Okay, so I am in the mood to write...'get it all out' you know, the way writing does at times.
But, I just don't know where to go or where to start, only that I want to go. Isn't that the joke?
Anyway, so I am going to grab stuff from a few books to use as 'starter fuel' for some verbage.
First of all from the book "IF...(Questions for the game of Life)" I am going to use some of the questions in there. The game is a bit trite, at least to my jaded self. For some reason, I feel, the 'IF' game is best left for kids stuck in the car with parents on a long trip to the Petrified Forest or the Salt Flats of Salt Lake City. But, I found it on one of the bookshelves...in our vast library. yeah, I have a vast library in my apartment...I can feel your envy. And I love it.
So here we go...from the Book of "IF"
Randomly turning the pages:
IF you could kill the pet of anybody you know, whose pet would it be:
Well, unfortunately God, or at least the God of Dogs, has already killed the pet of my choosing. Good bloody shot, I say.
I used to have a roommate who had a Dalmation named Philly. As in Philly Blunt, and the he probably had second hand smoked plenty of his namesake. Maybe, this is why he was so messed up. I am thinking it had more to do with breeding cousins and grandmas with grandsons to get the Dalmation breed.
I remember once Philly ate a bunch of cocaine. My roommate freaked out. At first I was all like, "It's nice to see her freaking out about the possibility her dog could get terribly ill from all of that coke he just ingested."
But, then I realized she was actually pissed AT the dog. Not so much the concern. I think Philly became emotionally scarred from this...and quite a bit buzzed. He ran around and around and around and around our living room. Seriously, dogs should NOT do coke. They totally can't deal.
This one time Philly got out and ran into the woods behind our apartment complex. He did this quite a bit, and I sometimes secretly hoped he wouldn't come back.
You know, he ate all of our curtains.
This time when he came back he ran into the living room and jumped onto the very small couch on which I was sitting and he threw up an entire stomach's worth of partially digested deer shit.
Some of it got on me.
It was actually steeming.
Another reason why I hate Philly. As if I would need another one. One time, when I was Philly-sitting for my roommate, Philly decided it would be really cool to eat an oven mit.
Now, I don't know if you realize this or not but dogs can't digest oven mits. The cotton fibers don't break down very much on the little road from the throat to the butthole. And sometimes these bulky, quilted, fibers can get stuck on the way out.
I pulled the thumb with one quarter's worth of an oven-mit still attached from the butt of that stupid dog. I mean, sure, he tried to crap it out. He did try, I saw the strain in the face, but the fact remains he didn't try hard enough, and I was forced to save his life...
And for this I hate him and would have killed him if he wasn't already in an Urn on Shantell's mantle. Philly Ashes.
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