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Branching out

Mar2

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 10 Comments

I got rear-ended on the way to work a couple of weeks ago.  I’m fine, and my car didn’t have too much damage, but it’s still just a pain in the ass to take care of.  Between the estimate, recorded phone call with the insurance company, and official declaration of the other party’s guilt, it was a while before I could actually drop my car off to get fixed.

When it came to getting a (paid for) rental car, my insurance guy said, “You can get one that would cost up to $50 a day.  And no offense, but that’s going to be something a lot nicer than your car.”  I wasn’t offended, but I was a little intrigued about how much style I could be rolling in for the estimated three days.  I spoke to the rental company the day before going in, and the rep there was more enthusiastic about my upgrade: “We’re gonna get you in something really nice, man.  You qualify for the Luxury category, so something like…”  It was at this point in retelling the story to fellow blogger Mike Honcho that he cut in and said, “Let me guess: a Chrystler 300.” “Yes!” I said, “How’d you guess?”  He said he figured it would be American and that’s the one that’s supposed to look like a Bentley when it’s all tricked out.  We laughed about it because, well, I don’t imagine too many people hear “luxury” and immediately think “Chrystler.”

The day came, and the rental guy walked me out to the lot which seemed to have about five cars in it.  “Hmm,” he said, looking around.  “How about that Mustang?” he asked while pointing to a black convertible in the corner.  “Sure,” I said, though not very enthusiastically.  It sounded like fun, but I’d be driving when dark and/or cold probably every time I was in the car, and I didn’t want to spend too much on gas.  A few minutes later, the guy returned.  “Sorry, that one’s already taken.  I can try to find you a Dodge Charger at one of our other branches or…we have a Prius.”  “The Prius would be great,” I said (especially when compared to a Dodge Charger I’d have to travel for).  “Yeah?” he asked.  “Yeah, and fuel efficient.”  “Right on,” he replied.  He went back to the office to get the keys, and I laughed to myself about temporarily being another Prius in Topanga Canyon on my way to and from work.  Then it occurred to me that I didn’t see a Prius anywhere in the lot.  The dude returned with a big smile and said, “I’ve got something even better!  We’ve got a Leaf!”  I followed his pointing finger over to a bright blue car that was plugged in next to the Mustang.  “Uh…ok,” I said while I tried to figure out what having that car would actually mean.

“It’s really cool,” the guy said, “and it can go up to 100 miles between charges.”  “Oh…wait, only 100 miles?  I don’t know where any…charging places are or anything.”  He then showed me that it came with its own plug and all I had to do was charge it overnight and I’d be set.  And zero money on gas.  I was intrigued to say the least, because it was a very different scenario than I had imagined.  And maybe I could even shame the Topanga Prius folks with my 100% electric action.  After showing me how to work a few things, I got in the eerily quiet car and headed back to work.  That’s the first time it happened: I saw the “miles remaining” display on the dashboard.  It said 59, and I had the slightest wave of anxiety come over me.  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I told myself.

When I left for home that evening, the car said I had 57 miles left.  I knew that it was only about 23 miles to home or so, but I didn’t know the effect that traffic or the normally fuel-inefficient canyon would have on this super golf cart.  I had joked with a co-worker before leaving that I might need her to bring me an extension cord if I ran out of juice, but I was almost completely kidding.  (An extension cord to reach all the way to the nearest house so I could plug in, of course.)  Driving the car was interesting.  It didn’t have a lot of pickup, but it was cool in its own way.  I kept watching how many miles I had left, and then I saw below it was how long it would take to fully recharge based on my status.  It already said around 9.5 hours, which worried me a bit since I knew I’d be home not too much longer than that before leaving the next day.

Well, my friends, the “miles left” number started dropping.  At one point in the canyon, it got all the way down to 16 and your humble blogger here was starting to freak out a bit – especially since I was in a place with no cell reception.  Once I started going downhill some more, it climbed back up to the 30s eventually, but hoo boy, that didn’t work so well for me.  Not only that, it told me I needed 13.5 hours to fully charge.  Awesome.  My lovely wife helped me back into the garage in a way that the plug would reach the nearest outlet and the car.  It was very strange plugging in “my” car, but I was more concerned with how much of a charge I would get overnight and if it would take me all the way to work and back the next day.  My wise wife pointed out, “You only need enough to get to work and then back to the rental place to exchange it if need be.”  Excellent point.

