Around one forty in the a.m., I decided to go and fry up some burgers. I head downstairs and walk over to the fridge. Now, I like to think I have a good grasp of what footfalls sound like. On tile floor, it should fall somewhere between a click and a thud. About a foot away from the freezer door, wherein the meaty discs lay waiting, I put my foot down and hear a "squelch".
You'd think it would be easy to clean dog shit off a tile floor, but this little fucker must've been eating paste and elastic. What a wonderful thing to wake up to. Instead of a quarter pound of juicy beef, I spend ten minutes with rubber gloves and boiling water, trying to salvage one of my good shoes.
At least the dachshund had the common sense to avert his eyes. Shows that he had at least a twinge of remorse.
Heh, the main problem was that I could call him a son of a bitch, but it'd just be a fact, not an insult.
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