Monthly Archives: June 2012

We live at the beach and as such have a problem with parking. Mostly with people parking in our yard.

It happened again today, and before I could catch the whomever, Miss Carol and me were once again stuck with a stranger’s car in our yard. This happens a lot and I’d finally had enough so I called the police to have them ticket the stupid motherfucker.

But while I was talking to the dispatcher he told me that I could have the car towed and I started having a bad feeling about the whole thing.

I don’t like people parking in my yard, but I don’t want to ruin their whole day. Ya’ know?

So anyway.

A police officer on an ATV showed up and I walked out and met him and we talked and he agreed I could either have him ticket the vehicle, have the vehicle towed, or he could just write a warning.

He told me it was my choice so I opted for the warning ’cause I’m a turd.

Then while we were talking and comparing histories a sweat fly started buzzing his head.

If you don’t have these little fuckers say a thankeeverymuch. They’re extremely annoying, constantly buzzing your head, until they land and bite.

But they’re slow.

So while we were talking and while this annoyingly buzzy little fucker was buzzing around the police officer’s head, it landed.

I said, it’s on your head, do you want me to kill it?

And he said, please.

So I slapped a cop upside the head maybe a little harder than I meant to or maybe wanted to, and we both watched as the the little dead bug fluttered to the ground between us.

We looked up at each other and he grinned behind his RayBans and said,

I won’t call that assault.

Tug walked into my Me Only Room the other night and sat and sighed and said, I don’t feel so good, Boss.

And then he threw up on my foot.

Sorry, he said.

Dude, I said, squishing my toes around. Tug looked anywhere but at me.

I hopped out to the kitchen to get paper towels and clean it up and while I was doing that, Tug trundled out, spewing all over the living room carpet.

DUDE, I said, maybe a little more forcibly. I mean, c’mon, half our house is tile and he has to throw up on the carpet?

So I followed him around, cleaning up his dog vomit wondering how much dog vomit can one dog have?

When Miss Carol got home she went into hyper-mommy mode, wanting to know if he’d eaten (no), or pooped (uh,no) and then she stared at me with her oh-okay-I-get-it-you’re-one-of-THOSE-guys eyes and went to call the vet.

The vet agreed to see Tug so we went speeding through the streets to the vet with Tug laying in the back of Miss Carol’s Jeep and Cutter standing between us on high alert.

What a princess, Cutter muttered to me.

The vet looked at Tug and x-rayed him and poked and prodded and decided that Tug had a stomach virus and gave him a shot to stop his vomiting and told Miss Carol and me how to care for him for the next 48 hours.

And he’s fine. He came around and he’s eating again and humping Cutter.

So last night Miss Carol and me are sitting sipping a cocktail, just glad it’s over, relishing the moment, when Cutter came and sat down between us.

Ahem, um, I don’t feel so good, he said.

And threw up on the carpet.