Tug.

Tug’s different.

He was last of the litter, left lonely in the corner of a plywood box wondering where all his brothers and sisters had got to. He’s a dog of few words.

So I listen to him more than Cutter- ’cause Cutter’s prattle can go on and on and on, ad nauseum. I mean really, that little fucker can talk a blue streak about nothing. You know, like a chick.

Tug came in tonight and stood looking up at me and said in his deeply baritone Darth Vader voice- you fucked up.

What? Why? I said.

THE RAPTURE is on the 21st NOT the 12th like you said, he said, darkly ominous. Read the papers dumbfuck, he said.

No wait, I chirped- the Christians can’t decide if THE RAPTURE is the 12th or the 21st or, if ever, so I was just putting shit out there.

Hmmpf, Tug said and sat down so he could lick his balls. He was done. He’s like that.

So.

Is Saturday the beginning of the end of the world or what?

According to the erudite prediction of an 89 year old retired civil engineer from Oakland CA who founded Family Radio Worldwide, the time window is noon to three pm.

I’m thinkin’ hold on tight baby, and leave the dirty dishes in the sink?

Right?