The Scout Chronicles: If Anyone is Listening….GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!

This is not a joke. This is a fucking emergency. I’d call 911 but I don’t have fucking thumbs. The goddamn iPhones my parents just bought operate on body heat, and guess what? Apparently dog paw nails don’t produce any heat. I used to live a pretty charmed life. In bed around 9:30 every night. Up at 6:00 a.m. Uninterrupted, more or less. Everyone loved Scout. “Oh Scout, aren’t you a handsome sonuvabitch?”. I was left alone most of the sunshine hours to sleep in various places I enjoy sleeping around the condo. Occasionally I’d chew something up to keeps things interesting, see what kind of hilarious interaction would occur between my parents when they came home and tried to decide whose over-thought method of dealing with a chewed US magazine was less traumatizing for an animal that can’t speak English. You can say that pretty much everything was coming up Scout. Then about 84 dumps ago (if you are trying to put this into Roman Calendar human terms, think 1 human day = 3 dog dumps, so we’re looking at about 28 human days) mom and dad come waltzing the fuck home like it was Armistice Day from whereabouts unknown, carrying this basket with some stinky-assed little humanoid in it. Or at least I think it was a human. The scent spectrum was in the human family, but it was about 1/25 the size of most of them. It was also wrinkly as all hell, has little to no fur, and is about as fun as a trip to Higgins Animal Clinic for my yearly kennel cough vaccine (Which I’m over fucking due for as we speak. I guess no one cares if the Scoutmeister gets canine TB this year). They were standing around with these stupid-assed grins on their face like I was supposed to be impressed by this fucking useless gas bag. It handed me a toy lion immediately, so I feigned that I gave a fuck and retreated to the bedroom to chew this lion and ponder my next move. Needless to say I turned away from the chess board, and when I turned back I was left with my king and one pawn, while the opposition was sitting on a full strength of knights, bishops and their royalty. I have made an honorable effort to play with this thing, but to no avail. From what I’ve observed its entire repertoire of talents includes: Screaming; Sleeping; Chewing mom’s boobs; and Fucking Screaming. Let me tell you what would happen if I even thought about chewing mom’s boobs. I mean seriously, bring something to the goddamn table. And why are we trashing the fucking environment all for the sake of hiding this thing’s dumps? I’ll save serious time and landfill real estate by cluing mom and dad in on this: Wait for it to scream, pick it up, take it outside, and let it shit in the tree-lawn like everyone else. This isn’t rocket-science. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since this little nightmare showed up. I am 100% serious when I say that if someone is looking for a 2 year old male goldendoodle, my fucking kennel is packed. I can shake, high-five, lay down, and I haven’t shit in the house for ages. I’ll even go to a white trash family and eat expired BilJac at this point if it gets me the hell out of here.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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One Response to The Scout Chronicles: If Anyone is Listening….GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!

  1. Anonymous says:

    Poor Scouty. I remained shocked no one in this house has been bitten since Zoey arrived.

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