It is with heavy heart that I bring you the following news: the end may be approaching for the inmates at the Casa del Whackos. We have been warned for years concerning this inevitably of this moment, but dad is not the best planner against an uncertain future, and ignored all the signs of impending disaster.
He didn’t heed the warnings of the 2018 snowpocalypse, and didn’t stop for milk and bread on the way home last night.
So now we’re all paying the ultimate price for his laissez faire attitude, and already the strength it starting to fade from our furry little bodies; of course I will be the first to pass from this mortal coil, as I have the least body fat on which to subside. Based on that assumption, Ajax will probably live forever as he has been packing on the pounds in preparation of this day, his once trim little body now a rotund barrel of waddling nutrients;
If he was ever knighted by the queen, his title would be Sir Cumference.
Sure, you Yankees can snicker smugly at our plight, but you have never faced a blizzard of such epic magnitude. If any future archeologist finds this note amidst our frozen remains, please take special care of the porky popsicle which is dad’s earthly remains, as what might appear to be an unsightly hairy growth “down there” is actually me, struggling for that one last BTU to give me the strength to finish this letter before fading into everlasting slumber.
Uh, Marco?
(Muffled reply)Yes, papi?
Don’t you think that you’re being a bit melodramatic? It only snowed a couple of inches, I think that we will probably survive…
Oh, papi, you don’t realize the horrors I’ve already faced; mami let me out this
morning to do my “bidness”, and before I could think to gird my loins, the snow touched my plumbing, if you know what I’m saying. Even if we do survive the specters of starvation and cold, I shall never recover from such trauma, and I seriously doubt I shall ever tinkle again.
Well, Marco, if that’s the case, we’ll just have to find you a dialysis clinic that specializes in treating neurotic little dogs, and let you sit down there a few days a week; how’s that sound?
(No answer)
Later…
Yo, dad…
Wassup, Charlie?
I don’t mean to be a snitch, but Marco just snuck into the closet, and you kniw what THAT means…
