Well, it’s Day 5 of the book deal! So far, so good. After Lambchop’s brief but eventful hospitalization, we filled her narcotics prescription and shopped for Lip Smackers. I purchased Martian Mallow and Gum Job Galaxy, er, Gum Ball Galaxy. I let my sister the moose choose one, and she opted to coat her pie hole with marshmallow flavor. I also purchased another note pad featuring a horse on the cover. After some bubble tea, we determined that Lambchop is on her way to health once again.
I am feeling a bit confessional, which will make for a lovely Chapter 3. In my time, I have done some terrible, meddlesome things. Just last week, I convinced a dieting acquaintance to eat an ice cream bar, citing the need for “you time.” I also told this individual to consider keeping “emergency chocolate” in his or her desk. Why? I don’t know! If someone asks me if he should do something patently destructive and contrary to previously disclosed goals, I am probably going to give permission out of sheer perversity. In other words, don’t come whining to me.
When I worked at Starbucks, I would frequently prepare drinks for substantially overweight people using skim milk whether they asked for it or not. I would only dispense low-fat cream cheese. Another time a woman insisted on sending her drink back for more whipped cream, and I pointed out that her Maple-Oatmeal Scone already contained over 700 calories, and that she had even requested butter packets to go with it, so maybe we should just check ourselves? This might qualify as public service, but it probably violates some civil rights statute somewhere.
I’m not even going to mention all the times I’ve tried to kill annoying roommates. That could be a chapter in itself. Let’s just say one should never leave their toothbrush out if I am around. If I have taken a dislike to you, it is a short trip to brushing your teeth with toilet water and having all your food removed from the fridge as soon as you leave, only to be replaced shortly before your return.
Finally, last week I attended a concert with Lambchop, and we were bothered by a beer-selling slattern jawing away during quiet moments in the performance. She wandered off to give her David Spade lookalike manager a chance to look at her lower back tattoos, and I ticked off a bunch of extra marks on her scratch pad where she kept track of what she’d sold. Later, she came up short on the till and no doubt had to go to the back office with David Spade.
Also, I lie on the internet.
I am going to be run over by a bus any minute now.
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