Who Says That?!?
So, the cable went out. What’s new, right? And, like a dope I’m curl-assing it in front of an empty 42” plasma with my pooch wound up under the crook of my quashed cheeks and my back-knee… waiting. Waiting between 7am and 12pm on a Saturday morning for Mr. Cable to show-up.
And, By The Holy Order of Broadbandicus, at 5 minutes to 7 Mr. Cable arrived at my stoop. I opened the door and his eyes magnetted straight down to the floor where the dog was licking a puke stain he laid down at about 6:30 that morning after eating through a porched Hefty Cinch Sack of chicken bones and pizza crusts. Come on, man, that was garbage.
“He was eating garbage this morning..."
Like the cable guy needed to know this.
He said nothing for what seemed like hours, then patted his standing lap like a presumptive pedophile and declared straight to the dog, “Hello, Poopa!!!”
Hello, Poopa?!?
Poopa?!?
What the fuck is Poopa?!?
Did he just Boston accent “pooper?”
Poopa?
Sure, I grew up soaking in a bottomless basin of the New England dialect. Christ on the Charles, I even spread mine on pretty hah-dee (hearty) back in the day. But this... this just sounded… gross.
Poopa?
Dude, not so much as to why you would call my dog "poopa"… but why would you even say something like that?!?
“Aah, Poopa.”
Frankly, I was uncomfortable being in the presence of this tool mule saying the word “poopa”. He was a full grown man...
... in a repairman's moustache...
I tried to remedy by projecting a, “That’s Caesar!” It only made me sound just as retarded as if I had said, “Hey, that’s Poopa!” So, I coughed and repeated, “Caesar" six times because I'm compulsively compulsive. I would have been better off O.C.D'ing my own lick of the stain on the floor.
The cable man ignored me and kept on, “How you, Poopa?”
“How you” isn’t even normal English.
“Aw, Poopa.”
“What choo doin’, poopa?”
“You want to help, Poopa?”
“Gimme them paws, Poopa.”
And it wouldn’t stop.
“You want disconnect the cables, Poopa.”
WHAT?!? Disconnect the cables?!? To the dog?!?
No, man, he wants you to stop calling him “Poopa”.
I tried to interject, “Yeah. Caesar - Caesar just put in an RF splitter downstairs.” Ha ha ha. Hee hee hee. Ho ho ho. SHUT UP!!!
“No, he didn’t… Right, Poopa? You didn’t split nothin’ in the cell-ah? Did ‘ja, Poopa?”
This was getting to be way too much. And it had to stop. Immediately. For whatever its reason, “poopa” was hitting me in the wrong spot on every vertebrae of my spine, and by the looks on Wifey’s face, “poopa” was rattling hers, too.
“He’s a fun dog, huh?”
“He’s a poopa.”
“He’s a pug.”
Now, when did I get so serious?
“He’s a poopa poopa.”
A double “poopa”, great…
Okay, Creepy, can we just get on and fix my DVR.
“Poopa.”
“Aw, Poopa”
“Poo-PAH!”
What was getting worse and burning my ass the most, the little, furry asshole was enjoying being called “poopa”.
Good God, Dog, I looked the other way when you ate a frozen Winter shit lying in the front yard snow. I turned my cheek when you smelled the mid-stream pee of the German Shepherd next door. I even let you kiss me after eating the old yogurt containers out of the neighbor's tipped-over garbage can. But accepting “Poopa” as your new name… Poopa, you’re dead to me.
“Poopa-poopa-poopa.”
“Can I get you a drink,” or anything to occupy your mouth so you’ll stop saying “poopa?”
“Nope. Me and Poopa are fine right here. Aren’t we, Poopa?”
Yeah. Fucking Poopa’s just fine...
Sitting there wagging his tail...
Traitor.
This guy’s got to GET OUT of my house!
“So, how’re we doing,” I sheeped, “Box replacement?”
“I don’t know, let me ask, Poo --"
“Poopa doesn’t know.”
Caesar sensed the alpha tension and went right back to barking at his stain on the carpet. I'm sorry, the dog is wierd.
“Box replacement,” I asked holding my ground because, DAMMIT, I’m the alpha in this pack.
“… yeah… I got to replace the whole box.”
“Good.”
“Shouldn’t be much time.”
“Good.”
“No charges.”
“Great.”
“And you’ll lose your DVR programming.”
“That's fine.”
He walked out to his truck. I don’t know what was taking him so long, but I also didn’t care. I gained dominance over my pooch again. If this were the dog world, I would have bit this son of a bitch of the loose part of his throat meat and hung on until victory.
I am the victor.
However... like a vampire... once you’ve invited the cable man in once, he has invitation to come and go as he pleases throughout the repair interaction. So, no sooner was my back to the window, when he Nosferatu’d his ass back into my home - “POOPA, I’M BACK!!!”
And the little prick turned from licking his puke stain, tongue still hanging and connected it to the leg of the cable guy.
