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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I know that some of you out there aren’t dog owners.
Now, I’m not putting you on trial or anything here. Maybe you’ve got a reason for not being a ‘pooch pal’. Maybe you’re allergic to fur, or drool, or things that can — and do, almost constantly — lick their own asses.
Or maybe you’re a ‘cat person’. I won’t hold that against you.
(I won’t count on you for anything important, mind you, since you’ve already shown signs of mental instability by preferring felines to canines. But I won’t hold it against you, either. Much.)
Anyway, the point is, maybe there’s no slobbering, tail-wagging nincompoop in your life right now.
(Or, if you’re like Ben Affleck, maybe there is, but it’s not a dog. In which case, you have way more problems than I can help you with. I suggest you start drinking immediately, and don’t stop until you can’t remember who you are or where you live. It’s not a permanent cure, but it’ll work in an emergency. And if you’ve just realized you’re ‘like Ben Affleck’, then it’s a friggin’ emergency! Trust me on this one. Seek help.)
Okay, circling back to the point, I’m guessing there are a few of you who don’t own dogs. You may, therefore, be unaware of the various products that are available for our prized pooches to play with. Or eat, or chew on, or chase around the house. Which is a shame, frankly. And so, I’m here today to erase your ignorance in this area, and to give you just a few of the many highlights of the bits and baubles currently available on the market for our furry, slobbery friends (not named Tom Arnold… though I hear he does enjoy a mid-afternoon Snausage snack from time to time).
And so, without further blather, I bring you a partial list of Weird Shit You Could Buy for Your Dog. You know, if you had a dog. And you were clinically insane. ‘Cause I can’t imagine who else would buy this goofball crap. Anyway, enjoy.
First up, there’s ‘Dog Apparel‘. Clothes for the always-naked set. Coats for the terminally furry. And I’m not talking about big hairy Italian guys, either. I mean real dogs, and real coats. Have a look, if you don’t believe me. We’ve even got one of these contraptions ourselves. It’s like a little fuzzy sausage casing that velcros around our dog; she sticks her front feet in the ‘sleeves’, and then it just wraps around her. It’s snug. It’s warm. It’s cozy.
And it makes her look like a frigging moron. Seriously, she won’t even go outside in the damned thing.
‘No, that’s all right,’ she tells me. ‘I think I’ll just shit right here on the carpet and take the heat for that. It’s still better than putting on that stupid pooch vest. Really, I’ve made my choice, thanks so much.‘
Of course, it gets even worse. I can only speak for the vest from personal experience, but there are plenty of more ridiculous things out there. Like this hat, and this ‘charming’ ensemble, and this… this… what the fuck is this, anyway? Who comes up with this shit? Does Catbert work for these companies, or what?
Anyway, on to the next sin against nature. Namely, ‘Food-Shaped Toys‘. Like these sqeuaky hot dogs, or these veggie toys.
(Great, now the porn phreak crowd will be all up in my bidness again, because I’ve got a reference to ‘veggie toys’ on my site. Fantastic. At least I didn’t mention ‘horny lesbians’ or ‘barely legal teasers’ anywhere near — oh. Poop.)
So, is it really a good idea to teach your dog to attack and glom onto these toys that look like food? I’m thinking not. Now, maybe I’m just being difficult, or overly cautious. Or maybe — just maybe — I own a pit bull, and I’d like to be able to hold a freaking hot dog in my hand without having to worry about the dog chomping my damned fingers in half trying to make the weiner go ‘squeaky squeaky‘.
(Which is one damned fine sexual euphemism, if I do say so myself. And I do. I’ll have to remember that one…)
What else have we got? Well, let’s see. There’s always the ‘Dog Pudding‘. That’s right, dog pudding. Pud-ding. Frozen pudding. Bill Cosby would be all moist and puckery if he knew about this.
As for me, though, I’m not so excited. Why? Well, for one, this just teeters on the edge of letting the dog eat better than I do. Seriously, if I’m nuking my frozen burritos, or popping in a TV dinner, how am I going to feel if I feed the dog a ‘healthy and delicious pudding cup’? There’s a pecking order, dammit, and I’m on top! Me! Or… um, well, really, my wife, I suppose. But I’m above the dog; that much, I’m sure of. So she’s not gonna out-eat me in my own home. No way. Peck, peck, peck, bitch. Peck.