The next morning, it said I had 89 miles.  “Ok,” I thought, “I can deal with that I that.  And it’s only for another day or two.”  Well, that 89 went immediately to 66 in the canyon, so my thoughts went directly to, “No, fuck this shit.”  Then the downhill part started and the miles went up and up until they reached 91 – yes, more than when I had left.  I got on the 10 for the last few miles of my trip, and the wind resistance brought it all the way back down to the 60s by the time I arrived.  At that point, I thought, “Ok, this clearly isn’t for me, but I think I can tough it out.  And I’d really rather not have to take another trip to the rental place if I’m able to deal with this.”  The way home got down to 17, but I held it together.

The next morning,when I unplugged the car, I was fully charged at 105 miles displayed as the range.  “Aw yeah, no problem today!” I thought.  Within five minutes, it was at 71.  Later in the canyon it went to 113.  The few miles of freeway saw it go from 91 to 77 in about 3 minutes.  It was driving me fucking crazy.  Turns out I’m not alone, and there’s a term called “range anxiety” commonly used for just this purpose.  I read that Wikipedia page and nodded along like a fellow member of a support group was telling a very similar story to my own.

I called the auto body shop and was told that it would actually be a few more days than anticipated.  That meant that I wouldn’t have my car when I needed to take the kids to school (and I hadn’t transferred the carseats since it was only going to be three days originally).  My lovely wife and I could switch cars on those days, except the Leaf wouldn’t reliably (if at all) take her to her farther-away office and back.  (Oh yeah, the Nissan site for the Leaf suggests people plan their trips around charging stations – how fun!)  So I called the rental company, and they said they had plenty of cars in stock for me to swap out the Leaf and get something else.  I wasn’t too sad about ending my eco-friendly experiment.  When I got there, an employee helped me out and then said to take a look around to see what car I’d like.  “I have the Luxury class…does that Volvo fall into that category?” I asked.  It was a sporty little thing that looked like fun, and I don’t normally think of cars like that.  “No, that’s Elite.  You can pay a little more for that if you want.”  I said the whole point was that it was free, so no thanks.  “Oh!” she said excitedly, “I’ve got something great!”  I followed her over to a silver car.  “This is the Chrystler 300,” she beamed.

So that’s what I have now and will until Tuesday or Wednesday.  It is actually quite nice, with a lot of bells and whistles and some good power.  Best of all, it has a familiar, comforting, and slowly-but-directionally-consistent gas gauge on the dashboard.  I’ll take it.

 

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The bright stuff

Feb2

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

As I mentioned before in this space, I take the winding roads of Topanga and Old Topanga Canyon to and from work on most days.  Depending on the time of year and time of day, I often have to use my brights on Old Topanga when coming home.  I know the road well by now, but it’s really dark and the extra light makes a hell of a difference when no other cars are around.

Being the courteous driver I am, I’m always super concerned about turning off the brights immediately upon seeing an oncoming car somewhere in the distance.  Their lights give them away usually a turn (or half a turn) before our paths meet, so I often have ample time to avoid blinding someone on the steep and windy road.  Aren’t I sweet?

Here’s what I’ve noticed though recently: I have the power to make other cars appear.  (My lovely wife might already be thinking, “The world doesn’t work that way” even before reading my explanation, and she’s right of course, but hear me out.  And honey, my sitting position absolutely affects how well the Lakers are playing – I’m not giving up on that one.  Though I should really be looking for new sitting positions since they’ve all been failing recently).  Much like my ability to make a rainy day sunny by leaving my sunglasses in the car, my usage of brights dictates whether or not I’ll be alone on Old Topanga.  Here, in all of blog’s glory, are how my powers manifest themselves:

