And now, a puppy parable…


I sort of do. Also, a tranquilizer.

WEATHER: Beautiful.  Just <sniffle> so…effing <voice quavers>…beautiful…

MILES: <sob>

MILES THIS WEEK: NEGATIVE 50 GAZILLION

MILES THIS MONTH: NEGATIVE 50 GAZILLION (plus 132)

WHERE TO: The depths of Hell.

MOOD: Just guess, assface.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Once upon a time, there was a little puppy who was happy and all was well in his world.  His name was Slappy, and he jumped and played and ran and laughed ahahaha all day long because he was able to jump and play and run and laugh and nothing bad (in the grand scheme of things) happened to him, aside from the occasional bureaucratic snafu at his graduate school, but that was all OK, because do you know how Slappy dealt with these minor life frustrations?  He would jump and run and play and laugh and not at all feel like stabbing something.

And then Slappy got an overuse injury in his cute little left puppy knee because he was just too damn happy with all his frolicking and too damn good at it, really…

…and suddenly the darkness overcame him.  He did not jump and run and play and laugh, because to do so hurt his puppy soul, not to mention his puppy cartilage.  So Slappy began riding the flippin’ exercise bike at the gym, which only put him in a worse mood because it DOESN’T GO ANYWHERE and DIDN’T ALLOW HIM TO FEEL THE BEAUTIFUL SPRING BREEZE ON HIS FURRY LITTLE PUPPY FACE and soon he collapsed in a fit of puppy tears.

Slappy began hanging with the wrong crowd.  He spent all his money on puppy booze and puppy hookers and furthermore developed a $50-per-week Osteo Bi-Flex habit.

And then one day it seemed that Slappy was going to hit bottom and that all the praying and barking and yapping and kicking and swearing were never going to work and that he ought to just end it all with some laced Alpo, but then he decided he had a CHOICE, dammit!

And so, high as a kite on painkillers and glucosamine and some sort of holistic powder from the hunchbacked warty lady from that smelly store down in Georgetown, he traveled to the Underworld, paddled across the River of Patellofemoral Pain, and thrust his sword into the heart of the Necromancer.

Which did no good, so Slappy went home and after a few weeks everything got better, with the help of him icing the living bejeezus out of his knee while getting his belly scratched by gorgeous men.

Wait.  Did I just make Slappy gay?  I suppose I did.  But in the sense that we’re conflating him with me here (if you were an English major you’d get this subtlety), maybe s/he’s not.  It involves a lot of math.  I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.

One response to this post.

  1. Posted by RV on January 19, 2010 at 7:26 pm

    Oh, poor little puppy.
    I think you actually just made him a tummy-rub whore.

    Reply

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