I swallowed a bug.
That is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like I inhaled a bug. I can feel it crawling around in my alveoli. Well more likely flailing around in the sticky gumbo, like some world war one trench fighter, slowly succumbing to the undertow of muck that coats the inside of my lung. I can feel its death rattle though… and its upsetting me. Die already you damn hexapod.
This caps off my all round awesome day… the pinnacle of which involved wrestling a half decomposed rat away from the Basset Hound before he could eat it. It came apart while we grappled for ownership of said rodent… after which I had to pry his jaws open with my fingers to extract the other half before he gulp-gulp-swallowed.
This is still better than the dead and disgustingly bloated toad he tried eat once. But not worse than the time he found human feces in the park… and rolled in it. That was truly a vomit inducing affair.
I felt I needed to share the (psychological) trauma that comes with owning a Basset Hound. Personally I wouldn’t suggest it.
Some days I think there shouldn’t be statues of anyone… anywhere. Except maybe statues of dogs. But not Jack Russells. Or Chihuahuas. Or Pekingese. (I generally start turning the corner on useless breeds* at Wirehaired Dachshunds)
*says the ardent fan of the Basset Hound
But then I think what if someone would like to erect a statue of ME some day…. And how sad people would be if they couldn’t look upon my visage (in an Ozymandian sense) and… well… I have no idea what people would do around my statue. Maybe loiter. And use it as a staging point for… mischief. Gather at the statue of Saint Joey, from whence we will go forth…. and misplace our keys. And phone. And then forget why we came all the way out here.
Hmm. As racist statues go… this one is my favourite. (Outside one of my favourite buildings)
I love Teddy Roosevelt. He’s in my top five favourite humans. I like to give it a five person range so as not to appear to nail all my proclivities to the cathedral door all at once. (But really he’s my favourite) And because of this clear bias I’m less inclined to be empathetic towards peoples concerns about equal heights and who should get to ride the equine.
Of course statues come with a sliding scale. From generally reviled all way through to only mildly disliked by some… I realise that some people might be upset that in a society (where the mandated ideology is Fundamental Joeyism) that there aren’t enough cat statues.
I think I’d be okay with a statue of a Maine Coon. They are kinda like dogs. But those creepy hairless cats are definitely on some sort of banned-list.
Maybe we should rotate statues. That way everyone gets a turn to be upset about something. Have a warehouse… and then once a month, dust off some effigy of some deceased… eh… organism and let the pigeons defecate on them for a bit. Nothing says valued and appreciated member of society like the veneer of poop before you hit brass.
Postscript. When the time comes… even though I’m 6.3… I identify as 6.5… I’d like my statue to take this into account. Also (and I’m sure I’ve mentioned this somewhere else) I’d like to be wielding an ax (so as to satisfy my Danish tendencies)… maybe while being shot full of arrows.
I have this obsession with the Boromir redemption narrative in Lord of the Rings and how in his last moments he managed to do something decent. I wouldn’t mind doing something decent… you know… just before the end…
I rarely look at my WordPress stats. This is less of a self imposed rule and perhaps more of a sense of nonchalance or ambivalence I have towards statistics. While this information is useful (I’m sure) for bloggers who want to up their readership and appeal to a certain segment in the market, I use my blog primarily as a form of procrastination (and therefore, have no real readership goals or expectations). For example, right now, I should be attending the scary amount of (real) work I have clogging my todo list but instead I’m clacking away at the keys… achieving nothing of real consequence (again).
When I opened my WordPress dashboard this morning however, something caught my eye in the stats section under Search terms.
little maigre fucking blowjob
I had to google what maigre meant.
maigre. 1 : being a day on which the eating of flesh is forbidden by the Roman Catholic Church.
Which, as you can imagine, confuses me even more. (in all fairness it doesn’t take a lot) I’m assuming this must be a typo. Although the rest of the search term also upsets me. Don’t you normally search for blowjobs or fucking? (there might be some personal proclivity reveal here, ha ha) Maybe they meant meagre? In any event, I have now (annoyingly) spent a fair bit of time wondering what some paedophile* meant when he hamfisted his google search.
