Car sick.

I have arrived in Pennsylgaynia. I knew I had entered the state when I passed an entrance ramp on the interstate and saw a car at a complete stop, waiting for all the assholes in the right lane refusing to move over and let him in finally pass by so they could try to go from 0 to 60 in three seconds and not get ass-reamed by the semi that would be rushing up on them immediately upon their entrance to the highway. GUUUHHH.

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On Tuesday morning before I left my hotel in Indiana to finish the drive to Pennsylvania, I stopped at a gas station to get caffeine and snacks. In the checkout line, I spied snack-size baggies of Cadbury Mini Eggs. I have had a hard time finding them the past couple of Easters, so I got excited and grabbed 3 or 4 packages of them. The clerk put them in the grocery sack along with my drinks, and I put them in the back seat and continued on my way down the road.

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Four hours pass, and I am now just ten short minutes away from my house in Greensburg. The end is in sight. Suddenly, Raleigh sits up in the front seat and begins to gag. He’s about to throw up. All over the leather seat in my brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now, from experience, I know that once Raleigh has begun his gagging motion, you have a 10-15 second window before he throws up all over the g-ddamn place, so if you’re quick, you can grab something for him to throw up in or on so you have less of a mess. This is fine and well, except that I am driving an SUV 65 miles per hour down the EXTREMELY narrow interstate with cars and semis to my right, and four-foot high cement medians to my left. There is no room for error.

I frantically search for something to capture the vomit in. I have no leftover empty fast food bags, napkins, nothing. Then I remember the bag filled with Cadbury Mini Eggs in the back seat. There’s no time to save the Minis. I reach back and grab the bag, all the while trying to maintain my vehicle and not careen into a RAV-4 or a cement wall. Raleigh is still gagging, getting closer and closer to barfing all over the front seat of the car. A ticking time bomb. I desperately try to get the plastic grocery sack open and directed in front of his mouth with my one free hand while maintaining most of my attention to the high speed traffic I am in. I flap my hand around the plastic bag, trying in vain to position it in a way that would contain the puke when suddenly, “BLEEECHHH!!!”

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Hot liquid explodes all over my hand. Wide-eyed and mouth agape in terror, I look over. I was too late. I couldn’t get the bag in order before he threw up. My entire hand is covered in bright yellow, bubbly, hot, frothy throw up. None of the vomit made it inside the bag, but instead, all over it. It was f-cking disgusting. I had to get the bag out of the car immediately. I roll the driver’s side window down and motion to toss the bag out the window. Unfortunately when you are going sixty-something miles per hour down the interstate, a flimsy plastic sack covered in dog puke doesn’t fly out the window like a rock. The vomit-covered bag flew RIGHT back into the car and flung puke all over my face, shoulder, hair, and head rest. I continued to scream and struggle with the flapping bag for probably five or six long seconds until it finally exited the car. I glanced over my shoulder to see that it had also splattered the yellow barf all over the rear passenger window in the process. My entire vehicle now smelled like a stillbirth.

Ten minutes. I was just ten minutes away from my destination.

It literally could not have gone any worse than it did. I should have just let him puke on the seat.

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In positive news, my allergies have finally given me a f-cking break. Thank god. I was about to give up and just die. I have never been so clogged up in all my life. My sinuses felt like someone hit me in the face with a mallet and smashed my nose into my skull. My labored, impossible breathing was like what I imagine being a pug would be like. Terrible.

Please read this man’s blog about taking the SATs. I laughed out loud by myself in my living room like a mental patient for ten minutes. You will too. If you can read I mean.

http://deadspin.com/5893189/what-happens-when-a-35%20year%20old-man-retakes-the-sat

WELL, that’s all for now, folks. Keep calm and whiskey forward.

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B:   “What should I do with my hair? I have an appointment on Saturday.”

C:   “Don’t ask me for hair advice, Becca. I’m gay but I’m not that gay.”

Bed crumbs. Like ‘bread crumbs.’ You’ll get it later.

