There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but what about a dog? How many ways are there to de-fur a canine, preferably while making it suffer a slow, agonizing death? I ask this not out of curiosity, but out of necessity. You see I have a problem. Actually I have several problems (narcolepsy, insomnia, anorexia and obesity to name but a few), but right now there is one problem that is afflicting me more than all the others combined. It is small – puppy-sized to be precise – and yet it is causing me to contemplate murder in the cruelest, most inhumane way.
To explain, let me tell you a bit about my current living arrangements. (But not too much, because you really don’t wanna know about the blow-up doll called Peggy Sue who sleeps on top of me every nite, or my propensity for shitting in plastic bags and lobbing them out the window when I can’t be arsed walking to the bathroom.) At present, I am a lodger. You know those sad single men who rent a room in someone else’s house because they’ve just left home and don’t have a girlfriend or any mates to stay with and so they sit alone in their room nite after nite, eating Pot Noodles and beating off? Yep, that’s me. Although in saying that, I do have a girlfriend, and a couple of acquaintances who would probably begrudgingly concede that they were my mates, plus I left home ten years ago, so what’s my excuse? Well, right about now I can’t afford to rent a place of my own (that’s the trouble with earning an honest wage), and besides, because I like being mothered, there are certain advantages that come with abiding under someone else’s roof. Such as the knowledge that I need only leave my laundry basket outside my door and when I return home my cum-stained CKs will have been exchanged for a neatly folded pile of clean boxer shorts.
The property I partially call my home, a three-floor townhouse in deepest suburbia, accommodates four people (though it could easily take more). On the bottom floor, in the humble bedroom/bathroom/utility room, there is me, The Lodger. And then, above me, there is The Family. Comprising of a married couple and daughter, they occupy the top two floors. The middle floor I am technically allowed to visit on occasions, but generally choose not to, preferring instead to fester in my bedroom, eating Pot Noodles and beating off (sometimes at the same time.) The top floor, however, I am not permitted to set foot in at all on pain of death. It is, to all intents and purposes, the forbidden floor from The Others, occupied only by ghosts, unless of course I am the ghost, in which case it is occupied by humans. Although my rented abode is undoubtedly comfortable (the middle – and presumably top – floors especially), it suffers from the malaise that affects all modern edifices; paper-thin walls and ceilings. Directly above my bedroom is The Family’s living room. Indeed, were the slender floor/ceiling ever to collapse – a not unlikely proposition – I would be crushed under the weight of their pool table. The house is so flimsy that my girlfriend and I have already been chastised twice on account of certain noises that have emanated from my bedroom. (What can I say; she never gave me any warning she was gonna do that with her finger.) Of course, it works both ways, and every sound that resonates within their living room filters through into my bedroom. Most of it – the clank of pool balls, the mother screaming at the daughter and vice versa – I can ignore. However, there is one sound in particular that has lately afflicted my earballs so acutely that I now find myself with a mind set on murder. When I first heard it, a couple of weeks ago, I thought the high-pitched squeal was that of a new toy that the daughter was playing with. My girlfriend, on the other hand, thought it was the squeak of a vacuum cleaner. (I’ve never heard a hoover squeak before, but then I’ve never attempted to do some of the things with the nozzle that she has). What neither of us considered was that it might actually be a real, live dog, and that the infuriatingly pathetic squeak was its attempt at a bark. It was funny for the first five minutes. And then it was just really, really annoying. Every morning, my final – and most precious – hour’s kip is interrupted by the yelp yelp of that odious little bastard, swiftly followed by the landlady’s screams of ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Amusement, which swiftly turned to annoyance, has morphed into apoplexy. Now, whenever my slumber is terminated by that yappity yap yap, thoughts of doggy death start brooding. What if I dropped it from the top (forbidden) floor to its death? It could be made to look like an accident. What about the microwave? The little bastard would surely fit in there. Or the dishwasher? Or, how’s about I just go straight for the jugular and rip its throat out with my teeth?
For all my threats of poochicide, the fact remains that I have yet to set eyes on the high-pitched hound. It could look nothing like the scrawny runt I have written it off as. If I sneak upstairs armed with a toothpick, only to be met by a snarling Alsatian, then it is I who will be yelping off with my tail firmly between my legs. This afternoon, while writing these words, its wretched whining became so grating that I responded the only way I knew how – by opening my door, cranking the stereo and unleashing the full fury of Blood Brothers. That appeared to temporarily disable its dismal whimpering, and I was just preparing to sharpen my knives and take the pain to another level when The Family arrived home. At this point, the little fucker had the audacity to shut up completely, making out that it hadn’t spent the last two hours torturing my ear drums. I then felt obliged to follow suit, donning my sincerest smile and making out that I hadn’t spent the last two hours thinking up ways to torture their pet. A part of me feels bad for even contemplating whacking the poor girl’s doggy, and then I start to think think maybe I‘m being a bit harsh; perhaps I could just cut its tongue off and leave its head attached to the body. But then it starts its yip yap yapping once more and my thoughts return to unfortunate altercations with soup blenders or fateful introductions to Chinese restaurateurs. There’s only space for one whining little bitch in this household, and I was here first. That doggy’s leaving here in a doggy bag.
