Prune Juice and Dog Poop

Did the dog poop?

Did the dog poop?

Did the dog poop?

I hear it over and over, incessantly. Every time I take the dog outside my parents want a full report on whether the dog took a dump. God forbid he doesn't dump I get instructed on how to to create a more 'poo-friendly' environment for the little guy. So I've begun responding with a 'yes' regardless of the dog's performance. But I think they're starting to get suspicious. They must think he dumps at least 5 times a day, but it's a loaded count. Sometimes my uncle takes care of the dog. On those occasions he leaves notes that reads: 'pee no poop' or 'poop and pee'. The imperative nature of knowing the status of the dog's bowl patterns seems strange to me. I have to wonder if there isn't a spreadsheet somewhere on their computer called Howie (the dog) Poop Regulation, where they chart the frequency of the dog dumps for quarterly analysis.

It wouldn't bother me so much if Howie could talk. But, without a voice he is unable to communicate or argue with them. I'm not sure he would anyway. He seems lazy and uninterested. Therefore I am the voice of doo doo for the dog. I dub myself, Dog Poop Whisperer.

This is an example of a quarterly review where my parents are hovering above a spreadsheet analyzing the data:

Jane: Last quarter poop decreased by 13%.
Joe: What can we do to increase poop-i-tude? What's wrong?!
Jane: Maybe we should hire a consultant.

I feel bad for the dog being scrutinized during his private moments. Sometimes I find some prunes (frickin gross) on the stove in a small pot. On those occasions I may start asking my mom if she pooped. Maybe she'll begin to understand how the dog and I feel.

(Editors note: Of course I have problems with the use of the word Poop and Pee-Pee by adults. I am doing my best to offer an unbiased, 3rd party perspective of the situation.)

drink, drank, drunk

I've been drinking more recently. I blame it on my parents. Unlike most 33 year old progeny who direct blame at their ripened counterparts, I have reason and right. If you doubt me, you shouldn't. You will be wrong upon reading the following sentences. Think about the last time you spent time with your parents. Did the thought, in any form, 'I could use a drink', ever cross you mind?

A beer might taste good right now?

I sure do like vodka?

A Camelback with tequila sure would go with these shoes?

The only acceptable answer is 'Yes'. If you say otherwise you are a liar. If you are not a liar, you must have one of those unnatural, my-parent-is-my-buddy relationships that defy nature and we could never be friends so I don't care. In fact, parental loathing is a common trait in nature. The back story on that diseased monkey from the movie Outbreak (95, Wolfgang Peterson) is quite interesting. One day, after monkey school, the OB Monkey had gotten into a verbal scuffle with his dad-monkey, who, as a result, had thrown some scat toward his branch. Luckily it didn't hit him but the OB Monkey jetted the jungle anyway, did the good thing with a bad monkey, became OB, and to make a long story short caused millions of human deaths and Dustin Hoffman's dismissal from the SAG.

So we've established that we all think that very thought during parental visits. Now do the math. Multiply the seconds by the minutes by the hours by the days by the months and when you connect the dots on the page they form the picture of a frickin drunk bum named Me. But really, this is a copious amount of booze and one crazy guy sitting at the bottom of the bottle. I currently store a pint of whiskey in my bedroom just so I can get through the morning conversations before my peaceful shower. I built a sub-drawer underneath the upper drawer of my dresser. If you are underage and you want the design, please contact me via email and I'll send over the CAD drawings. I'm drunk right now so please wait until morning... afternoon please. I pour Bailey's in my Cheerios. It's the only way I can look in the mirror and smile anymore.

Being a smartie, you know I say this in jest. My parents don't actually make me drink. They make me think about drinking. And after thinking about drinking for a long time I have a drink. So it's on my back. Don't blame my mom and dad for my liver problems, blame the thoughts that they cause.

Damn The Enablers.

jb