 

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I spent the last 10.5 hours driving eastbound across the United States, or shall I refer to it as the United Fields of Soybeans, because that’s all I saw for 700 miles. That and windmills. And dead coyotes. Boy were there are lot of roadkill coyotes. You’d think animals would be smarter. It’s like, you run into a deer in a field and it sprints away from you like you have polio and there’s a wildfire behind you. They approach a busy interstate with dozens of enormous steel machines barreling down the cement like roaring tanks, and they walk directly into them. I don’t understand.

I have finally arrived at the Comfort Inn in Richmond, Indiana; my midway point before finishing the long haul to Pennsylvania. I checked in, drove through McDonald’s, snuck my dog into the hotel, and have settled down for the night. I made the mistake of inhaling my McDonald’s value meal in my bed. There are crumbs all throughout the sheets. It feels like the bed is full of sand. Lucky for me there are two beds in this room.

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My canine counter part, Raleigh, is making the voyage with me like usual. He is my fellow traveler, and a great one at that. He sleeps literally the entire way, no matter how long we are in the car. The only issue with that is he turns into a ballistic psycho animal when we reach our destination because he is just bursting with energy. I just bring billions of toys I can stuff treats into and attempt to entertain him with food until we go to bed. Food = Entertainment. That’s how we do things in America.

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My allergies could not possibly be any worse than they have been for the past week. I am more congested than the streets of LA when it rains for more than four minutes. It literally feels like someone rolled up a sock and jammed it into my nasal passage. There is not a nook or cranny of space for air to squeeze through. I am losing my life. F-ck plants. F-ck all of the plants. I have a pile of balled up Kleenexes on the floor of my car that could stuff a pillow case from blowing my nose like a pissed off elephant all day long. Not that blowing my nose helps even in the slightest way. My sinuses feel like a bloated water-logged dead body. I don’t even want to speak because of how dumb I sound. Words with N’s in them are impossible. I have taken both a Zyrtec and a Mucinex today, to no avail. I’m still just a mouth-breathing, retarded-sounding son of a bitch.

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I had a dream last night that these huge fluffy clouds were freezing because of the cold weather, and essentially turning into big masses of snow in the sky, and they came crashing down and breaking into pieces on the ground. It didn’t make any sense. Thanks for listening.

WELL, this is short, but I am extremely tired and need to pass out in this bed. Tomorrow will be spent blitzing the continental breakfast, pumping some caffeine into my body, and then finishing my drive to the worst state in the entire country. Goodbye, all.

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C:    This F-CKING dog won’t stop playing with her stuffed crab on my knees.

B:    Kill that thing already. Set a mouse trap.

C:    But she entertains me sometimes. If I were to kill her though, I think I would drown her. Or put her in my back pack and slam it against my wall.

Polly Pocket.

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Welp, Monday was spent recuperating from the previous three days at the SnowBall Music Festival. I spent 72 consecutive hours destroying my body, mind and spirit with alcohol and elicit drugs. I couldn’t be happier. What an insane f-cking time. There were bananas and champagne and glow sticks everywhere. Got about 30 solid hours in the onesie, circa 1986 (eBay gem), pillaged roughly $180 of merchandise including Snowball shirts, Burton tees, and Burton beanies, danced like an asshole and burned 150,000 calories (all the more reason to continue my daily carb-loading routine).

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Top shows of the electronic music festival for me were:

• Ghostland Observatory
• DallasK
• Minnesota
• Bag Raiders
• Dada Life
• Bassnectar
• MiMOSA
• Boombox

Initially I mistyped “Boobmox” on Boombox. Everybody makes mistakes. Like I said, my brain is seizing. I’m lucky that my heart is still beating today. I cannot wait for next year.

I wish humans had built-in pockets. There are several things I like to always have on my person. Chapstick, tissues, my phone. I could really benefit from having the convenience of a built-in fanny pack. Basically I wish I were a marsupial.