Plus, think about where this shit would be kept. In the freezer, or perhaps the refrigerator. Now, my wife keeps pudding and yogurt of her own in there sometimes, and you can bet your ass that the first time she reaches in there for a tasty dessert and gets one of these horse-sicle cups, there would be hell to pay. And then it would be my ass. So no thanks to the ‘Dog-E-Licious’ pudding folks. I think I’ll pass.
Which brings me to my final entry in this carnival of creepy pet paraphenalia. That would be the ‘Bully Stick‘. Really, this is good. You’ll be glad you stuck around till the end.
So, as you may know, the dog chew-toy industry folks like to use every part of the cow, or horse, or pig when making treats for our best furry friends. And so it’s quite possible — easy, even — to find items like smoked cow hooves, puffed pork snouts, beef knuckles, and pig ears.
None of these, though, come close to the ‘Ewwww‘ factor of the ‘bully sticks’, or ‘bullies’. For you see — and as you may have guessed by now — real, genuine bully sticks are all-natural, non-synthetic, unadulterated bull penises, lopped off and lovingly prepared for your dog to chew. Really, I’m not kidding. You can look it up.
So what’s wrong with bringing a few cow dicks into your home for your puppy to play with? Well, let me count the ways.
First, there’s the sheer grossness of it all. This is a bull dong, for heavens’ sake! If I wanted a big ugly wang rubbed all over my carpets and floors and up against my couches, I’d do it myself, all right? I certainly don’t need a decapitated ‘bullywhacker’ lying in the middle of the living room floor for me to look at, and kick around, and accidentally step on with my bare feet. Ew, dammit — ewww!
Secondly, what the hell do you tell your friends and neighbors when they come over?
Them: Hey there — I see Fido’s got a new toy. What is that, rawhide?
You: Um… no. Not exactly.
Them: Oh. Plastic, then, maybe? It looks pretty hard.
You: Uh, unh-uh, it’s not plastic.
Them: Weird. Well, what is it? Can I have a look?
You: Erk — um, no. No — dude, don’t pick that up. It’s —
Them: Wow, it’s pretty heavy. This seems oddly familiar somehow…
You: Dude, just put it down, okay?
Them: Hey, don’t worry; I won’t break it. Hey, this smells pretty good. Has this been smoked?
You: Uh… well, I don’t really, um, know. My guess would be no, but who knows what happens out there?
Them: Wow, it’s really big, too. Man, I bet the dog loves this baby. This must taste fantastic!
You: Dude…I, uh… I’m not sure we should be friends any more, all right? Maybe you should just leave now.
Them: Wha?
You: Just… just drop the dick and walk away, man. Just walk away.
You can see the potential for unnecessary ickiness. But that’s not all. Think about what you’re doing with the thing. You’re feeding it to your dog. You’re asking your dog to consume another animal’s willy. Talk about cruelty to animals — that pretty much qualifies as a two-for-one special, if you ask me. Plus — assuming your dog is actually faithful (and dopey) enough to go along with it, now your best bud is going to be running around your house with dickbreath. Who wants that when they’re getting a big sloppy wet smooch from the pooch? It’s bad enough they lick their own ass; must we really add another creature’s reproductive organs to the mix, too?
Besides, where’s the guarantee that the neighbors will know whose trouser treasure it is on the dog’s breath, eh? You could get some very funny looks from the family down the street if they smell somebody’s Mr. Happy when the dog pants in their face, you know. Sure, you know the truth, but how discriminating are your friends’ noses, to tease apart the aroma of bull pecker from neighbor crotch? Chances are, those folks haven’t had enough experience with either — let alone both — to make the distinction.
(Unless you live in the deep South, or certain parts of San Francisco, in which case, your neighbors might well be experts. Friggin’ connoisseurs, even.)
Finally, if you’re of the male persuasion, there’s the ego factor. It’s always nice to be the, er, ‘longest golf club in the bag’, if you know what I mean. Especially in your own home. And some ot these bastards are pretty friggin’ big. No way you want to be staring down the barrel of one of those as you’re sitting down to eat dinner. Hell, I didn’t even adopt a male dog — you know, just in case — do you really think I want to have to compete with the dog’s damned chew toy? Or that I want the dog to think that those are fair game for chewing in the first place? *gulp* No way. I’ll stick to the pork snouts and cow feet, thanks. Much safer.
