So what’s more annoying than a BurfDog? How about a really big barking dog? At least really big in proportion to the BurfDog munchlet. Not only is BigDog constant and annoying, his barking has the effect of causing the requisite burfing from BurfDog. My world is a happy and quiet place.
Barking dogs bring to mind parenting skills. Well, some barking dogs do. At least the ones who bark “But MOOOM!!! I WANT A CANDYBAR!!!!” Oh wait – that would be the kids. What’s happening to parenting common sense anyways? Has it been overrun by the PC militia (is it PC to call PC people a militia? Are they going to start walking around in teal or chartreuse overcoats? Maybe seafoam green.)? Is this just a sign of the eventual downfall of civilization? No wait, that would be the resurgence of Pro Wrestling’s popularity. What’s next around here – vomitoriums?
I was in line at a post office a couple of weeks ago (in line at a post office? Surely you jest! Post offices are quick and efficient!) and there was a little family ahead of me – Mom, Dad, Son and Daughter. Four people isn’t really a “little” family, but they were all pretty short.
Anyways, this post office has one of those “please take a number” creatures whose tongue you pull out and rip a little piece off of to find your status in the post office hierarchy. “Now serving 43” proclaims the flashing digital (Oooo! Digital!) screen above the lackadaisical postal employees. My flat piece of tongue says I’m 56, but I don’t feel a day over 50. I’m standing there nonchalantly, cunningly peering at my fellow patrons with the benefit of my way cool Matrix shades and making up little stories about them. Picture a guy with shifty eyes in dark glasses standing by two large boxes and giggling occasionally. It’s a wonder that I wasn’t strip-searched by postal security.
So I’m standing there taking in the human condition and I slowly start to focus in on this family. Mostly because the little boy (3? 5? 37? I’m bad at guessing ages.) had walked up to me to try to peer into my soul and learn my dastardly secrets. The shades foiled his evil plot. Not to mention the whiny voice of Mom “It’s not nice to stare, dear.” His evil plot foiled, he decides to torment our ticket creature by ripping out a couple of pieces of its tongue. Dad scolds him (“It’s not nice to do that.”) and tells him to drop the tickets.
The child (eventually) obeys after a very dog-ownerish round of “Drop it! Drooooooop it! Drop it!”. I kept waiting for Dad to pull out a Scooby Snack or some Snausages. He doesn’t. I wait for Dad to tell the kid to pick up the dropped tickets. He doesn’t. I wait for Dad to pick them up himself. He doesn’t!
Did you know that people stare at you when you growl?
Eventually Dad did pick up the forgotten ticket. Someone else had taken a ticket from the creature, after which Dad wandered over, picked up the ticket and handed it to that person with a shrug and a mumbled “My son took this one.” And then the post office counter blew up.
Okay, so it didn’t blow up, but I realized the ending was pretty boring and decided to spice it up a little. Creative license, you know.