It's time for...
I hate the fucking telephone.
Spawn of Satan's friends find it perfectly acceptable to call at 6 a.m., 10 p.m., whatever. I finally told them that SoS had been sent to boarding school in Pakistan and if they EVER called the goddamn house again, I was going to make sure he joined the Pakistani army.
Then came the telemarketers.
“Duke, why are we getting a hundred goddamn phone calls a day from people wanting to give you information that you requested? I KNEW you shouldn't have opened a facebook account! What information is that damn important? Lottery numbers? Where Hoffa is buried? Lindsey’s coke stash? What?”
He started to stutter.
“Um...well...I was trying to get a laptop. You know, for free.”
“Are you fucking serious? You thought that signing up for all that shit would actually get you a thousand dollar laptop? I’ve always wondered who fell for that shit. Now, I know.
Hey, we could use a plasma TV, too, and....”
“Shut the hell up.”
I finally got rid of the goddamn telemarketers by telling them that my husband had been sent to jail for heading up a meth operation and started sobbing on the phone about how hard it was going to be to feed all of our babies.
HA! Fuck you telemarketers! Problem solved.
This morning at about 7 AM, I was having this awesome dream about Kenny Chesney and his place in the islands when my idiot dog, Sir George, started.
Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark.
I finally got up and went outside. The Duke has had this dog on a run for his morning shit time because he was Houdini’ing his way out of the yard.
Now, this is a dog that manages to stand up, unlock the gate, go to a pay phone and call for hookers and a goddamn pizza, but he wrapped himself around a tree once and instead of reversing his steps, he kept running around in a circle like a fucking idiot until his slack wouldn’t even allow him to lick his own ass.
As I was untangling him and screaming at the other idiot dog, Lady grace, to do her business, George saw his opportunity and ran. And ran. And ran around in circles, giggling and dodging me until I gave up, flipped him off and went inside to go back to bed.
I quietly crept into the bedroom, found the most warm and comfortable spot. My head aligned perfectly with the pillow and Kenny was making getting a cold Corona ready for our walk on the beach when Grace started that ear splitting howl she reserves for the special occasions when:
a. I’m having a dream like the one I was having
b. George has grown opposable thumbs and unlatched the fucking gate. Again.
I got up, got dressed and went back outside. Grace was shrieking by this time, devastated that Sir George just left her behind and surely, surely he’s halfway to fucking Canada by now with some slutty poodle named Jennie.
I stood in the front yard, in the quiet, still morning air and listened to the mosquitoes buzzing around my goddamn head. I whistled as quietly as possible while mentally preparing the ad I’m going to place in the paper to get rid of these mother fucking dogs.
George finally comes trotting back into the yard and stopped at my feet. He looked up at me and I looked down at him. Neither of us blinked. Finally, he broke and whimpered.
“That’s right, dog. I’m the one who made the appointment to hack your nuts off and I can do so much worse. Never cross me, asswipe.”
I brought them into the house, and stumbled back to my room. I gingerly removed my clothes, crawled back into bed, head aligned with the pillow, Kenny. Thank you, sleep god. Thank you.
The doorbell rings and my neighbor is yelling, "Hey Dutchess??? I saw you out in the yard and wanted to bring you some coffeecake. You said we'd have coffee sometime, and I'm up, you're up, and I brought the cake!”
I hate those fucking dogs