* I realise paedophilia refers to a prepubescent. But the ‘little’ in the search term tends to bend me towards labeling them as such.
In any event. Googling this phrase myself fortunately doesn’t bring up my blog. (It does however probably flag me on some sort of database) I will continue to ponder this strange occurrence while the basset rests his head on my head.
Perhaps with our combined intellect we can solve this enigma. (Don’t get your hopes up, the basset hound has actually now fallen asleep, which leaves only the dumber member of our dynamic cross species duo to ponder) Netflix said they doubted it would gain much traction after I pitched them our ‘detective’ show idea. Admittedly the premise of the pilot was us mostly lying on the sofa eating potato chips. We may have to go full YouTube…
It’s going to be epic.
I started out fighting the good fight. But my day has started going distinctly sideways on me. I can tell because I’ve given up on work and am listening to Nine Inch Nails (at volume) on my headphones. The self destructive, depressed, Courtney Love banging, drugged up Trent Reznor. Not the much more together and totally less rage filled (and some might argue less edgy) individual of we have today. Further down the spiral.
My excuse (currently*) is that we’ve run out Arabica, so I’m drinking instant. It was either that or drink toilet water. Well, my dogs would probably prefer toilet water (now that I think about it), but their palates are unrefined and they likely fall somewhere just above philistines on the chart de gastronome.
*I tend to cycle through excuses as to why things have gotten so BAD. A lot like the rest of humanity, only my excuses are real.
Oh. Its take your German Shepherd to work day. Maybe I should have led with that. Not a real day. But since I’m the boss I can arbitrarily make up stuff (which as far as I can tell, is basically the main requirement of someone in a management/leadership position)
I needed to take break from the one hundred and sixty four unread emails and the dangerously stacked monuments of paperwork on my desk that are beginning to lean precariously to one side. One ill considered move could spell disaster. Although I suppose it could also spell something else, depending on how they fall.
I’ve been awake since about 2am this morning, wrenched from REM sleep by a Basset Hound who wanted to go pee (in the rain). A quick resolution to the bladder crisis didn’t seem to be on the cards and by the time he did feel the need to lackadaisically wander back, he was of course soaked (much to his surprise I imagine). By this stage I’d irradiated my shadow into the bedroom wall with blue light waiting for him to complete whatever predawn shenanigans basset hounds get up to snuffling around in the undergrowth. Of course then he wouldn’t settle until I’d dried him and re-furled him into his blanket. After that sleep (for me) was largely a parody.
The German has hurt her shoulder chasing Hadedas. Which… are… eh… um… I suppose I need to explain this non South Africans…… Imagine Dantes inferno. Now zoom to the seventh layer of hell. Hadedas are basically the avian equivalent of whatever dwells there. Devil birds. Anyways, I took her for physiotherapy that she might recover quicker and continue her sacred duty of delivering my garden from this blight/scourge. (I couldn’t decide which noun I preferred since they are both relatively apt). She takes her job quite seriously and tends to over commit to the charge, hence the injury.
Blogging to the melodic sound of the Basset licking his butthole on the bean bag. The soundtrack of my life (I wanted the Ode to Joy, but apparently its was taken). My wife and I diverge (like a road through a yellow wood) on parenting techniques for the hound dog. I’m happy to let him lick his derriere. Clearly his rusty sheriffs badge is in need of maintenance, who am I to stick a spanner into the works? My wife however finds the concept of him rim-jobbing himself unsettling. First will come stern words. Then even sterner words with sinister undertones. (personally I would surrender at this point) And then some form of thrown object. And then… depending on the wayward trajectory of said object… possibly getting up and engaging the basset hound in some form physical confrontation. Sometimes this works. But mostly he’ll just glare at us, and then move off to some other location to continue his tongue to ass action.
