Keep it leashed at the park. If, for some reason, you cannot always keep it on a leash–hell, I don’t jog, maybe having a dog tied to you fucks up your running chi–put it on the god damn leash when you see Mrs. Wigglebottom and I coming. Because, let me tell you, next time it looks like your dog is going to bite my dog, I’m going to just let go of my dog’s leash and let her take care of it.
p.s. Dear Butcher, if you ever come home in the middle of the night again for the express purpose of apparently using all the gas in my car, I will beat you with my car. Maybe not with the whole thing, but the parts that are currently held on by duct tape due to you.
Whew. Okay, I feel better.
Finally I meet someone with a comparable rage factor. Marry me.
I’ll marry you, but only if you promise we can spend our honeymoon driving around fighting with jackasses. That and that you’ll be good to my dog. And that you’ll do the god damned dishes sometimes.
Did you get your zombie rage out? I get this too. Almost beat my father’s wife a wedding cake last night. (Obviously, I was at a wedding.)If only I hadn’t had champagne, which made me somewhat lethargic and instead I became apathetic.