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I can’t stop feasting on the enormous batch of breakfast burritos Trent made last week. These delicious tortillas are filled with zesty chorizo, fluffy eggs, a fiesta blend of Mexican cheese, a river of Cholula (clutch), onions, and roasted potatoes. Mmm. I’m not really sure how burritos can actually qualify as a “breakfast” food, but then again, when have Americans ever really followed the rules. I like how we slap the word “breakfast” in front of various non-breakfast items and consider it perfectly acceptable. Breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, breakfast casserole. Just put the word “breakfast” in front of it, then it’s healthy!

We’re fat.

Speaking of fat, Christina Aguilera needs to stop wearing hats. What the f-ck was she wearing on her head this week, a Bedazzled vinyl record?

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Awful. What kind of drugs is she on, and why weren’t they available to me at the Snowball Music Festival this weekend? If it’s possible, she has gotten even more orange. I’m beginning to think it’s a biological thing, like she gets oranger with age, like a tangerine.

ANYway, time to go get more much needed REM. Adios, muchachos.

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“Whiskey. Rum. Mali. Coke. Shrooms. Jager. Weed. Beer. Vodka.”

“This text message thread would be a gold mine for the police department.”

You’re as cold as ice.

Actually, I’M cold as ice. If I bumped my knee on the coffee table right now, it would shatter into a million pieces, because it is now a frozen solid block of ice.

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It is stupid cold today. The wind is gusting with a vengeance. It feels like a million tiny daggers ripping through my body. I need more pants. On. I need more pants on. It will take me at least one hour to thaw out. I brought No Balls Rals to the dog park today for some exercise so that I wouldn’t have to play with him myself at home later while I’m watching 14 consecutive episodes of Dr. 90210.

For the first time ever, we arrived and there was not a single other canine at the park. Probably because most people realized that glaciers were about to sail into Eagle County and hypothermia isn’t on most peoples’ agendas on a casual Sunday. After standing around waiting for about ten minutes and chattering my teeth like someone on too many prescription medications and a gallon of medium roast, a gaggle of dogs finally showed up and they ran their little hearts out. Meanwhile, I suffered from frostbite and lack of circulation to my frozen extremities.

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My creamer intake continues to escalate. I am spiraling out of control. I have bought two liter-size jugs of it within four days. This is not normal creamer consumption, I am almost sure of it. It has become my heroin. This French vanilla elixir of life has got me by the balls. I’m going to need an Intervention. (I’ll resist help 100% of the way).

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I spend a lot of time playing Zynga word games on my phone. Mainly Hanging With Friends and Words With Friends. Since I am a cheap ass and refuse to pay for these games in order to get ad-free playing time, I am continually bombarded with advertisements during my ass-whooping gaming sessions. I used to get a lot of ads for “increasing your battery life” and “Zynga Poker,” but lately it has strictly been online dating websites. Every time. What is Zynga trying to say? That because I play word games on my phone for so many hours a day, I couldn’t possibly have a life? Haha.

They’re right.

WELL, time to go hack my lungs up. I seem to have caught some sort of a cough. I’m not happy about it, but what can you do.

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“What are those big jugs called that you put water in?  …Oh yeah, water jugs.”

 

 

 

Bearly there.

A television repair man working in New Jersey found a black bear in a customer’s basement. Apparently the bear had decided to hibernate in this old dude’s home.

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Can anyone explain to me how in the world a bear gets into someone’s house without them noticing? Rather, can anyone explain to me how a bear gets into someone’s house AT ALL? How does this happen?  Mice? Sure. Small and sneaky. Bats? They find their way in every now and again. Snakes too. Even birds—sometimes you get a bird in your house somehow, but a 500 pound BEAR? Did Smoky the Bear just waltz up to the front door, open it, and mosey down stairs with a sleeping bag to set up camp for the winter? Did Yogi just sneak in while old ass Dale was lethargically carrying in groceries, leaving the door open behind him? I don’t understand how something like this happens.