Every car I’ve ever driven (to my knowledge) has had two ways to turn on the brights. (Sorry, another tangent.  I like the name “brights.”  It’s like two car makers were sitting around right after the variable-intensity bulbs were put into the first car and had a conversation.  “So we have our new and improved headlights,” said one, “complete with the ability to make them brighter when needed.”  “We should call them something,” said the second.  “The variable bulbs?” asked the first.  “No, just the brighter lights themselves.  You know, they’re not just regular lights; they also transform into super lights.”  “I see,” the first replied.  “But what should we call them?  We have lights and brighter lights.  Super lights? By golly, old chap, I think I’ve got it.   Lights and…brights!”  “Yeah…I’m not so sure about that.  I see where you’re going with the whole adjective-into-noun thing, and it’s good, but it might be a little confusing,” said the second.  “No, this is good stuff!  Why do you always have to be like that?  Is it because my dad owns the company and you think I get special treatment or something?  Is it because of that time by the lake when we had a little too much wine and things got a little weird and confusing?  Because I told you, that…that was an accident and won’t happen again.  I hardly even remember it and totally don’t think about it on dark and lonely nights.  Oh yeah, brights! We were talking about brights!  We’re going with that name.  My dad’s the boss.  Ya know, fuck you and the high horse you rode in on.  I’m tired of this shit.  Unless you wanna go to the lake again this weekend like old times?  Yeah, me neither.  I was just kidding anyway.”  I’m pretty sure it went down exactly like that.)  Wow, where was I?  Ah yes, two ways to turn on brights: you pull the lever toward you for the temporary version, or push it away from you until it pops into the lasting version.  Here is what I’ve learned: if I keep the lever pulled toward me in the temporary fashion, I will come across 0-2 cars during my whole time on that road.  As soon as I think, “It’s easier if I just leave them on” and push the lever away from me, I’ll see approaching headlights and need to turn them off.  It happens within seconds every time I do that.  I can make cars appear.  Keep holding the short-term brights, and it’s just me and the occasional coyote that crosses my path (which is why I really do need them).  Turn on the long-term ones, and it’s a frickin’ party in Old Topanga.

There.  I feel better now getting that off my chest.  It’s a burden having powers and not sharing them with others, so thank you for being there for me.  If you even need a car to appear on a dark road, a rainy day to turn sunny, or for the Lakers to keep playing at the same level of success or lack thereof, you know where to find me.  Have a great weekend.

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The ugly art of holding back

Jan20

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Much like McRib, sexy, and the ghosts from Poltergeist 2, I’m back.  Well at least for this one post – let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here.  Sorry for the months-long hiatus; hopefully doing this one and getting it under my belt will remind me that it’s easy to get little thoughts out there.  Thank God my fellow bloggers have picked up the slack and kept you amused during my absence.  Anyway I was out to dinner with my lovely wife and a few friends, and as I told a couple of them a story, I realized that it was the exact kind of thing I used to write about here.  Here goes:

I’ve been at my job for almost a year now, which is crazy on both sides of the coin; that is, it’s flown by but I also feel like my last job was a lifetime ago.  Funny how that works.  Despite feeling very comfortable there, it’s still a work setting and I have to monitor myself in a way that I really didn’t in my last position.  Recently, a co-worker of mine was telling me about her mom teaching piano.  She said that she and her siblings all learned growing up, and while she’s pretty good, her brother is a better player.  She seemed a little bothered by this, and I knew exactly how I wanted to reply: “So you have a little pianist envy?”  It popped into my head, started its trek to my mouth, and almost made it out before I considered the appropriateness of the statement, debated, and held it in.  In case you’re wondering, that process manifested itself in a beautiful sentence that sounded roughly like this: “So…hmm, yeah, heh heh, you…uhhh, that’s…I see.”  Was that better or worse than if I had just said the line?  Tough call.

One of the first rules in improv is that – though very difficult – if the timing of a line isn’t right, it’s much better to just let it go rather than try forcing it in where it doesn’t fit.  I had the line I wanted to use and the timing on this one, but the whole “professionalism” thing adds an extra degree of difficulty when trying to be funny at the workplace.  One year in, and I’m still trying to meet that challenge head on.  And if that means that my joke about Lorena Bobbitt and Monica Lewinsky has to stay under wraps, then I suppose there are worse things.  Right?

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Siri-ous frustration

Jun7

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 8 Comments

I recently moved away from my long relationship with Blackberry and joined the millions of iPhone users.  Some of the functions aren’t quite as easy on the new phone, but many others are a hell of a lot better.  My version of the iPhone came with Siri, and I was pretty eager to check out her capabilities.

