Sunday, February 2, 2003

I have never had the power suppply on a Macintosh laptop work for more than six months without fucking breaking. Those wingnuts need to take one of the guys off of the “back-lighting for the keyboard” team and stick him on the “working power supply” team. I swear to jebus… So many cool features adorn my little iBook — but so many back problems still haven’t been solved.

But I haven’t come to tell you all about my laptop troubles.

I’ve come to tell you about the terrier that lives in the yard behind ours. One time, sitting in the living room, doing my work as I’m prone to do, I watched him — Homer, the nametag says — chase around and finally capture and, well, screw and unwilling chihuahua. Now, I most definitely believe that there is nothing funny about rape. But. Watching a goofy little tarrier try to nail down a pop-eyed chihuahua triggers something much more primal than that… It’s uncontrollable, really. In fact, just the thought of dogs having sex is really, really funny. And I’m not a perv. Those pictures mom found on my hard drive were downloaded without my knowledge by that homeless guy I lent my laptop to.

Anyway. The dog-sex story is definitely one to lay on the grandkids:

“Mom!!! Grandpas talking about chihuahua rape again!!”

“Now dad, we’ve had this talk. If you keep bringing that up in front of little Weenus and Josh III we’re going to take you straight back to the home.”

“I crapped myself.” (That’s me. I hope to say that sentence a lot once I’m past … thirty.)

So, if I had to cull a moral from this verbal adventure, it would be this: It’s difficult to get rotten banana smell out of hair.

Thank you. Drive through.

[Originally posted to Brenna’s group blog, “The Magical Futon.”]