This is What I Come Home To?
When I go off to work in the morning, I usually come home. When I go out to run some errands, I come home. Heck, even if I go to Toronto when I feel like being an ethnic minority, I usually eventually get home.
There was something very different about when I got home today. Something unusual. Something I haven’t experienced in almost four years. When I opened the door, it wasn’t just the usual odour of prepackaged bachelor chow and loneliness I smelled. There was another, more pungent odour mixed in. I stepped into the living room to find this:
Well what the hell. I don’t remember pooing anywhere but the toilet, and besides, it’s WAY to small to be one of mine. I’ve got to figure out how it got there, so I put on my detective cap.
It’s too small to be one of mine. Hmm. Who else? Who’s small and has a lot of poop. I know, it was that dastardly bastard moooooooooog. He’s small and poops a lot, and I wouldn’t put it past him to leave a present on my floor.
It couldn’t be mooooooooog though, because not only have I taken every precaution to make sure he doesn’t know where I live, he’s also afraid to come back to Canada. It seems last time he was here he got a thrashing and hasn’t been back since. That’ll teach ya to try to be a smart ass in the French Quarter Moooooog. We all know Francophones have zero sence of humor.
I then thought that perhaps the magical poo fairy had left a deposit for me, after years of neglect.
So it wasn’t me, it wasn’t mooooog and it wasn’t the poo fairy. There are no poo flinging monkey’s in Canada, so how the hell did it get there? It was then that I heard a noise. It was very faint, and it almost sounded like whistling.
That’s right dog, hang your head in shame. That is NOT where you’re supposed to poo. Now pick it up and put it on the front steps of the school, just like I taught you.
Good girl.
