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this note is written to a middle-aged tanorexic woman who spends her time sunbathing or running, always accompanied by a diet coke
Dear Small Black Man,
What is the deal with your dog? I know he's old and sweet and has a limp that rivals the one I've got post-ACL surgery (though mine seems to be getting better, and his seems to be getting worse). I don't mind that he sleeps right in front of my front door, you know, as long as he doesn't mind when I step on him. I don't mind that his little doggy excrement can be found throughout our yard and flower beds. I mean, you do pick it up every month or so. I don't mind that when he goes on a barking frenzy, you seem to never hear. C'mon, it is hysterical when your old and crippled dog tries to take on the young, healthy, and possibly insane lab across the street! What I do mind is when Mr. I'm Old And Tired And Not Moving is taking a nap in the middle of the street and nearly causing traffic accidents. I bet you didn't spy that blue chrysler swerve around him and almost sideswipe me while I was backing out of the driveway this morning, didja? The dog is probably still there, snoozing happily away. Isn't this why we have back yards?
xox
Amy
p.s. I also wonder why you vacuum your front room every night between 10:30 and 11:30. Are there any fibers left in your carpet?
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