“There ya go, Poopa!”
*photo courtesy of Wifey... I loves me my ol' lady and her camera! CLICK!!!
And, By The Holy Order of Broadbandicus, at 5 minutes to 7 Mr. Cable arrived at my stoop. I opened the door and his eyes magnetted straight down to the floor where the dog was licking a puke stain he laid down at about 6:30 that morning after eating through a porched Hefty Cinch Sack of chicken bones and pizza crusts. Come on, man, that was garbage.
“He was eating garbage this morning..."
Like the cable guy needed to know this.
He said nothing for what seemed like hours, then patted his standing lap like a presumptive pedophile and declared straight to the dog, “Hello, Poopa!!!”
Hello, Poopa?!?
Poopa?!?
What the fuck is Poopa?!?
Did he just Boston accent “pooper?”
Poopa?
Sure, I grew up soaking in a bottomless basin of the New England dialect. Christ on the Charles, I even spread mine on pretty hah-dee (hearty) back in the day. But this... this just sounded… gross.
Poopa?
Dude, not so much as to why you would call my dog "poopa"… but why would you even say something like that?!?
“Aah, Poopa.”
Frankly, I was uncomfortable being in the presence of this tool mule saying the word “poopa”. He was a full grown man...
... in a repairman's moustache...
I tried to remedy by projecting a, “That’s Caesar!” It only made me sound just as retarded as if I had said, “Hey, that’s Poopa!” So, I coughed and repeated, “Caesar" six times because I'm compulsively compulsive. I would have been better off O.C.D'ing my own lick of the stain on the floor.
The cable man ignored me and kept on, “How you, Poopa?”
“How you” isn’t even normal English.
“Aw, Poopa.”
“What choo doin’, poopa?”
“You want to help, Poopa?”
“Gimme them paws, Poopa.”
And it wouldn’t stop.
“You want disconnect the cables, Poopa.”
WHAT?!? Disconnect the cables?!? To the dog?!?
No, man, he wants you to stop calling him “Poopa”.
I tried to interject, “Yeah. Caesar - Caesar just put in an RF splitter downstairs.” Ha ha ha. Hee hee hee. Ho ho ho. SHUT UP!!!
“No, he didn’t… Right, Poopa? You didn’t split nothin’ in the cell-ah? Did ‘ja, Poopa?”
This was getting to be way too much. And it had to stop. Immediately. For whatever its reason, “poopa” was hitting me in the wrong spot on every vertebrae of my spine, and by the looks on Wifey’s face, “poopa” was rattling hers, too.
“He’s a fun dog, huh?”
“He’s a poopa.”
“He’s a pug.”
Now, when did I get so serious?
“He’s a poopa poopa.”
A double “poopa”, great…
Okay, Creepy, can we just get on and fix my DVR.
“Poopa.”
“Aw, Poopa”
“Poo-PAH!”
What was getting worse and burning my ass the most, the little, furry asshole was enjoying being called “poopa”.
Good God, Dog, I looked the other way when you ate a frozen Winter shit lying in the front yard snow. I turned my cheek when you smelled the mid-stream pee of the German Shepherd next door. I even let you kiss me after eating the old yogurt containers out of the neighbor's tipped-over garbage can. But accepting “Poopa” as your new name… Poopa, you’re dead to me.
“Poopa-poopa-poopa.”
“Can I get you a drink,” or anything to occupy your mouth so you’ll stop saying “poopa?”
“Nope. Me and Poopa are fine right here. Aren’t we, Poopa?”
Yeah. Fucking Poopa’s just fine...
Sitting there wagging his tail...
Traitor.
This guy’s got to GET OUT of my house!
“So, how’re we doing,” I sheeped, “Box replacement?”
“I don’t know, let me ask, Poo --"
“Poopa doesn’t know.”
Caesar sensed the alpha tension and went right back to barking at his stain on the carpet. I'm sorry, the dog is wierd.
“Box replacement,” I asked holding my ground because, DAMMIT, I’m the alpha in this pack.
“… yeah… I got to replace the whole box.”
“Good.”
“Shouldn’t be much time.”
“Good.”
“No charges.”
“Great.”
“And you’ll lose your DVR programming.”
“That's fine.”
He walked out to his truck. I don’t know what was taking him so long, but I also didn’t care. I gained dominance over my pooch again. If this were the dog world, I would have bit this son of a bitch of the loose part of his throat meat and hung on until victory.
I am the victor.
However... like a vampire... once you’ve invited the cable man in once, he has invitation to come and go as he pleases throughout the repair interaction. So, no sooner was my back to the window, when he Nosferatu’d his ass back into my home - “POOPA, I’M BACK!!!”
And the little prick turned from licking his puke stain, tongue still hanging and connected it to the leg of the cable guy.
“There ya go, Poopa!”
*photo courtesy of Wifey... I loves me my ol' lady and her camera! CLICK!!!
posted by Oh My Lot! at 1:33 PM
4 comments