Overall, it’s pretty damn impressive.  “How old is Andy Samburg?” I asked her after seeing that he was playing Adam Sandler’s son in a movie.  “Maybe this will help,” she said, and she displayed his birthday and current age.  “How many pounds are in one stone?” I asked after Adam Carolla wondered the same thing aloud on his podcast.  “Ok, here you go,” she replied, showing me the conversion.  She’s great with reminders, and decent with sending simple text messages too, but it’s not all peaches and cream, my friends.

I have an entry in my address book called “Home.”  When leaving work each day, I say, “Call Home.”  90% of the time she responds with, “Ok, calling Home. Home.”  The other 10%?  “I’m sorry, but you don’t have a home number associated with your contact information,” or something like that.  I say it the same way each time, but she’s not consistent.  The same goes with calling my parents.  “Call Parents,” I used to say.  75% of the time, no problem.  The rest of the time I was met with, “Ok, what is your parent’s name?”  “PARENTS,” I’d say in return, since that’s the name of the entry.  “Ok, what is your parent’s name?”  I changed it to “My Parents” in the address book, but that may be even worse.  The thing that kills me is that it works some of the time and not others, even when I haven’t altered the way I ask at all.

But here’s the one that made me write about her.  I was in San Diego for business and driving back to my office in Santa Monica.  The freeway entrance I was all set to take was under construction, and the signs for a detour were inadequate for someone of my horrific sense of direction.  “Get me to the 5 North,” I said.  She didn’t understand that, which I thought was an acceptable thing.  “Get me to the Santa Monica Airport,” I said, picking something I knew was close enough that the directions would start me off on the right path.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t find anything called ‘Santa Monica Airport.'”  I was a little dubious but undeterred.  “Get me to LAX,” I said.  “I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I can’t find anything called ‘Los Angeles International Airport.'” “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I said out loud.  I only said “LAX,” which she somehow knew meant “Los Angeles International Airport”…but then couldn’t find it anywhere?  I felt like she was deliberately fucking with me, and I may or may not have called her a “lying ass bitch.”

Aside from that though, the phone’s pretty cool.

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That’s bullshit: Theme song edition

May13

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Wow, it’s been a long while.  Sorry about that – I’ve been meaning to write a whole bunch of things, but I’ve been a wee bit overextended of late and sadly you, my loyal 5-7 readers, have suffered as a consequence. Good thing my fellow bloggers have stepped up and filled in the gaps, eh? Oh.  Well, something popped into my head yesterday morning, and if I don’t get it out now, it might be another long while until I can make that happen.

I’m not sure why, but the theme song from “Gilligan’s Island” was playing in my head at about 5:45am.  A lot has been made over the years about this song, namely pointing out the amount of luggage people had for what was supposed to be a “three-hour tour” (though they still wore the same outfits almost all the time, right?).  Another common theme I’ve heard extends throughout the series: don’t The Skipper and The Professor have real names? (According to Wikipedia, yes they do.  I kinda wish I never looked at that though.)  I consider all of that old news though, for something different struck me about the song this time.  “If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost,” we’re told in the song.  Granted, I haven’t seen the first couple of episodes of that show for…I don’t know, maybe 25 years, but that’s a very important line.  I can’t recall a single instance of the other castaways thanking The Skipper and Gilligan for their heroism.  Yes, they were stranded on an island with no sign of rescue, but the crew saved their frickin’ lives.  I would hope that they could express a little gratitude for that.  But no, all I remember is poor Gilligan getting made fun of and/or belittled with nary a “thank you” to be heard.  The island was not a fate worse than death, so that type of behavior isn’t just wrong – that’s bullshit.

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The great impression

Apr7

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

I was standing at my desk when a colleague came by.  She said, “Hey, can you come into my office? I want to show you something.”  If real life had a pause button, employing it here would’ve allowed to me think for a minute before answering.  I would’ve thought about a few things:

1. I’ve never really spoken to this person before, excluding very brief pleasantries.
2. I’ve only been here about two months, so maybe I should wait a little longer before revealing what a weirdo I am.
3. She kinda reminds me of Angela from “The Office,” who is portrayed as very proper and conservative.

