In honor of Vito’s 3rd (21st) birthday today
OOOOOOH. Lucky me. Some friggin' birthday - Thanks. How about throwing me that stick of pepperoni from Tutto Italiano instead of this lame appearance on your blog that nobody reads? First of all, look at this picture of me. I look friggin’ ridiculous. I’m already the laughing stock of the neighborhood because of this foolish collar. Now I'm the laughing stock of the blogosphere because I don't have opposable thumbs and can't upload a decent photo of myself.
Speaking of situations-no-win - Xena and Zeus, the pugs that live around the corner -- we used to hang out. You know, nothing serious, a little bum sniffing, a little frolicking around the rhododendrons. Last week, I heard them chugging around the corner like the tugboats they are, and I hid like some kind of girly poodle-chihuahua mix. If they saw me in this Mickey Mouse PetSafe collar, they’d laugh their fat, wrinkled asses off and I wouldn’t blame them. It’s humiliating. This collar has put a Golden Retriever-sized dent in the formidable street cred I’d carved out here on Brookwood Road. Everyone here knew I was from the mean streets of Eastie. There were pitbulls in my old neighborhood and FYI – they were all scared shitless of me.
Believe me, I’ve outwitted the PetFence system before and will again. First there was the “lightning strike” that disabled the fence back in August. HA! It was ME! But then Carl from PetSafe, who smells like a sex offender, came back and rebooted the system. Last month, I chewed the PetSafe collar in half, rendering it useless. But Jamie called and – lo and behold - Carl came running like a sycophantic Beagle in candy-apple trouser socks. I’d chomp that guy’s friggin’ kneecaps off if I could reach them. So here I am, on my 21st birthday, feeling like a complete buffoon. Meanwhile, I’m sleeping with one eye open because Jamie hurls king-sized pillows and shoes at me all night long, carrying on like a madman about how loud I'm snoring. FYI - I don’t snore, I snort. It's a pug thing. I'm bracycephalic.
In addition to being short-nosed and asthmatic, there is the day-to-day crap I have to endure: Caroline thinks I’m her own personal pack mule. I’m overweight for Chrissakes. I’m sucking wind after one lap around the kitchen island. I can't take it. All I want is to sit on the couch, eat a few baby carrots, and if that round kid Paulie throws me a few nugs of Pirate’s Booty, great. But not for nothing -- how about throwing me some parma proscuitto every now and then. My life is bullshit. All I want is all of the food in the house. I want to sleep in the big bed upstairs and be Lord of the Manor. I want Jamie to hand feed me bacon and pepperoni. It’s not too much to ask on one’s 21st birthday.
16 comments:
You can no longer reach Kate at our home #. Try her at the Shaddok Hospital in the Psychiatric ward.
Shattuck.
And that wasn't me. It was Vito, perfectly channeled.
that picture looks like he's had about a dozen.
james,
if you put him in wool socks and put him on the carpet, will that set the collar off?...
I think there is an angry drunk with road rage trapped inside Vito's body. He's going through some issues right now.
After Vito gets boozed up, will he celebrate his birthday in style with the soccer ball or bunny? To follow WMD's lead, will this static electricity set off his collar?
I am hoping all this talk about wool socks and static electricity is not leading up to some mad science experiment here in Hanover. I will protect you, Vito. I'll throw your collar into the woods. FYI..the soccer ball is history. It's been removed from the premises for sanitary reasons.
how could I hurt a dog that loves prosciutto di parma? LP cooked some up twice in the last week. I'm humping enough soccer balls to be sponsored by f.i.f.a.
part of this I blame on James. As LP and I stopped in DeLuca's market last night and split a hot cappicola sandwich (yes Jamie, hot not sweet), I was telling her that I hadn't had a good italian sandwich in about 5 years. And since the fateful day of meeting Jamie when he bought us a FINE Iti, I have been craving them ever since.
Luckily, Tutto Italiano opened up right down the street, WMD. Perhaps we can scare you up a fine italian sandwich this weekend.
BTW...We'll remove all soccer balls from the home upon your arrival. There are kids here.
SB-Caroline is going to a Build-a-Bear b-day party next weekend. It'll take years to erase that visual of Sassy Bear and Vito from my mind. What a tramp.
Happy Birthday, Vito. You big ottomon of a dog, you.
I am ignoring WMD's comments about the soccer ball above and am now alarmed by the similarities between WMD and Vito: Both have Italian names and share a love of cured meats. Each considered himself a notorious "Ladies' Man" until recently tethered by the "ball & chain" and a PetSafe collar. WMD does love to lounge about on the couch... Oh my God...I am marrying a Pug.
OMG, LP. While WMD certainly does not physically resemble a pug, your assessment is frighteningly uncanny. Lock up your throw pillows!!!
Ahh Mike D. I will gladly share the secret book of Sandwiches with you. I truly respect anyone who appreciates a real Italian.
Your blog is funny...for me to poop on!
No, seriously I got some good laughs out of this one.
Show Vito my beerloving cat, Simba--though he may get jealous.
http://christellize.blogspot.com
BTW, saw your link on Letter from Eastie's blog.
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