In other news, after a long search for my desperately sought-after 2008 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, I had finally found a few prospects on AutoTrader.com and Craigslist. Trent had been in Pennsylvania behind me for a couple weeks and would be returning the day before our Cancun trip, and I had been in Iowa looking online. We had come across a few, but they never ended up working out. Finally, one on Craigslist in Des Moines was looking like the perfect Jeep, and we had just one day to go check it out before we went to Mexico for a week. I get up that day and get ready, and wait for Trent to roll in from PA so we can hit the road.

The dogs start going ballistic, signaling that he had arrived, so I head to the front door to greet him before heading to Des Moines. I catch a glimpse out the window on my way down the stairs of a shiny, beastly, pearly black Jeep in the driveway. The trickery! He had had one the whole time. WOO!

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I run outside to go fondle my new vehicle. It is so lovely. I want to put my tongue on it. Fully loaded with navigation, a Hemi, 18s, leather seats, you name it. I am thrilled. I immediately fire her up to go for a test drive, opening the back door for Raleigh to come with. My dog then jumps in and immediately throws up in the back seat.

Anyway, in order to protect those lovely chromies from the harsh winter salty roads, we got some matte black rims for the cold season. All murdered out.

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Goodbye, Blazer. I will not be missing you. Well, time for me to go shhhnowboarding. Ta ta for now, boys and girls.

And trannies. I haven’t forgotten about you.

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B:   How’s that Jay-Z/Kanye concert going?

A:   Wild. The blacks are going wild.

B:   Haha. Great. Do you feel out of place since you’re not hooting and hollering and humping?

A:   Yes…all of the blacks ran to the front row of my section. I’m just sitting behind them. Haha.

B:   Typical.

A:   This arena just became a Baptist church; he’s singing “Jesus Walks.”

B:   hahaha. Excellent.

A:   The blurry man in the right corner is going to wild he might jump off this balcony.

Lost & Hound

I just spent over an hour f-cking chasing my roommate’s dog down a f-cking river, screaming and sobbing. In my snowboarding boots. I’m livid. I was literally screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, falling down in the snow, crying and cursing the gods. After sixty minutes, I left her for dead and she came back on her own ten minutes later. F-cking bitch.

I need one hundred beers.

In other news, last Saturday, a beautiful big white dog wandered into the apartment parking lot off the highway.

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He appeared to be a white german shepherd/wolf hybrid. He was a little timid at first, but quickly started playing with Raleigh and Bella. He was very friendly, so I invited him inside. He didn’t have a collar on, so I immediately took photos and posted an ad on Craigslist, along with calling the local animal shelters, animal control, and the police department to see if anyone had reported a missing pet. Nothing. I couldn’t possibly let this guy roam around on the busy highway, so we decided to hang on to him until we could locate its owners.

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Six days had passed, and no one seemed to be looking for this dog. We brought him in to a vet’s office to see if he had a microchip, but he had none. Ghost dog. He is the sweetest creature on earth. I love him. He loves me. I’ve been calling him “White Dog” this entire time and he responds to it now. Haha. He’s my shadow. Every  morning at 7:30 a.m., he sits on me. He’s such a lover. I desperately wanted to keep him.

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“Unfortunately,” one of the animal shelters I had contacted the day I had found White Dog called me yesterday and said that the owner was in there looking for the dog. I was flabbergasted that this owner waited six days to contact these pounds to find out if their pet had been found or not, but gave the guy permission to have the man call me. A Mexican man named Juan calls and says he’ll be by around six o’clock to pick White Dog up, whose real name was “Spike” (stupid). He lived literally directly across the highway from us. White Dog obviously loved me more than Juan. He never once tried to run back home. Haha. Anyway, I gave Juan two rubber balls I had bought White Dog because he loved them so much, and told him to keep the collar I had purchased him as well. He tried to offer me $100, but I didn’t take it.

Then I remembered White Dog did break my MacBook by spilling an entire glass of water across my keyboard. Oops. Wish I would have accepted the dollars.

I am devastated to have to let him go. I love that mutt, and miss him terribly. So does Raleigh. Someday I’ll steal him back.