To explain, let me tell you a bit about my current living arrangements. (But not too much, because you really don’t wanna know about the blow-up doll called Peggy Sue who sleeps on top of me every nite, or my propensity for shitting in plastic bags and lobbing them out the window when I can’t be arsed walking to the bathroom.) At present, I am a lodger. You know those sad single men who rent a room in someone else’s house because they’ve just left home and don’t have a girlfriend or any mates to stay with and so they sit alone in their room nite after nite, eating Pot Noodles and beating off? Yep, that’s me. Although in saying that, I do have a girlfriend, and a couple of acquaintances who would probably begrudgingly concede that they were my mates, plus I left home ten years ago, so what’s my excuse? Well, right about now I can’t afford to rent a place of my own (that’s the trouble with earning an honest wage), and besides, because I like being mothered, there are certain advantages that come with abiding under someone else’s roof. Such as the knowledge that I need only leave my laundry basket outside my door and when I return home my cum-stained CKs will have been exchanged for a neatly folded pile of clean boxer shorts.
The property I partially call my home, a three-floor townhouse in deepest suburbia, accommodates four people (though it could easily take more). On the bottom floor, in the humble bedroom/bathroom/utility room, there is me, The Lodger. And then, above me, there is The Family. Comprising of a married couple and daughter, they occupy the top two floors. The middle floor I am technically allowed to visit on occasions, but generally choose not to, preferring instead to fester in my bedroom, eating Pot Noodles and beating off (sometimes at the same time.) The top floor, however, I am not permitted to set foot in at all on pain of death. It is, to all intents and purposes, the forbidden floor from The Others, occupied only by ghosts, unless of course I am the ghost, in which case it is occupied by humans. Although my rented abode is undoubtedly comfortable (the middle – and presumably top – floors especially), it suffers from the malaise that affects all modern edifices; paper-thin walls and ceilings. Directly above my bedroom is The Family’s living room. Indeed, were the slender floor/ceiling ever to collapse – a not unlikely proposition – I would be crushed under the weight of their pool table. The house is so flimsy that my girlfriend and I have already been chastised twice on account of certain noises that have emanated from my bedroom. (What can I say; she never gave me any warning she was gonna do that with her finger.) Of course, it works both ways, and every sound that resonates within their living room filters through into my bedroom. Most of it – the clank of pool balls, the mother screaming at the daughter and vice versa – I can ignore. However, there is one sound in particular that has lately afflicted my earballs so acutely that I now find myself with a mind set on murder. When I first heard it, a couple of weeks ago, I thought the high-pitched squeal was that of a new toy that the daughter was playing with. My girlfriend, on the other hand, thought it was the squeak of a vacuum cleaner. (I’ve never heard a hoover squeak before, but then I’ve never attempted to do some of the things with the nozzle that she has). What neither of us considered was that it might actually be a real, live dog, and that the infuriatingly pathetic squeak was its attempt at a bark. It was funny for the first five minutes. And then it was just really, really annoying. Every morning, my final – and most precious – hour’s kip is interrupted by the yelp yelp of that odious little bastard, swiftly followed by the landlady’s screams of ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Amusement, which swiftly turned to annoyance, has morphed into apoplexy. Now, whenever my slumber is terminated by that yappity yap yap, thoughts of doggy death start brooding. What if I dropped it from the top (forbidden) floor to its death? It could be made to look like an accident. What about the microwave? The little bastard would surely fit in there. Or the dishwasher? Or, how’s about I just go straight for the jugular and rip its throat out with my teeth?
For all my threats of poochicide, the fact remains that I have yet to set eyes on the high-pitched hound. It could look nothing like the scrawny runt I have written it off as. If I sneak upstairs armed with a toothpick, only to be met by a snarling Alsatian, then it is I who will be yelping off with my tail firmly between my legs. This afternoon, while writing these words, its wretched whining became so grating that I responded the only way I knew how – by opening my door, cranking the stereo and unleashing the full fury of Blood Brothers. That appeared to temporarily disable its dismal whimpering, and I was just preparing to sharpen my knives and take the pain to another level when The Family arrived home. At this point, the little fucker had the audacity to shut up completely, making out that it hadn’t spent the last two hours torturing my ear drums. I then felt obliged to follow suit, donning my sincerest smile and making out that I hadn’t spent the last two hours thinking up ways to torture their pet. A part of me feels bad for even contemplating whacking the poor girl’s doggy, and then I start to think think maybe I‘m being a bit harsh; perhaps I could just cut its tongue off and leave its head attached to the body. But then it starts its yip yap yapping once more and my thoughts return to unfortunate altercations with soup blenders or fateful introductions to Chinese restaurateurs. There’s only space for one whining little bitch in this household, and I was here first. That doggy’s leaving here in a doggy bag.
1 comment:
Just Drown it...
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