But oh, this silly life does not (yet) have pause buttons, so I just responded as I normally would: “Ok, but if it’s a severed head, I’m going to be very upset.”  My favorite brother is nodding right now because he knows I’m quoting “Wayne’s World,” but not everyone was a teenage boy when that movie came out in 1992.  Halfway through the sentence, I started thinking, “Oh crap, why did you answer this way?  You don’t really know this person and this is your real first impression with her.  Way to let your freak flag fly, buddy.”

I finished my sentence and she turned back to look at me.  Without missing a beat, she replied, “What if it’s a mutilated kitty?” “Oh that’s totally fine,” I said, and we finished walking to her office.  Now that line, my friends, is not from “Wayne’s World” or really anything I can think of.  So she just called my strange and unpleasant comment and raised me with one I find to be even more disturbing.  And ya know what?  I applaud that shit out of that.

Is there some moral about how one should always be true to him/herself and speak freely?  No, I think I just got lucky.  It might not have worked out the same way if I had gone with “Schwing!” instead.

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Don’t name that tune

Mar24

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 7 Comments

We recently co-hosted a couples baby shower for fellow blogger Mike Honcho and the expecting Mrs. Honcho.  Co-host Lisa put me in charge of the games for the shower, so I spent some time looking online and trying to think up two easy and not stupid ones.  It was harder than I expected since almost everything online sounded god awful, disgusting, and/or moronic, but I think we ultimately succeeded.

One of the games was a Jeopardy-esque “answer and question” extravaganza.  We had guests write out answers to specific pre-written baby-related questions, and then I read those answers aloud.  The parents-to-be would confer and then guess the questions – nothing mind-blowing but pretty solid, right?  Well I was particularly excited about one of the questions: “What song shouldn’t you sing to your baby?”  If I had been given this card, I probably would’ve gone with “Afternoon Delight” for its wholly inappropriate subject matter.  And I would’ve been wrong.  This is one of those rare times in which I think there is an absolutely correct answer, and Mrs. Honcho’s sister’s boyfriend nailed it.  “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails is the song, and it’s 100% perfect.

If you know the song, you’re nodding in agreement.  If you’re my mom, you’re foolishly still thinking that “Afternoon Delight” would’ve been a good answer.  Well Mom, most people know “Closer” as the “I wanna fuck you like an animal” song, since that line is repeated – and later screamed – several times in the song.  It begins with, “You let me violate you/You let me desecrate you/You let me penetrate you.”  (On the plus side, you can’t spell “penetrate” without Peter.)  And it’s not just the words; the song’s hard, electronic beat is the antithesis of a lullaby.  It’s perfect, and I was a little upset with myself for not thinking of it first.

Naturally, I spent the next day trying to one-up or even match that choice.  The easy path is picking any gangsta rap song, but I’m going to argue that those are off limits since they’re not “sung” and the question specifically used that verb.  It’s too bad, because Ice T has a great selection, including “Cop Killer” and “LGBNAF,” which stands for “Let’s Get Butt Naked And Fuck.”  Surprisingly, I think “LGBNAF” is actually more melodic than “Closer,” with softer beats and fewer…angry whispers.  I then switched to other inappropriate content and thought about “Fuck Her Gently” by the rock comedy duo known as Tenacious D.  Great song, great lyrics, but once again it’s actually kinda pretty if you don’t speak English.

Sure, there are heavy metal songs that are just non-stop loud screaming, but if I can’t understand the lyrics, then they don’t seem as bad.  To me, “Closer” has it all and is the undisputed correct answer.  Rarely in life do I find things that make me say, “Yes – that’s the absolute perfect choice,” but it happened on that day.  Maybe the movies are right, and the miracle of bringing a new life into this world really can help people see things clearly.

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Flight of fancy

Mar16

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

I’m not supposed to be here this week.  Instead, I’m supposed to be in Asheville, North Carolina and then Des Moines, Iowa.  Though both are known as international tourist hotspots in March, I was actually set to go for business.  Near the last minute, the trip got pushed back a couple of weeks.  These kinds of things happen, I suppose, so I went online to cancel and rebook my flights, hotels, and car rentals.

As it turns out, doing that was a pain in the ass and took a lot longer than I expected.  I got through it though, had my new electronic reservations, and was ready to go.  Then Monday morning came, and I got an email saying that my flight that day was scheduled to be on-time.  Ruh roh.  I went online to make sure I had successfully cancelled that flight, and I was surprised by what I saw.