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How is it that you’re always the only people in a Chinese restaurant? I have never been in an Asian restaurant that has been crowded, or even mildly occupied. It’s like, you and your mate walk in, and it’s a ghost town. Just you, all the employees, their children, and their children’s children. For some reason there are always still like eleven Asians working, and all of them rush to help you at once. How do these places stay open? I don’t even care. As long as they keep serving  delicious crab rangoon and fried rice, they can keep money laundering and drug selling in the back. I won’t ask questions.

I’ve been doing some traveling lately, and I’ve been observing the travel attire that people choose while flying. It pisses me off. I feel like I see more high heels at the airport than I do at the bars on a Friday night. You see people who dress up like they’re going to the prom in dresses, full hair and makeup like they’re about to meet the president. You’re flying to Tulsa, lady. Who are you trying to impress? Then there are the people that layer like they’re about to go watch the Iditarod with front row seats out in the open in great outdoor Alaska. Don’t you know you’re going to be stopped by TSA and asked to peel off your clothing layer by layer to ensure you aren’t concealing any weapons, you big stupid onion?

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Speaking of airport security, I have a few things to say about it. One: I don’t understand why they harass, inspect, and strip us to no end before getting on an airplane, but take zero measures whatsoever when boarding a bus, boat, train, taxi, etc. I’m annoyed. Two: I feel like I am the slowest person on earth when it comes time to go through the scanners. I try to take off my shoes, remove my liquids, take out my laptop, and get my jacket off as fast as possible, but I always feel like I can’t do it quick enough. Worse is getting all those items packed back up. I’m standing there scrambling to get it all back together as those plastic bins begin to pile up and block the entire conveyor belt. I panic.

WELL, time to go hang out with the wolf pack. Bi.

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“Kids these days. Carrying guns, raping each other—I mean, we used to literally chase a wheel down the street with sticks. I mean we were poor obviously.”

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Droid Doesn’t.

I’m going to throw my Droid into the ocean. I have had it up to here with this glitchy piece of shit. Last August after my Blackberry stroked out, Trent and I decided to go ahead and head into the Verizon store seeking iPhones, only when we got there, the salesman had a boner over Androids, and long story short, we left with Droid X2’s. At first I was thrilled. My Blackberry was autistic at best, so any functioning work of technology was like seeing Jesus walk on water to me. Things went well for a while, but lately it has gone downhill.

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My phone has gone full retard. It force quits applications constantly, it randomly shuts itself off multiple times a day, screens freeze, the camera refuses to initialize—I’m getting pissed. To make matters worse, I do not have upgrade options until March.

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…….2013!!!!!!!

I am writing both Verizon and Android a letter expressing my discontent. My goal is to get them to at a bare minimum, bump up my upgrade eligibility. Otherwise, I will pistol whip a bitch. I desire an iPhone 4s so badly. Siri and I will be the best of friends. I just can’t wait.

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Due to my lack of blog-writing for the past couple months, this topic is a little outdated, but I just have to touch on it. Did you guys read about the model who walked into a plane propeller? Lauren Scruggs got off a small plane in Dallas, Texas, and shortly thereafter walked straight into the plane’s propeller, losing her left hand and mangling her shoulder and her face.

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How the f-ck does this happen? This isn’t like having one margarita too many and walking into a sliding glass door at the 4th of July party. It’s not like going on a hike and accidentally getting slapped in the face with an aspen branch. You don’t just mosey into an thundering airplane propeller by accident. It’s a PLANE. It’s kind of hard to miss. My first suspicion that she was ham-smacked after drinking 8 gin and tonics on her flight was squashed by ABC News who reported that the woman had not been drinking, so what other possible explanation exists!? Way to battle the “models aren’t all dumb” stigma.

