Fleshing Out A Rant
I have about had it with the bizarre fascination, the endless prattle about every detail and the misplaced pride of a certain group of people--in this case my co-workers. I'm talking about new dog owners and I swear if I have to hear one more cutesy story about how your new black lab puppy kept you up last night I'm going to douse you with a bucket of barbecue sauce and release a box of flesh-eating ants in your cubicle.
A few points: It's an animal. Does this point have to be made? It does not have a personality. It does not understand anything more than you have food and it wants some and you have attention and it wants that too.
What I'm saying is that the thing ain't a kid. So quit your proud parent stories about how the beast chewed up your favorite pair of Nine Wests and piddled in your Great Room (actual detail overheard yesterday, 2:09 p.m.) and isn't that the sweetest thing?
Dogs are kind of like Johnny Cash--everybody likes 'em. You don't hear quite as much anti-dog rhetoric as you do from the rabid and more socially accepted anti-cat crowd. I'm frankly not a big fan of either--after a girlfriend's cat had his way in my apartment for a week several years ago and now with the inundation of dog stories--but I'm starting to become more virulently anti-dog as I get older.
So does anyone know where a guy can get a box of flesh-eating ants?
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