Are you not entertained?
Typical Sunday night at the Casa del Whackos; I’m worn out from a long motorcycle ride and sprawled out on the couch with Ajax, and all of the other chairs are covered with snoring dogs or dog hair. Dad is ironing his armor in preparation of the coming week; you know, that emasculating ensemble required by corporate America that is neither “business” or “casual”, but is somehow expected to be both.
“Dockers:for the bigger butted man”.
There is some type of ruckus on the the flatscreen, seems to be a big hullabaloo over twenty-five cents, as I keep hearing them talking about “getting the quarter back”. Then a bunch of pretty boys start prancing around the stage with a gaggle of people at their feet screaming just a bit too enthusiastically to have their adoration taken sincerely; dad said it reminded him of a North Korean dictator’s state funeral, just a lot less joyous.
Then the big guys came lumbering back out into the Coliseum and commenced whacking each other again, and the similarities with the games of ancient Rome are strikingly evident. The big build up, the flashy production, the violence, the noise, all in an attempt to distract the proletariat from what really matters:
In my case, what is under this roof, in your case, what is under yours.
If you offered me the choice of tickets to the Superbowl in Atlanta or the opportunity to hang out with dad and the inmates at the Casa, where I am is exactly where I would choose to be. Besides, I’m a diva dog, and as such, I will NOT be snuffled by one of those self-important, bomb-detecting Belgian Malinois knuckleheads strutting around the sidelines.
This girl doesn’t tolerate that type of rude behaviour, as anyone retaining a royal bloodline should not, and I do.
And so do you.
Remember that as you go through the coming week; everything’s going to be fine in the end, if it’s not fine it’s not the end.
Charke diem from Charlie Bravo