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I need a cattle prod. I feel like it would be an extremely useful tool to have in my arsenal. I would get a lot of use out of it. The price-per-use would balance out beautifully. I could zap loud-mouthed teenagers in movie theaters, rapists, crying children, I’d electrocute people who say, “I seen you,” I’d shock people who are wearing Crocs—the uses are endless. Our roommate’s dog eats her own shit. She won’t stop. As soon as that steaming pile of feces exits the body, she can hardly turn around fast enough to inhale it. It’s nauseating. A good cattle prod shock or two could change that pretty quick I think.

WELL, time to fill up cup o’ tea #3. I can’t stop. BYE!

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B:   “I don’t even really know what to do on a stripper pole.”

C:   “I just try to like hump it and shit.”

Thankfull.

WHY HELLOOOOO!!!!!

I mean, oh, hey you guys. Sap?

Anyway, I trust you all had a filling Thanksgiving. I sure did. If you’re like most gluttonous Americans, you’re probably still digesting pecan pie and green bean casserole, and will be until Boxing Day. Trent and I whipped up a pretty braggable feast, and for all of you who were wondering if I could pull it off, I did successfully make a DELIGHTFUL sweet potato pie. In fact, it was such a hit that I am making two more this week. I should probably start jogging.

It’s really weird to me that female dogs have periods. Like….that’s not very fair. It’s not like they can just stick a tampon up there and take care of business. I’ve only ever owned male dogs, and I intend to keep it that way. I’m not interested in having an emotional, PMSing canine bleeding all over my living room, watching Lady & The Tramp, leaving empty ice cream pints on the coffee table five days a month. Slap a Kotex on that bitch.

I’m really pissed about people who are famous for having things like the “longest hair in the world” or the “longest nails in the world.” It’s so stupid. Having the longest (also see: most disgusting) fingernails in the world does not make you rich. It doesn’t make you more attractive, more desirable, envied, or of a higher social status. It just makes you gross. Cut your nails. They’re not making you any money.  “But I’m famous!!!”  You also can’t eat with a fork or wipe your ass. Cut your nails.
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CUT THEM!!!!

WELL, that’s about it for today. If you haven’t already, make sure you subscribe to Sheppard’s Pie (see right margin of the site to subscribe) and then start leaving comments in order to put yourself into the drawing for this month’s prize drawing!

(See more here: https://beccasheppard.wordpress.com/prizes/ )

This month I’m going to be sending one lucky reader a nice compilation of the rockin’est Christmas jingles you’ve ever heard, plus a few other Christmas surprises. Woo! None of those surprises is poop, I promise. Each comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. See the previous post for details! GOOD LUCK, LADS!

By the way, everyone. I know thankful is spelled “thankful.” It was a play on words. I am very “full” after Thanksgiving. Sigh. Don’t ever second guess my grammar like that again, or you’re OUT.

Toodles.

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B:   “An apple a day keeps the STDs away!”

S:   “I wish I woulda known that in college. I would’ve eaten ’em by the bushel!” 

The gift of giving.

Uh….Fox? First you put a friggin baseball game over The X Factor, and NOW you move X Factor to Sunday on top of DEXTER?!?!?!  Whoever is making the decisions up there needs to choke on a pickle and croak. To make matters worse, for some reason it is impossible to record The X Factor on the DVR. It gets all f-cked up. Looks like we’ll be watching The X Factor in real time, and watching Dexter immediately afterward. Sigh. Difficulties.

Last night before bed, my dog failed to take a dump. Meh, he’ll go in the morning, I shrugged. This morning when I took him out to do his business, he trotted to the end of the porch, realized it was pouring rain and gusting wind, and turned right around and marched back to the front door. I did manage to convince him to at least face the rain for a quick minute to take a pee, but he galloped back to the front door as fast as he could to get out of the driving rain (he’s a diva). Skipping two typical times to poop was unusual, but I figured he could wait until I got home after lunchtime to pinch one off.

My day dragged on, and by the time I finished my tasks at the office and ran to Wal-Mart to get some groceries, it was already 3:45 before I made it home. Trent had beat me there by no more than a minute. The front door opened, and out bounded Raleigh, followed by a displeased looking Trent. “Why don’t you go look at what your dog did,” he said distastefully.

