I'll Have the Roast Beast Please...

I know our posts have been few and far between… and by “our” I strictly mean MINE because B was a big fat liar when he said he would contribute.  To date, he’s posted once.  And he’s all like, “When are you going to blog again?  Your posts are funny…”  But I really think he’s just trying to prove to his long-distance friends from college that I’m actually a real person.  I honestly think he would have been better off marrying a closet phone sex operator than an inconsistent hobby blogger and probably so does he.  But here we are and as much as I want to write funny shit like every day, sometimes the days are long, my daily commute is about 9 hours each way, and he’s all in my face like, “What’s for dinner and where are my black shoes?” and at least twice a week I have to superglue the dog back together like a large, fragile, dollar-store vase I just can't bring myself to part with and that really doesn’t leave much time for more than a quick glass of wine and some recreational drugs.  He wonders why I eat Klonopin like Skittles.

But he’s not totally useless.  At times, he provides some decent insight that I hadn't previously considered.  As B so expertly pointed out after our recent Doodle ordeal, once Oscar hurts a part of his body, it will "hurt" forever.  Drama Doodle Exhibit A: his butt is healed, but he still squeals like Babe when I touch his tail.  Exhibit B: Also, his thigh that he sprained like a decade ago, still “hurts” when I touch it.  Disclaimer - before ACO is sent knocking on my door tomorrow - the vet checked him 36 times and it cost me about $90 million and now I’ll NEVER have a new Lamborghini, and HIS LEG IS FINE!  I’m only a little bitter because I’m stuck driving THIS:

  

Exhibit C: He still remembers one time I cut his nail too short and he bled for like 5 hours because now he doesn't like me to touch his feet.  Fine, broken nails hurt like a bitch.  I’ll give him that one.  But the observation is legit.

In addition to his doggy-psychiatrist-like observations, B also has quite the collection of “conspiracy theories” which typically involve the dogs vs B and the dogs always win.  Just last night, for example, he came bouncing into bed after the football game to announce the Giants’ win… as if I cared.  After all, I generally go to bed because I want to sleep not because I’m anxiously awaiting the play-by-play of his last Madden NFL Xbox live Atari match… or whatever the hell it is.  I was experiencing insomnia and he was seriously screwing with my already lousy attempt to achieve Zen, and thus a peaceful night’s sleep.  He then announced his inability to get comfortable because of Oscar’s inconvenient positioning across the entire bottom half of the bed.  So I foolishly suggested he move the dog, to which he responded with a convoluted diatribe about how he can’t because Oscar will bite him and now his leg is stuck in such a position that the blood supply to that limb will surely diminish its ability to remain intact with his body by morning and he’ll have to have it amputated and after it heals and he learns to walk on just one leg, the dogs will wrap their leashes around the remaining good leg and he’ll have to have that one amputated, too, in addition to surgery and sutures to put his brains back in after he bounces off the ground.  The only logical response I could muster at that point was to remind him of my previously announced stance that we immediately stop using the retractable leashes.  Problem solved, NOW SHUT UP!  

In full disclosure a conversation earlier in the weekend went just like this:

B: You're obsessed with those puppies.  You're going to watch that live feed all night, aren't you?

Me: Shut up, I have to learn their names.

B: Why?

Me: Because we're fostering all 11 of them, I told you that yesterday!

B: [Blank stare]

I suppose it was the least I could do to entertain his word vomit about his irrational limb-lossage fears.  Klonopin would probably serve him well, too.