Friday, August 01, 2008

Open Letter To Some People

Do not ride your bike on the fucking sidewalk. In particular, do not ride your bike while walking your dog on the sidewalk, thereby occupying the entire span of the sidewalk with your deep seated need to be Holly GoDouchely. Wheels = Street, Sidewalk = Feet.

Having a dog makes me so much more careful than I used to be, and so much angrier at the carelessness of others. People who do not stop at fucking stop signs make me insane. Oh I’m sorry, Mrs. Giant Yukon SUV! I am sure you are on your way to Princeton Plainsboro to perform that heart transplant so that’s gotta be Dr. House you are gabbing with on the cell phone, telling him how to save lives! No wonder you are barreling through the stop sign at Monitor and Henry at 5:30 am – and who am I to criticize you for not putting on your signal – CLEARLY Dr. House needed to be reminded that the heart bone IS INDEED connected to the other heart bone, my bad!

Oooh, look! A total BADASS was here, clearly, leaving that broken glass all over the sidewalk. Rock And Fucking Roll! Guess what, my dog has to walk barefoot on the fucking sidewalk, asshole. Iggy Pop wasn’t on PetFinder (didn’t wanna be MY dog, apparently) or it would have been totally rad -- but now you must clean up after yourself.

Last night Trey and I took Sir Specialness to McGolrick Park. We were north of Meeker when Sir S. lurched into a crazy hopping gait, forcing us to scramble across Driggs where he started frantically biting at his back left paw. Instantly I knew he’d stepped on something sharp and sat to grasp the paw, Trey securing his collar from behind. My finger brushed the splinter of glass and came away bloody. Sir S. was trying to reach around to deal with it but I knew he’d get glass in his tongue or throat and so I had to get it out first. I thought of asking if a bodega had tweezers or something, and then realized that I used my teeth all the time to pluck stray hairs off of my poor husband. So I put his paw up to my mouth and nibbled at the splinter (is there dog AIDS? Too late!) but no luck. I spit the dog blood out, tried again with my finger and this time slid it out. Sir S. stopped twitching, Trey released his collar and he trotted on towards the run, good as new.

In short: I am the person who will suck out snake venom if you get bit, will kick your ass if I see you breaking glass on the street, and orders the HeartGuard gimlet, straight up, pretty please.


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