Next I’m Going To Shave My Asshead

5:51 AM – It begins…

*blurpblurp* *blurpblurp*

“Zzkgeyaaah honnney?”

“I’m calling about the ad for the dog. What can you tell me about him?”

“Uh? Mmmmmm… oh, SHE is a basenji-mix, spayed, 9-years ol…”

“Are you nuts?!?! You can’t get rid of a dog that old! Yer gonna KILL that dog!” *CLICK*

(To Asshead, sleeping peacefully across my legs) “That wasn’t my wife.”

“Callin’ ’bout that dog… Why you gettin’ rid of it?”

(mouthful of Chinese food) “Moofin’ outta da country.”

“Whyn’t ya take ‘er with ya?”

“DAMN. Great plan. Kicking myself for not thinking of that! I WILL!” *click*

“I’ve got a yard and would love to meet her!”

“Super. You got kids?”


“Cos she EATS ’em.”


“Mean? How mean?”

“Watched her kick the shit out of a Pit Bull and a German Shepard simultaneously… while she was tethered on a 6-foot leash and they were loose.”

“And she’s 35 pounds? You’re not putting the sale on very well here…”

“Yeah, well I figure she’s perfect for a single somebody, living alone, who hates anything small and innocent… and is constantly beseiged by Ninja Assassins wearing Postal uniforms and carrying vacuum cleaners.”

“Whu? BWAHAHAHAAAA….hahaaa…ha…” *CLICK*

“I’d love to take her, but I’ve got cats.”

“Oh, that’s cool, she LOVES cats!”

“Really? She’s good with them?”

“Yep, they’re her second favorite snack.”


“Right after those beef-basted strips of rawhide… those don’t cut up her nose as much when she eats ’em.”


“Man, I’d love to take her. I’m just never home.”

“Shit, if you got a yard with a fence under 6 feet, she won’t be either.”

This Shit Sucks.

The perfect Asshead-owner is out there somewhere… I’ve just gotta find ’em.

Pre-Children Eating PoseBegginAss... but she's damn cute

Seriously. Deadly, but Adorable. You’d LOVE her.

I thought I might be able to talk The Montanan, my new roommate, into keeping her, but he’s too busy doing shit like this to himself…

Right before we dyed it orange

He’s getting seriously sick of me sitting depressingly on his back patio all goddam night on the phone with my wife, so he took it upon himself to attempt to cheer “my StupidDrunkAss up.”

It worked. Briefly, but still. The Wife LOVED it though, especially when I told her we were gonna dye it orange.

Teensie, The Montanan’s woman, found it less than amusing, especially in lieu of spending the weekend with The Montanan and her entire family up at their cabin in the Rockies. They’re apparently not quite familiar enough with him to understand a simple random act such as giving oneself an orange mohawk, or riding his Harley to work in the rain because he wanted to show off his Star Wars Lunchbox while it was strapped to the taillight.

I overheard Teensie’s brother, Nerval, say that he, and the rest of the family, had assumed that since he and The Montanan were both in Software QA they’d be of similar personality types. He said this after we’d all been speaking Geek for a few minutes, and I was almost tempted to agree with him. As I walked past Nerval towards the fridge for yet another beer, I noticed he was wearing a purple polo shirt, khaki shorts, white socks, and white sneakers, and I started to rethink his stance.

I looked at myself, in a stained, sleeveless, shirt with a picture of the Dali Llama and the word “ASSHOLE,” my hockey/warmup pants, and Aussie flag bandana.

Then, I looked at the Montanan wearing ripped, oil-stained jeans, Harley bandana, and a stained, sleeveless, baby blue, shirt that says in bold print, “I’M A WINNER!” and in smaller print, “Montana Special Olympics.”

The Montanan climbed out from underneath the Jeep we were working on, finished his beer, proudly proved to the neighborhood his belching abilities, looked at Nerval and then shook his head and said, “Yeah… I’m thinking they’re not gonna be too cool with the mohawk.”

Nerval looked at me… well, nervously I guess, as I belched not-quite-as-loudly, lit up a cigarette and told him that it’d all be cool, because I’d also get an orange mohawk and come with The Montanan to meet The Fam.

The color didn’t quite return to his face until I assured him that I couldn’t go, because if I happened to catch MYSELF riding Bitch on the Montanan’s Harley, I’d have to kick both of our asses.

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