Well Mr. T’s parents have hit the road (or rather, the plane) (the plane! the plane!) and we are back to the nuclear family, just us two and the canines. And the feline. Oh God I’m still cringing, we ran out of cat fud last week and I had to inform the President. His presidential majesty was pissed off, and lo he was mightily displeased also. But in a fortunate twist we, his disciples, discovered a secret hoard of Dine and the Ruler of the Free World was spared the indignity of no dinner. (Hee, I typed “secret horde” which has developed into a full action epic in my head: Onward, tiny canned foot soldiers! Surge forth mightily from your concealed cupboard to do my bidding!)
So tonight Mr. T’s boss dropped by, to give us a quick house inspection and ask whether I was ironing Mr. T’s shirts correctly. No, NO, it’s all untrue; Mr. T’s boss is a lovely guy (and since I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he walked around all day absently rubbing his chin because the tag from his T-shirt was irritating it, he clearly has no interest in Mr. T’s shirts) (which by the way, not that you care, are ironed SHITKICKINGLY well, by me of course, ever since the day Mr. T cunningly ironed a tram line into the sleeve of one of his shirts and thus ever since has claimed complete ineptitude in the fast-paced competitive world of ironing) (I think I’ve had too much sugar today. You think so? I think so. I do.) And. Yes. Mr. T’s boss. Spent his weekend up on his farm, which IS NOT a hobby farm and death will be upon you if you dare infer such a thing, and anyway they butchered themselves a beast, a cow to be all precise and shit, and guess who dines upon the proceeds? The dogs. Yes indeed, several bags of extremely large, extremely raw bones were hand-delivered tonight as promised; and at this very moment there are two completely absorbed dogs gnawing steadily upon the carcass. Such a shame that another animal has to die to make them this happy. Oh but who am I kidding, because in our portable fridge (which by the way has 3cm of beer frozen to the bottom, mmmm yeasty!), in our fridge I say, is A GREAT DEAL OF DEAD ANIMAL, including fillet steak and T-bones and schnitzel and god knows what, all stacked up in huge piles of brazenly crimson flesh! A wealth of bonteous protein! I am the embodiment of the Atkins diet! I am CAVEPERSON! Urg. Regressing. Power of speech lost. Steak. Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.