First, I saw that the flight to North Carolina was not listed under “Current Trips.”  Second, under “Cancelled Trips,” I saw my second and third legs of the trip, but not the first.  So it was neither active nor inactive.  Hmm.  But that’s not all, my friends; a new flight had appeared out of nowhere.  Somehow (I know not how), there was a flight from Midway in Chicago to… Midway in Chicago.  Oh, and the date of that flight?  January 1, 1970.  I was magically booked on a flight from and to the same place that I should try to board when I’m negative 7.5 years old.  And this is why we should be afraid of the machines taking over.

I called customer service and explained my predicament.  When I pointed out the phantom Chicago flight, I added, “And I assure you I won’t be able to make that one.”  She confirmed that I was cancelled on all of the ones for my initial trip and apologized for the confusion.  As luck would have it, my trip was pushed back a couple of more weeks, so I’ll have the joy of rebooking again in the next day or so.  Maybe I can get lucky and find another phantom flight on my itinerary.  And maybe this time I should check to see if it’s actually some kind of time-travel wormhole before I cancel it.  I’m just sayin’.

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At the vet

Mar11

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 3 Comments

A week ago, we were lucky enough to bring our dog home from the emergency veterinary hospital.  She had some very bad mystery infection, emergency surgery, and then a series of ups and downs that made for an extremely draining week (both emotionally and financially).  But we brought her home, and in the week since, she’s appeared to quickly rebound and is amazingly almost completely back to her old self.  We’re still cautiously optimistic since no one really knows what caused the infection or where it actually was, and we want to see how she does after she’s off the antibiotics. That said, she’s home and we feel very fortunate.

When my lovely wife and I were at the veterinary hospital last weekend, an interesting interaction occurred.  First, an older woman came in hurriedly.  She said she needed help bringing her dog in from the car.  The young lady behind the desk asked what was wrong with the dog, but it didn’t register and the woman repeated her need for assistance.  Someone was dispatched to help out, and the staff member tried again to get more information.  “He’s been vomiting and panting a lot,” the woman answered as she turned to walk back to her car.  “Ma’am, what’s your pet’s name?” She yelled out a name while exiting.  I don’t remember exactly what it was, but it was something like Fletcher, and I thought it was a pretty good dog name.

When the lady returned, the vet staff was getting the dog from the car.  “Ma’am, you said Fletcher is vomiting and panting?”  She confirmed that and added a few more details.  “And what’s your last name?”  “Fletcher,” she said.  “Oh, ok, so that’s not the dog’s name?”  “No.”  The lady then proceeded to give a name, but it ended up being her name instead of the dog’s.  On the third attempt, she provided the dog’s actual name (which I don’t remember but it wasn’t as solid as Fletcher).  “And is he neutered?” “Of course,” said the woman.

Here’s the thing: I was in the middle of forming a sentence about that response.  I was even already in the process of turning to my wife to comment on it.  I probably would’ve said something like, “‘Of course?’ If it were that obvious, they probably wouldn’t have to ask everyone.”  I didn’t get to do that though, because the lady had a second part to her sentence: “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  My lovely wife and I looked at each other with the same exact expression.  “Did she…?”  “I think so.”  “What does that even mean?”  “I have no idea.”  “But…but…” “I really have no idea.”

We had a lot on our minds at the time, but I quickly emailed myself that quote for a future post.  Now that I have the benefit of time and brain space, I still have no fucking clue what that means.  At the heart of her statement, she’s saying, “If my dog still had the ability to procreate, he and I would be married.  Since he can’t, there’s no reason to make it official.”  I just have no idea what to do with that.  Does his lack of balls make him less attractive to her now?  Or since he can’t make her a baby, it’s just empty sex with no real strings attached?  But that brings me back to the “Of course” answer from before.  Now that’s even weirder.  “Of course I had him neutered, you moron.  Otherwise the temptation would be too great to marry and settle down with him!  Society isn’t ready for that – slippery slope and all.  If they let me marry him, then people would want to start marrying their plants and bicycles.  Too bad, ’cause he’s damn sexy.”

To repeat: “Is he neutered?”  “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  I think I speak for all of us when I sincerely ask, “What the fucking fuck?”  Good luck, Not Fletcher; I hope you’re healed, back at home, and successfully fighting off the advances of your owner.

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