Dad here; throughout my life, I have suffered some pretty disgusting and demeaning actions performed upon my person. Colostomy bag, ruptured Achilles tendon, barium enema, I’ve even slept with a CAT! I am no stranger to utter debasement.
But lately, things have taken even a more drastic turn south. Because of this (technical medical term coming up, pay attention)chronic painful rib thingy I’ve been dealing with for the last few weeks, I’ve been soaking in hot bath water every night instead of taking manly showers. Baths have never made much sense to me, as it seems like you’re soaking in your own flotsam, but what do I know? Titus Pullo definitely looks at it differently; to him, it’s not bath water…
It’s Dad soup.
As soon as he hears the water stop running, he stampedes for the bathroom. I can no sooner get adjusted to the heat when he starts lapping at the water like it’s hot and sour soup and I’m the tofu floating in the mix. As he’s not a quiet drinker, this brings Ajax running, because God forbid that any other dog get the slightest bit of attention that he’s not involved in.
Eventually the water level in the trough is drained to the point that I have to get out or die of exposure; ever try to towel off in the confines of a small bathroom shared with enough dogs to populate a small city? And I’m not a tall guy; without getting too graphic, I’ll just say that it’s a target rich environment to a bunch of opportunistic canines sniffing in search of low hanging fruit. This is how I get my nightly exercise, dancing the masochism tango in an effort to evade a passel of probing probosci, eventually working myself into a sweaty lather that requires ANOTHER trip to the shower, and the cycle continues.
So you would think that I had pretty much reached the limits of my downward spiral into debasement and depravity, but if you thought that, you would be wrong. This very morning, a new low was reached, from which there is no return. Mom was up making coffee, as I was preoccupied with being waterboarded by the frantic tongues of six dogs who, although they had been crammed up against me all night, were misbehaving as if we hadn’t seen each other in ten years.
The way this works is that they work in shifts; two or three at work until I have enough and push one away, but another is poised to immediately move into the slot created by their exit. All the while, Marco the Pervy Chihuahua is skittling all around and over my head in desperate search of an opening into the buffet.
This is when it happened; to my utter dismay, I found myself with Marco’s pink lipstick inserted into my ear hole. My howl of anguish and self loathing was such that it caused the rest of the pack to abruptly freeze in mid lick, their tongues partially extended and eyes bugged out; this was a new sound! What could have caused such a delightful melody, and how do we make it happen again?
Mom actually thought that something life threatening had happened, and came scampering down the hall to view the carnage. When she learned of my defilement, she was of little to no help, as she was convulsing on the floor; the lack of sympathy at the Casa is astounding, and must be addressed.
Later. For now, I am suffering from PTMLSD, and am in need of immediate therapy, preferably of the two wheeled variety. On the motorcycle, there is safety, as I always wear a helmet, and a helmet covers my ears.
Oh, and that’s Post Traumatic Marco Lipstick Stress Disorder, in case you were wondering.
You’re welcome.
