Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Who’s ready for more drunk blogging? ARE YOU READY? YEAH? YEAH!

I was on the phone with my sister tonight outside in the front yard waiting for Jon to call and say that he was on his way home. He has had to work late recently BECAUSE! OF ALL THOSE THINGS WE CAN’T TALK ABOUT HERE!

Can we talk about those things anywhere anymore? NO. Why? Because, America, you suck! Well, not really. But. BUT! Your employment laws do!

My sister had to take Bo, her terrible Beagle Without a Conscience or Table Manners, to the vet last week to have his dew claw repaired. It was hanging, like a door that has been knocked off its hinges, and it cost her a $140. I told her, “That’s good. At least it wasn’t $450 for a corndog stick they couldn’t even see on the x-ray, a corndog stick he had to pass through his rectum and have picked up by his owner.”

She said, “What do you mean, ‘good’? I don’t spend that kind of money on my kids.”

I was all, YOU DON’T KNOW GOOD.

And she was all, BRING IT, LITTLE SISTER.

And then Chuck ran across the street without my consent and I had to pause the conversation to scold him, “GIT YER ASS BACK OVER HERE, FUCKER.”

And at the same time, Bo, whom she had just taken to the vet to have his dew claw fixed, pounced on a stuffed animal and began ripping apart its innards. She began screaming, “This thang gots pebbles! The pebbles! Thar everywhar!”

And we’re both yelling at these animals who have no right goin’ on messin’ about like this, so I says, “You reckon we can live through this?”

And she perks up and says, “Mama done sold more Avon than tarnation. We can raise two mongrels caint we?”

And I says, “You done got five mongrels already. Seems you might have figured it out already.”

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