So now you see the ridiculous stuff I have to walk past when I’m picking up a bag of kibble for the pooch. Frightening, isn’t it? Maybe I should have just adopted the hedgehog at the pet store instead. Hmmm.
Permalink | 4 CommentsHey, all — sorry for a short post tonight, but I’ve had a busy day. Golf this morning, then back just in time for the Red Sox game (which they lost, dammit, to Roger and the damned Yankees), and then hanging out with some friends watching sports, drinking beer, and eating. The last folks left our house just a little while ago.
And just to warn you — unfortunately (for blogging purposes), something similar may this way come tomorrow. The current plan includes three softball games, then dinner and debauchery before and during the next Red Sox game. I may have a few minutes here and there to say hello, but the pickin’s may be a little thin for the next day or so. Don’t hate me because I’m busy. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. In the meantime, go trawl around the archives for shit you haven’t read, or have forgotten about. That shit is ‘comedy bronze’, I tell you — comedy bronze.
For now, I’d just like to mention what I did last night. For you see, last night, I (finally) saw the Matrix: Reloaded movie. And I dug it. A lot. Charlie saw the film, and he saw that the film was good. Praise Hollywood.
(Yes, I realize that I’m getting into the game a bit tardily here. And while that’s better than getting into the game ‘turdily’, it still isn’t good.
See, I live much of my life a few months — or more — behind. I don’t see many movies in their first run, and generally don’t get caught up in the hype of every new show, movie, game, pop icon, or porn star that comes along. Most of the time, this is a pretty good thing, since said ‘new sensation’ turns out to be pablum, or drivel. Or both. ‘Pablel’. Or ‘drivum’. Whatever.
But once in a while, something comes along that’s worth the effort, and it takes me a bit longer to jump on the bandwagon and get my ass in gear to check it out. This even happens when my antennae are um, pricked up, so to speak. Ahem.
Seriously, even when I’m expecting and anticipating some new thing or other, I still often miss the boat. I got into the original Matrix late, for instance, but I really liked it. I’m a big science fiction fan, and it was right up my alley. I’ve watched it several times since on movie channels, and have even become a Propellerheads fan because of the ‘lobby scene’ music they contributed to the soundtrack. Really, I’m a fan. Scout’s honor.
But I still waited months and months to bother seeing ‘Reloaded‘. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I’m too busy. (Yeah, right.) Maybe I’ve got better things to do. (If you count picking lint from my navel as ‘better’.) Maybe I just forget, or don’t care enough, or I’m just a moron.
(Houston, I think we’re getting warmer…)
In any case, I saw the damned movie six months after everyone else, okay? So don’t fret — I’m not going to bother you with a plot synopsis or a review of the thing. I just saw it, that’s all. Don’t be so cynical, all right? That’s my job.)
So, the cool thing is that I saw the movie at our local handy-dandy IMAX theater. And for my money, the only way to see an action flick like this one is on IMAX. Or ‘in IMAX’, or ‘at IMAX’, or whatever. I don’t know what the damned acronym stands for, so I don’t know which is appropriate. Wherefore art thou, ‘Conjunction Junction’? Or ‘Prepositionary Missionary’, or whichever gimmicky part-of-speech ditty I’m supposed to call upon in this situation.
(Yeah, I wasn’t an English major, all right? Give me a freakin’ break here.)
Anyway, IMAX is the way to go. After all, you can’t spell ‘THE MATRIX’ without ‘IMAX’, right?
(Well, that and ‘RHETT’, I suppose, but we didn’t have anyone named ‘Rhett’ with us last night. So maybe we didn’t get the full experience, after all. Perhaps we should have planned ahead. Eh.)
But IMAX Matrix was cool, man. Everything was magnified a hundred-fold and thrust at us on a towering screen. We saw it all — the pounding music, the action, the explosions, the fights… the remnants of every pimple Lawrence Fishburne has ever had — it was all there, fifty feet tall and loud as fuck.Not for the faint of heart, perhaps, but I reveled in it. The freeway scenes alone were worth the price of admission, plus popcorn and a drink. What a bargain!
But like I promised, I won’t burden you with a slew of details. If you care about seeing this movie, then you’ll have seen it by now, and probably months ago. If not — well, you’re probably fed up with this post already, and thinking about what to do next.
(Once again, I respectfully suggest browsing the archives — c’mon, you know you want to.)
