Tally Ho! Woof! Woof!

Mayday! Mayday! The office across has just been visited by a ferocious feline canine. It is some sort of a Chinese puff thing with fur, whiskers, alarms & bells and a dash of cinnamon. To me it appeared like sushi on wheels. I guess dogs can be homing devices for good looking women; but this particular one seems to be working like an over-clocked beacon. This canine was either tumble dried prior to its departure to the land of extremely beautiful ladies we heave heartedly worship; or it had thrown a switch to kick-start its primal instincts to look awfully cute upon arrival at said location. I sound like an overworked air stewardess on a delightful cocktail of Redbull and Prozac. What can I do? This pretty bevy of angels makes my heart swell up like a puffer fish that’s just spotted the lady puffer fish school and upon visual identification elevated its otherwise ordinary status quo to cloud nine emergency levels. I’m floating on a pillow of winds, old friend. Yet, I feel like gagging the poor creature to death with a handful of al dente pasta. I know a guy who can supply the kamikaze sausage links. It would be painless.

But let’s not digress as we’ve been doing in most monologues that I spew in sheer anguish. It is a cardinal fin, such venom spurting from an otherwise colorful personality as yours truly who boasts of the audacity of 300 watt strike ballast and the charm of a can of Sunkist tuna. Yes, that’s what you are looking at, my old partner in crime. Small, furry dogs and cute are anything but a dish in my myopic point of view. More like a side order of three days old fries extracted from an alcoholic potato that defected from Siberia. I’d rather embrace nail clipping as my new religion. I love big dogs. Small furry things remind me of raccoons posing in fur coats trying to score free drug money. We can’t have that. Drug money is not for raccoons. Definitely not for the ones with fur coats! Come to think of it, I’d spend my days sharpening three hundred poisoned darts than cuddle a mutt that looks like a cocaine addicted golf ball. Period. I hate ‘em! I hate ‘em! Can I have some chocolate please?