I walked inside the apartment, stepping into the kitchen with a direct view into the living room. Trent’s birthday is on Monday, so there is a nice pile of festively wrapped birthday presents in the corner of the living room. They were all from me, except one. Looks like Raleigh left a “present” of his own. Directly next to the pile of presents was a big steaming pile of runny shit. Poor Raleigh had held his poop in for 18 hours longer than usual, and just couldn’t hold it any longer. When I didn’t get home until late afternoon, he had no choice but to let hell break loose on the living room carpet.

It was a bad one, too. Not just a tidy little dog log. This was a sloppy pile of mushy dog poo. Not ideal.

Anyway, that was my Friday afternoon.

Sorry about how gross that dog shit picture is by the way. Look how shiny it is.

….gross.

While I was at Wal-Mart today, I paused at a shelf at the end of the pet aisle and investigated this product:

“It’s a rain coat…..it’s a bandana…..it’s a…..rain bandana.”

…Is this the best they could do? That’s not even clever. They didn’t even give it a creative name. It’s meat…..it’s a loaf…..it’s a…..meatloaf.

Is anyone really going to buy their animal a rain coat? Is any animal actually going to wear a rain coat? I know my dog is a pussy about the precipitation, but I’m not about to slap a raincoat on him before he scurries outside to tinkle.

Well, that’s enough blasphemy for today I think. Time to bury my face in a million baked goods, compliments of my mother.

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“R is the most menacing of sounds. That’s why they call it MUR-der, and not muckduck.”

Feces Pieces.

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My dog rolled in shit again today. Right before I left for a nice fancy dinner at Red Lobster. He smelled like roadkill. Shit isn’t exactly Miss Dior Cherie. Terrible timing. I went back inside, squirted a hand towel with Dawn dish soap, and scrubbed his head and back with it, then left for my endless-shrimp meal. I wasn’t about to let a feces covered canine ruin my evening plans. After stuffing myself with seafood, I came home to my shit-fest dog, just ranking up the place. I had no choice but to give him an aggressive bathing.

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He knew. The little bastard tried to escape. For the first time ever he resisted the bath. He loves shit that much. Bird poop, cat poop, raccoon poop—he can’t wait to find it and rub his face in it. I’ve never known another creature to love the smell of shit as much as this dog. He did not want it to come off. I scooped his stinky carcass up and dumped him into the shower, where he received a very serious scrubbing with about half a liter of puppy shampoo. I almost had to use vinegar. Unreal.

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Tonight was the first time I ever ate at Red Lobster. I was suckered in by their endless shrimp special. Shrimp refills, as many as I want? Who can say no to that?

It was way too much. They served me enough shrimp to sink a shrimping vessel. I’m going to reek of garlic and butter and seafood until next Wednesday. Just like my dog. Except I smell like food, and he smells like diarrhea.

Red Lobster’s biscuits are a problem. They’re so delicious. I can see myself becoming physically dependent on them. They’re so buttery and soft and wonderful. I want to crawl inside one and hibernate for the winter, then eat my way out of it in the spring. Also, their mashed potatoes? Creamy heavenliness. Those two items alone would keep me coming back.

I like that they named the restaurant “Red” Lobster, as if we didn’t already realize that lobsters were red. Give me a “wet” water please, waiter. Redundancy.

Everyone in the restaurant was the size of a mini van. So many fats. They were there for the endless dishes too, obviously. Red Lobster is like a casino buffet for seafood. People who are eating there consider it a swanky meal because it has “lobster” in the name.

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I really love caesar salads. Nothing gets me going quite like a crispy, slightly anchovy, asiago and romano sprinkled caesar salad with crunchy croutons. Mmm. The issue that I have with salads however is that once I run out of croutons, it’s game over. I can’t keep eating just lettuce. It doesn’t work like that. I need some crunch in my lunch, you know?

I was really excited to get that to rhyme. It was anticlimactic.

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful weekend filled with whiskey, fast food, and shame. Until next time, I bid you adieu.

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“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”