All I Want for Christmas is Revenge
This holiday season, send a few thoughts in the direction of our troops in Iraq. And don't forget some of our other government employees who are spending this holy time of year on the front lines of America's 'War on Terror.' Those CIA operatives at that Black Site in Poland? They're spending Christmas Eve lighting up a detainee.
Poodle
Take this guy and call him Billy; a pothead par excellence; a legend in his dealer's time. One day Billy gets a gig housesitting for a friend who owns a spread that belongs in the pages of 'Town & Country,' or maybe 'Martha Stewart Living.' We're talking stenciled baseboards, color-coordinated walls hung with tasteful and expensive art, multiple bathrooms outfitted in marble and chrome. And a small, coifed teacup poodle. Expensive, dumb, prone to peeing on the Persian rugs. Now for Billy, this housesitting gig is the perfect job: sit on the Italian leather sofa with your favorite bong and watch cartoons, collect cash. There's enough ice cream in the fridge and all-natural snacks from Whole Foods in the restored-wood kitchen cabinets to last him through a whole week's worth of the munchies. Life is good.
Two days into the gig, Billy emerges from his haze of bong smoke to realize that - hey - he hasn't seen the adorable 2-pound ball of fur that's at least nominally supposed to be his charge. So he wanders around the house, calling the poodle's name. As Charles Bronson would have said, 'No dice.' Dog is neither upstairs nor downstairs. Then Billy notices that the back door is open a crack, so he pads outside. What he sees, well, kind of blows his already-baked mind.
Wait, let's jump back in space-time for a moment. We need to explain how, in the equally fabulous spread next door, there lived a Great Dane. A majestic and massive and un-snipped animal.
And this majestic and massive and un-snipped animal, well, somehow it managed to make it past its owners' hundreds-of-dollars-per-foot fence and into Billy's friend's yard, where it came across the teacup poodle doing whatever poodles (nervously) do. Billy comes out and sees the Great Dane, in violation of every tenet of sexual dimorphism, humping the teacup poodle for all it's worth, jackhammering away.
Billy just can't process this. The synapses of his mind are stalled as a subway train during an MTA strike. "Uhhh..." Meanwhile, the Great Dane is heading for glory. The poodle is, not to put too fine a point on it, nonplussed by this whole situation. And will probably need a colonscopy afterwards. Or something. Definitely Billy's day is heading downhill. His high is acting as a sort of mental shield; it's probably the only thing preventing his mind from totally snapping. "UHHH..."
That gets the Great Dane's attention. Its head snaps up. Caught! It takes off running back for the fence ... with the poodle, well, not to put too fine a point on it, still attached. One gets the sense that the poodle is going to need Valium if anyone ever tries to take it outside for a walk again. Great Dane is running for fence with tiny dog impaled on its member and Billy is like, whoa. The Great Dane hits the fence. It can't remember how it got over here in the first place. It stands on its hind legs and puts its paws on the top of the fence and still the poodle is hanging there, little eyes bugging out, and Billy finally gets a solitary thought and goes for the hose. Unwinds it. Aims. Squeezes the trigger under the nozzle and the stream of water smacks the poodle dead-center, sending it rocketing head-first into the fence. Now the little thing is traumatized on both ends. Fortunately it's a teacup poodle so it'll never have to do higher math or anything. That was the last time Billy house-sat for anyone.
Poodle
Take this guy and call him Billy; a pothead par excellence; a legend in his dealer's time. One day Billy gets a gig housesitting for a friend who owns a spread that belongs in the pages of 'Town & Country,' or maybe 'Martha Stewart Living.' We're talking stenciled baseboards, color-coordinated walls hung with tasteful and expensive art, multiple bathrooms outfitted in marble and chrome. And a small, coifed teacup poodle. Expensive, dumb, prone to peeing on the Persian rugs. Now for Billy, this housesitting gig is the perfect job: sit on the Italian leather sofa with your favorite bong and watch cartoons, collect cash. There's enough ice cream in the fridge and all-natural snacks from Whole Foods in the restored-wood kitchen cabinets to last him through a whole week's worth of the munchies. Life is good.
Two days into the gig, Billy emerges from his haze of bong smoke to realize that - hey - he hasn't seen the adorable 2-pound ball of fur that's at least nominally supposed to be his charge. So he wanders around the house, calling the poodle's name. As Charles Bronson would have said, 'No dice.' Dog is neither upstairs nor downstairs. Then Billy notices that the back door is open a crack, so he pads outside. What he sees, well, kind of blows his already-baked mind.
Wait, let's jump back in space-time for a moment. We need to explain how, in the equally fabulous spread next door, there lived a Great Dane. A majestic and massive and un-snipped animal.
And this majestic and massive and un-snipped animal, well, somehow it managed to make it past its owners' hundreds-of-dollars-per-foot fence and into Billy's friend's yard, where it came across the teacup poodle doing whatever poodles (nervously) do. Billy comes out and sees the Great Dane, in violation of every tenet of sexual dimorphism, humping the teacup poodle for all it's worth, jackhammering away.
Billy just can't process this. The synapses of his mind are stalled as a subway train during an MTA strike. "Uhhh..." Meanwhile, the Great Dane is heading for glory. The poodle is, not to put too fine a point on it, nonplussed by this whole situation. And will probably need a colonscopy afterwards. Or something. Definitely Billy's day is heading downhill. His high is acting as a sort of mental shield; it's probably the only thing preventing his mind from totally snapping. "UHHH..."
That gets the Great Dane's attention. Its head snaps up. Caught! It takes off running back for the fence ... with the poodle, well, not to put too fine a point on it, still attached. One gets the sense that the poodle is going to need Valium if anyone ever tries to take it outside for a walk again. Great Dane is running for fence with tiny dog impaled on its member and Billy is like, whoa. The Great Dane hits the fence. It can't remember how it got over here in the first place. It stands on its hind legs and puts its paws on the top of the fence and still the poodle is hanging there, little eyes bugging out, and Billy finally gets a solitary thought and goes for the hose. Unwinds it. Aims. Squeezes the trigger under the nozzle and the stream of water smacks the poodle dead-center, sending it rocketing head-first into the fence. Now the little thing is traumatized on both ends. Fortunately it's a teacup poodle so it'll never have to do higher math or anything. That was the last time Billy house-sat for anyone.
posted by NiK @ 2:33 PM
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