Friday, August 6, 2010

Parental wants to marry Cesar Milan.

Just wanted to put that out there. And oh my holy Jesus H. Christ mother of God and cheese cracker donuts I think I just threw up in my nose a little because this show about contortionists or something on NatGeo is showing 9 year old infants that can bend their back like on the Exorcism and it's terrifyingly nasty. I probably misspelled half of that ramble-on sentence.

Anyhoosers, I started this post because I was making a sandwich for myself and FoodBuddy and I turned the TV on because I can't handle silence unless I'm outside. Then, as I was waiting for the oven to preheat because I like my cheesy sammiches toasty, I began to do some wall-push-ups because I had a donut earlier and about a handful of Werther's hard candies (and I'm not done for the day). While working out and pumping my arms for the impending zombie apocalypse, I noticed that Dog Whisperer was on.

When we first got our dogs (now only 2 poodles because I threw the chihuahua out the window in a fit of rage made a plan with the dear ones to give the chihuahua to the crazy lady who lives below us) we had no idea what to do with them because the first, and oldest, one is an ex-hoarder dog and he's tiny. He was originally for me, but we had this mutual hatred going on - I would try to pick him up, he'd sqiummer under the couch, I'd hiss and claw at him while he did the same - so we watched Cesar Milan all the time. Then, one day when we left him with our... friend person, I guess, he escaped from the yard and we didn't find him for a few days. Then he showed up on someone's dorrstep and we retrieved him, torn between punching him in the face and hugging him until he sings. He had an epiphany while gone, probably as a large squirrel was hunting and chasing him down. So when we met again, we were closer. Then I watched It's Me or The Dog and figured out how to make him my BFFL. It worked.

Then we got our next retard poodle, Oslow. *laughs at how name looks on a computer* He's the best, really. He's four or five and sort of short and has an underbite. Plus, like me, he loves to mess with your head. He gets other dogs to chase him and trip all over themselves and it's hilarious to see his face when he runs. So when he would act like a little douche bag, we looked to Cesar for help, which didn't really help in my opinion, but hey. At least we have vanilla-scented spray for his toys that apparently makes him go crazy. I just think it smells like ice cream and sugar cones.


I don't think there was a point to this post, much like many of my others. I'm thinking about writing more reasons why zombies are waiting in the seventh circle of Hades and also in the shadows behind the dumpsters at night, when you are at your most vulnerable and thinkn you're safe because it's nighttime and dark and who would be stupid enough to come out here at night? Zombies, idiot. Zombies are waiting to maul you and make you their man-wich. (Thanks, Zombieland and Woody Harrelson)

And I'm going to write about why you shouldn't have kids. Because you really shouldn't unless you're prepared to mop up gallons of pee, get poop from another human being on your hand, get puked on, never have any time to yourself everevereverevereverevereverever for the rest of your life, ever, and chase after them in a Target while a**hole clerks biotch women other stupid little kids innocent bystanders look on in horror because they're stupid and tie their kids to poles and leashes and make other people handle them. [wistful sigh]

Whatever. If you were wondering if I'm still funny, don't worry. I am. Someday *looks up and to the left, gazing into the future* I'll be famous, but until then I'm gonna write about zombies and stupid dogs and psychopathic bugs that are trying to kill me. So make me famous and I'll bring out the good stuff.

PS. I have had to help raise my sister since she was born, so don't think I haven't had to wipe up more pee than a horse can produce and don't doubt the fact that I will do anything to get out of going to the store with children because they like to embarrass me and make me chase them and dive to the ground only to find that everyone is staring and oh my god I have to stop.

PPS. I don't like other people's kids. I'm sorry, I really am, and I don't mean to offend you, but I just don't like your kids. Even as a kid myself, half of the time I didn't like other kids. People younger than me that aren't blood relatives should just stay away from me or I might instinctively trip them or something. Sorry. You can't change me, though, so heed my orders.

PPPS. Now I have that song from Mulan stuck in my head. I'll add it to the playlist down at the bottom of this blog and then you can hear it and have it stuck in your head for the next seven and a half months. Ain't life sweet?

PPPPS. *sigh, drags hand down the side of face* I don't know how to spell my grandfather's name. I, I try, I do, but I just can't figure it out because his stupid overly-creative parents (who are now dead, so Jesus probably wants to pimp-slap me for making fun of dead people) spelled it in some ridiculous Latin-Greek-Duck form or something and so no one can spell it except for Parental and him. I'll just call him Pirate from now on because he only has one leg, mkay? That works for me.

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