I point out that this likely qualifies as an act of futility, before pouring half a bag of Skittles into my mouth. We (my wife and I) briefly discussed the ethics of eating the progenies party pack. Turns out we are both okay with it. Basically we are honorless Ronin who burn villages, prey on the defenceless and spurn seppuku. We’re saving her from a lifetime of sugar addiction and hardship…. this is how we justify our actions.
Besides I could do with the energy, I woke up before dawn to take the dogs for a walk…
It was quiet and misty out. There was no one around. Except for someone donned in camouflage setting up their fishing gear and little row-boat. I worry about those people. And not only because of their woodland attire. Well… why you would need to ‘Vietnam level’ concealment to cast a line for catfish concerns me. Clearly a caste of beings whose mindset I don’t necessarily understand. I write it off as too much Rambo – First Blood when they were young and impressionable. I’m inclined however to believe that once you’re plumbing the depths of a suburban water source (for an inedible fish) dressed in Tiger stripe I think you’ve reached some sort of mental event horizon where I can no longer see you. Pun may or may not be intended.
In any event it got me thinking, as he pushed off from shore.
You know that lifeboat morality trolley problem? And everyone has agreed that cannibalism is the only way to survive. And now everyone is debating how best one should go about deciding who gets eaten? The egalitarian/libertarians are arguing about drawing straws.
While all this is going on… you should probably nonchalantly pick up an oar. And then viciously… but surprisingly… smack the fattest person on head as hard as you possibly can. Even if you don’t kill them… you can argue their… eh… disability now marks them as the weakest link in your lifeboat. Sure people might be angry with you for bypassing the process. But really, since they are still alive… they will (likely) be relieved. Also you have an oar… and have demonstrated that you’re not afraid to use it.
Also, doesn’t it make sense to eat the fattest person first?
Obviously this is more of a long term survival thing. Smashing people in the head with oars when Captain Sully has just splashed you down in the Hudson is a less desirable course of action…. and may be frowned upon.
I forgot to lock my front door last night.
Terry Pratchett has this great paragraph about how, in Ankh-Morpork, there are actually very few murders. Mostly dead bodies are considered suicide. Walking in the Shades after dark for example, is suicide.
While Johannesburg likely wasn’t used as a template for this Discworld metropolis (as far as I know) I feel it definitely ranks in the top five most Ankh-Morporkian cities on this particular plane of existence. The most glaring difference (which precludes Jo’burg from the top spot) is that instead of a brass bridge lined with hippos over the river Ankh (primarily used to dispose of dead bodies) we have a bridge over a train yard. (which broadly serves the same function). Also a bridge made of brass would have been stolen ages ago.
In any event, not locking your front door in South Africa is broadly considered suicide. (glad we made it!)
In all fairness in order to get into the master bedroom to murder us they’d still have to make it past the booby traps (the playroom strewn with caltrops/Lego), the vicious guard basset (oh who am I kidding) and there’s always the chance they might trip over the German Shepherd in the passage. I sleep like the dead, but all the commotion might wake the missus (who will then punch me, ‘Your turn’.)
Back when I was an (irresponsible) bachelor I slept with a Glock (.40S&W) underneath my pillow, 1UP and ready to rumble. It caused me endless frustration when girlfriends wanted to sleep over. (where is the Glock going to sleep?) Although savvy enough NOT to suggest they go sleep in the other room due to their presence deteriorating the defensive integrity of fort Joey, it generally elevated my already simmering levels of anxiety. (Clearly I had other qualities which glossed over some of the other more serious psychological… eh… deficiencies)
Marriage has mellowed me somewhat (or turned the liquid cloudy, depending on how you look at it). These days instead of rolling out of bed and into my body armour I first have to go the cupboard and take it off a coat hanger. I also have to waste precious time taking my Glock out of the safe and cycling a round into the chamber. All this while under the added pressure of being murdered.
Its all very inconvenient.
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We used to be wolves…
Then we discovered sofas…