So here it is, in it's disgusting entirety:
"The Dog Bandaging Story"...
Hi,
KeeRYSTE!!! What a fuggin week that was! I am SO glad that it's Friday.
First the dog injury. He cuts his foot.
Then the vet.
They bandage the mutt.
They say: clean the wound and change the bandage every day.
Okay, so it's Mother's day. I get up, get dressed get the kid dressed,
get to Stop N' Shop with all the other idiots who are trying to buy
cards and flowers and breakfast bullshit at the last fucking minute.
There's a fucking line at the flower department a half mile long.
A massive cluster-fuck of dumb men in front of the Hallmark card area.
I gutta buy a card for my Wife, a card for my Mother in-law,
a card for my Mother,
AND a card for each of them "From" Mini-Me.
Three bucks a card. Six fuckin cards. Do the math,
add the flowers for all of them, and groceries.
I'm instantly poor.
I go home. I try to cook a fucking breakfast before she gets up.
She gets up before I finish.
Kitchens a fuckin mess. I'm fuckin up this, screwin up that,
and burnin' some other fuckin thing.
Bustin' eggs, everything. Face it - I can't cook.
Did I mention the hangover??? OH YAH! I gut one of THOSE!
One of those "Please fuckin' kill me", hangovers. Sick as a bastard.
She's eatin' the eggs with the broken yokes, and pretending that the fuckin
English muffins aren't burnt by that fuckin' two dollar toaster that I never get
around to throwing out.
The fucking toaster has only one setting on it; SCORCH.
I've had the fuckin' thing ten years.
It sucked when I bought it and it still sucks.
The dog has this fuckin lampshade thing on his head that the vet
gives ya to keep him from bitin' his own fuckin foot off.
The dog can't seem to judge that he has this fuckin' funnel over his head.
He keeps tryin' to cuddle up to everyone and winds up smashing this plastic cone
into your leg and scraping the piss out of ya with the fuckin' thing.
My head's pounding.
I'm sick as a bastard.
I'm cleaning the kitchen, and he keeps smashin' me,
and mashin' this fuckin' cone into my leg as I try to work.
I wanna go back to bed. BUT, it's MOTHER"S DAY,
I gutta get ready to go bring all the cards and flowers all over the fuckin place
and see all kinds of in-laws I don't wanna see in this condition.
Suddenly.? It's fuckin NOONTIME.
Now I gutta clean the fuckin dog's paw and change the bandage.
When I try to take the bandage offa the fuckin' dog's boo-boo,
he lets this screech out of him like I'm reaming him up the ass
with a sautering gun, and he pulls away from me howling.
Now he won't let me touch it.
Every time I approach, he backs away, crying.
My head's pounding, and I'm chasing a screaming funnel headed black
dog around the house, and he's smashin' the fuckin cone into the chairs and
gettin' stuck under fuckin' tables, and I'm sweating my balls off trying to
grab the little bastard, and it's fuckin' impossible.
So my wife grabs onto him when I have him cornered, and we manage to rip the
fuckin' bandage off his paw, and at the end of the bandage,
it pulls at the fuckin' tape, and the wound and rips open, and he SCREAMS and
squirms and growls and tries to snap our fucking faces off,
so we let go of him cause he's scaring the shit out of us,
and now he won't even come NEAR us
and he's limping all over the fuckin' house bleeding and howling
and leaving these little bloody footprints all over the fuckin' place.
My wife, she's crying,
the dog's crying,
I'm yelling at everything,
my head's caving in, my son is hiding,
and we CAN'T get the dog bandaged.
After trying about ten times, we're all exhausted.
I can't do it.
Mother's day is ruined.
Now it's like 1:30.
My wife goes to visit her family without me. I don't blame her.
I want to get away from me too.
I call my Mother and tell her I can't come over,
I still have to get this dog bandaged.
It's Sunday. No vets are open.
In a last ditch effort, I enlist one of the fags that lives near me.
I figure maybe he's used to holding down squirming whimpering things.
It works.
He comes over.
This time I put the fuckin' dog into a killer fucking headlock,
I'm not taking any shit from anybody,
and he's growling and headbuttin' me
and the fag is trying to clean the wound with the peroxide,
and that REALLY makes the dog screech,
and when THAT happens he lets go a stream of hot piss all over me
and the fag, which completely grosses me out.
Fagboy yells to me, over the howling, to hang on,
and that he's almost done.
I guess he doesn't mind hot piss?
So I'm pinning the dog down,
and as a last secret weapon, or out of fear, or WHATEVER,
the dog takes a SHIT!
I smelled it before I saw it, because I was concentrating on his teeth,
and then I look over at two big Lincoln logs
... and that's IT!
My sick hungover body can't handle any more,
and I feel my half cooked Mother's Day breakfast
rising back up from my acidic stomach.
I let go of the dog and run for the back door,
stagger out onto the deck,hold onto the railing and HURL!!!
I'm upchucking into the mulch, making hideous sounds,
and my ankle-holding friend is yelling to me from the kitchen,
asking me if I'm alright.
Now I gutta go back inside,
apologize to the pillow biter for being pissed on,
and take a mop and paper towels and Lysol, and rags,
and clean up the piss and the shit,
and my stomach keeps turning and heaving.
The dog is limping around crying.
My crack drilling friend is consoling me,
I'm gagging, and I just want to die.
I thank the guy fifteen times.
He leaves.
I finish cleaning up, change my pissed on clothes,
and take a deep breath.
I give the dog a real good boot in the ass just for the fuck of it,
I say, "Happy Mother's Day!"...
I take an Alka-Seltzer, a sleeping pill, and go back to bed .
"FUCK IT! I GIVE UP!" I say .
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>> And the rest of the week sucked too.
>>>
>>>
>>> The END
>>> -Kenny
>>>
>>>
>>
>>
>
>
