My hillbilly neighbors brought home a hound of some sort over the weekend and what they didn't know when they bought it is that it is THE SADDEST DOG IN THE WORLD, and pretty much spends its whole lonely day baying at the ceiling which is, coincidentally, right under my bed. Now I'm not sure what kind of treaties we have in place with the dogs, but I'm pretty sure THAT is a direct violation of them and I now wish to set up an international tribunal to bring this dog to justice.
I was going to try and make him happy. Like, I really thought about ways that I could. My first thought was that maybe a funny greeting card would cheer him up, but then I remembered that he probably can't read so that was stupid, but then I thought I could dip the whole thing in gravy and then he would get a greeting card that WOULD make him happy. And then I started thinking of other things I could dip in gravy for him and the first thing I thought of was my neighbor and how this very sad dog would probably enjoy eating the very source of his woe and that there was a certain justice in it. But I'm no convicted murderer*, so that one was out. Then I thought he might enjoy a Pop Tart dipped in gravy. And then I thought I might enjoy one of those, except without the gravy. And then I had a Pop Tart. I know, right? That was a very unexpected turn of events. This blog is pretty much like the X-files all the time.
Next I thought about all these lousy, expired cat antidepressants I'm on and I wondered if maybe I might try and slip one of those to the dog, but I'd have to break into the house to do it, and just then a policeman would drive past and he'd be all "Excuse me, Sir. What are you doing?" and I'd be all "Nothing, Fascist." and he's be all "Then why do you have on black tights and a black and white striped shirt and a Lone Ranger mask? And why are you walking on your tiptoes? And why do you have a crowbar and a handful of expired cat antidepressants?" and then I'd try to kick him in the nuts so I could run away, but he would anticipate it and just hit me in the head with his billyclub and call me "Boy-O" and then I'd end up in Juvie because I look so young and handsome for my age. But how was I supposed to know I would have to face the greatest detective mind of our generation?
So instead I just took the cat antidepressants myself, and I am expecting the coma to last through the rest of the day, so who's laughing now? Me. That's who.
*The "convicted" part was on purpose.