As a matter of fact, I think I’ll let all of you nice readers off the hook now, and hit the sack myself.
(Thereby ending this post, of course. Contrary to popular theory, I don’t write this shit in my sleep, half-witted stream-of-consciousness style. Really, that hurts, people. Have a heart.)
But I hope to be here tomorrow for another installment. And maybe I’ll think of something to do on Monday to make it up to you. Something creative and pointless and unnecessarily complex, of course, in keeping with the rest of the shit around here. No, really, it’ll be fun. Oh, do stop by, won’t you?
For now, though, I need my beauty sleep. (To the tune of a couple of years’ worth, if I was really using it to become ‘pretty’, but that’s another matter.) Seriously, I need my shuteye. Those softball games of mine start at ten am tomorrow, and those errors at third base aren’t just going to commit themselves, you know. I’ve got to be there, and so I’ll bid you adieu. We’ll continue this discussion — or, more likely, two or three other discussions, just as rambling and incoherent as this one — tomorrow. G’night!
Permalink | No CommentsFuck da po-lice.
(I say that fairly regularly, but I suppose I should explain. Most of you don’t know me well, and I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. Or even the right idea, but one I’m trying to hide. Really, it’s best if you just have no ideas whatsoever, okay? That way there can’t be any misunderstandings, plus there’ll be more ideas left over for me. And I need all the ideas my little itty bitty brain can handle.)
Anyway, let me explain. Usually when I say, ‘Fuck da po-lice‘, I don’t mean it literally.
(Well, okay, actually I never mean it entirely literally, of course. Nobody means it literally — no one’s going around suggesting that we ‘wax flagpoles’ with our local law enforcement officers. Nobody around here, anyway. Most cops around Boston are big burly Irish guys, or butchy hulking mullet chicks. So there’s really not much public outcry to show these folks the sweaty love. Maybe in your town, but not here. Just so we’re clear on that.)
What I mean to say, though, is that I don’t mean ‘Fuck da po-lice‘ the way that most people might mean it. Really. I’ve got no beef with cops, and they don’t seem to have any particular problem with me, either. We generally stay out of each others’ way, and I keep my nose more or less clean, in the legal sense. So I’m not generally coming down on the boys and girls in blue, like you might think.
No, usually I use ‘Fuck da po-lice‘ in one of two situations. I say it to mean either:
So, just as a for-instance, say that the boss tells me I’ve got to stay late. There’s ‘da man’ again. So, under my breath, ‘Aw, man, fuck da po-lice‘.
Or say I’m on a two-lane highway behind some swervy old bluehair bitch, and I’m late (as usual) to get somewhere across town. I’m not supposed to be passing with a double yellow line, but if the coast is clear, I might just say, ‘Shit, man, fuck da po-lice‘ and go for it.
So. I hope that’s clear. Hopefully, you can see that I don’t generally go around really bashing the police, or bitching about them. These folks do a good, tough, brave job, and I have a healthy amount of respect for each and every one of them. Especially the ones with guns. I respect anyone with a loaded gun, at least to their face. It’s that whole ‘survival instinct’ thing.
Anyway, all of that said, I’d just like to repeat:
‘Fuck da po-lice! And I mean ‘da po-lice’.’
Not all da po-lice… ahem, ‘the police’, that is. Just the Boston metro traffic police. The car cops. The meter maids. The blood-sucking clock-watching anal dickheads who’ve screwed me not once, but twice in the past week. Let me tell you about my parking experiences over the last several days. Hell, it even starts out pretty good. But it’s all downhill into the toilet from there. Watch and see —
Last Wednesday, just before nine-thirty am: I agreed to sit in on a meeting at my new job, even though I don’t technically start until this coming Tuesday. Fine. Parking around my new office is a bitch on steroids, so I circled the block a couple of times looking for a spot. Finally, I found a one-hour meter a block or so away, and took it. Now, I had no idea how long this meeting was supposed to last, or when the hell I’d get out of there. So I plopped two quarters in the slot, got my hour on the meter, and took my chances. I was pretty sure I might end up with a ticket, and that would be okay. I was taking a risk. I understand what can happen.
So, I come out of the building at eleven-thirty (just a shade over two hours later, if you’re keeping track of such things), and found… nothing. Well, not ‘nothing‘, of course; my car was there. But no tickets, or notes, or warnings. I walked the tightrope and survived. A full hour-plus of unprotected time, free of charge. Yeah, muthafuckahs! I got away with one!
Little did I know my luck was about to spoil. Or curdle, or get moldy, or whatever the fuck luck does when it goes bad. How the hell should I know; I don’t just sit around all day watching luck, fer Chrissakes!
This Wednesday, at nine-thirty: Like a dumbass, I agreed to come back for the same group meeting, even though I still wasn’t ‘official’ yet.
(So I’m technically unemployed, and getting up at eight o’clock to make some meeting. I didn’t do that shit back when I had a job… though I suppose I will from now on. Bitches!)
Anyway, I showed up right on time, if not a couple of minutes late. So I threw two more quarters in a one-hour meter, and hoped for the best. I wasn’t terribly thrilled about poking Fate in the eye over and over again like that, but I didn’t have a lot of choice. I said I’d go to the meeting, and that was the only meter I could find. Life is hard, right?
So, you can imagine my relief when this meeting let out at a reasonable time.
(Really, go ahead, imagine it. Here, I’ll help you — it was somewhere between the relief of remembering that you actually did turn the stove off before you left the house and the relief of seeing a negative result on a pregnancy test. It’s in that range.)
And perhaps you can also imagine my apoplectic fury (If not, you may need to look up ‘apoplectic’. It’s okay; this is how we learn.) when I reached the car and noticed a parking ticket, with a timestamp of exactly ten-thirty. The fuckin’ guy must have been leaning against my damned car writing the thing just as I was leaving the office. Fucknuggets! Fifteen dollars down the tubes because Officer Dingleprick was — presumably — standing at my meter as it wound down, counting off the final seconds like it was New Year’s Fuckin’ Eve. Asswipe.
But of course, that’s not the end of the saga. Oh, no — it gets better. Have a look…
Today, ten forty-five am: Another day, another meeting that I’m unofficially roped into. Which is fine — I’m eager to start, and I’ve got nothing to do at home but write and clean house and lose staring contests to the frigging dog.
(Doesn’t that bitch ever blink? I owe her like seventy-three Snausages now. Damn!)
So, I got there early this time (because eleven is actually a reasonable time to be awake and functional), and found a two-hour meter. Score! But I didn’t know how long this meeting was gonna last, either, so I decided to while away a few more minutes in the car before feeding the meter. I had a book with me, so I read a bit. Twitchily, of course. Nervously. Every six words, I whipped my head around like some fricking lemur on acid to make sure Mr. Slappy McHappyTicket wasn’t creeping up behind my bumper and writing me another damned citation. The seconds crept by, but no one busted me. I’m gonna have to go over those three pages all over again, dammit, because I can’t remember a stupid word I read, but at least I didn’t get a ticket. I fed my last three quarters — that’s important, kids; remember that — into the meter for an hour-and-a-half window, and went into the office.
And found — get this — that the meeting had been cancelled. It seems the woman who’d called it was out sick, and let everyone invited know that it wasn’t going to happen. (Except me, of course. I’m not ‘official’ yet, remember? Somewhere in all of this, I’m sure there’s some delicious irony, but I’m afraid I’m too busy choking on the bile to taste it properly. So sorry.) So now I’ve got an hour and twenty minutes on the meter, and no reason to be there. Just fricking peachy. Where was that shit on Wednesday, dammit?
Anyway, I scooted out of there, and decided to try picking up my new contact lenses, over in another part of town. I had made an afternoon appointment to get them — I thought I had an eleven o’clock meeting, you see — but if I could take care of it earlier, then I wouldn’t have to go back out. So I rambled over there, and cruised around, looking for a spot.
A block from the place, I found a two-hour spot and pulled in. Perfect. Plenty of time to either get in and out, or find out that I couldn’t move the appointment up. Either way, I’d just plop in a couple of hours’ worth of quarters and be on my way.
Except.
I ran out of quarters. My last three quarters were, at that very moment, merrily ticking time away in a meter across town, letting some jackoff park near my office for a free hour or more. Bullshit!
As luck would have it, though, I was parked right outside a convenience store. And I had three dollars in my pocket. Sweet! I’d just hop in, buy some water or something, and come back with the quarterage. No problem. So, I slid in, found a bottle of that pretentious Evian crap at a buck-oh-nine, and hustled my change outside to feed the meter.
That’s when I saw the fucking ticket on my windshield. And the meter ‘munch halfway down the block, casting her evil eye on more cars down there. ‘Oh no you didn’t‘, was all I could think. Bitch must have been right fucking behind me when I parked, and wrote the damned ticket in the thirty-eight seconds it took me to buy that stupid bottle of yuppie water and get back out. What, do these bastards have fucking spy cameras on me or something? How the hell do they do that?!
So, anyway, that’s my sad little bitchy story. I’m disgusted, and I’m forty-one dollars and nine cents poorer, and all I’ve got to show for it is three hours spent in meetings and a bottle of water I don’t want. (I didn’t even get to pick up my contacts, as the doctor didn’t like the fit.) Where’s the love, man?
And so, again I say, ‘Fuck da po-lice‘. And for once — just this once — I really mean it. Those traffic cops can suck my monkey and come back for seconds, man. I think I deserve at least that for forty bucks and change, don’t I? What? No?
‘Man, fuck da po-lice.’
Permalink | 1 CommentI was just trolling through the logs for the day, and found that someone got here by Googling for ‘wild and crazy shit‘. This site — or a page in the archives, at least, is #16 on the results list.
(The first is a not-safe-for-work ad for a horny chick in Texas. Go figure.)
But — but! — I am the only result if you lengthen the search to the more specific ‘bucketfuls of wild and crazy shit‘. And I think that’s pretty damned good, especially since I didn’t have to show my titties on the Internet like that crazy Texan nympho girl. Par-tay!
Permalink | No CommentsWell, this isn’t good.
I just used the last scrap of toilet paper in the whole house.
(Well, honestly, the last scrap and a couple of the next-to-last scraps, too. I don’t want you to think I just used a half a square and called my ass ‘clean’. I’m an optimist, but I’m a little better than that.)
Frankly, I wasn’t sure that there was enough left to, um, do the job I needed done. But luckily, there was just enough to use, without resorting to anything ‘creative’. Which is a relief. I don’t know how the hell I’d have explained that kind of stain on the shower curtain.
‘Well, gee, honey, I don’t know how the dog got it all the way up there. Maybe… um, maybe she stood on the sink? I dunno. Bad dog!‘
Anyway, the immediate crisis is over, but there’s still trouble brewing. I’m just about to leave the house to play volleyball, and I won’t be back for three hours. In the meantime, my wife will come home, and — who knows? — just might have the ‘urge to purge’, derriere-style. And as far as I know, she’s unaware of our current predicament. Hell, I didn’t know we were down to the last roll either, until I looked around for something to replace the empty with. But since I’m the one who took the last sheets, it’s gonna be my ass that’s in hot water over this.
(Well, in the literal sense, it might just be my wife’s. If she can’t find any suitable ass-paper substitute, she might just have to hop in the shower, and wash it all down the drain. I don’t even want to think about the tub ring that would leave. Ick. But it’s my ass that’s gonna get in trouble, that much is for sure.)
Maybe I can find something to put in the bathroom to help her before I leave. Some sort of emergency TP substitute. But what’s best? Kleenex? Too wispy. There’s always the chance that stuff will rip and tear, and you’ll end up with your bare fingers all up in your bidness. I don’t think I could do that to her.
(Plus, she might save it, and try to wipe it on me when I come home, just to teach me a lesson. She’s crafty like that.)
So what else? Paper towels? Maybe. I bet that Brawny guy wouldn’t look so fucking smug if he knew what I was thinking of doing with his precious towels. Still, those things could get awfully rough. It’s not quite like using sandpaper on your backside, but I imagine there’d be some chafing involved. Perhaps not something I want to burden my sweetie with. Especially since we all know who’d have to kiss that shit and make it better. I think I kiss my wife’s ass quite enough as it is, thank you very much.
(Just kidding, honey pie. Love you!)
Well, shit. Now I gotta go, and I’m no closer to a solution. What can I put in there? A notebook? Wrapping paper? A Post-It pad? I’m at a loss. Damn.
So, I guess I’m gonna go, and just let her wing it. Hopefully, she’ll see the problem before any unpleasantness happens. And now that I know, I’ll stop off on the way home and grab a couple of rolls. You know, a sort of peace offering, in case she ends up having to do something regrettable before I get back.
I just hope it doesn’t come to that. I actually like the shower curtain we have now. I’d hate to have to throw it out. Yuck.
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