Well, there's a chill in the air around here, and it's got nothing to do with the season. I'm apparently in the dog house (not a real dog house, but a figurative dog house - I wouldn't be caught dead in a real dog house, those are for cats) for having reported on Stump and Tweet's conversation about reptile dysfunction. Luckily, we have a house rule against waterboarding, but I perceive a cold bath and an anal-gland squeezing in my immediate future. Ouch.
As was explained to me in a series of terse and rather loud commands, not only was that conversation not for public consumption, but apparently I totally misunderstood what was being said. Stump insists that what they were actually talking about was not "reptile dysfunction," but rather "electile dysfunction."
Electile dysfunction, I was informed in carefully measured words, is a reference to "dim-witted humans who vote for neon conservatives who believe in paying the horse with a rock." Hmmm?
"Sounds like a dim-witted horse to me," I said.
"Sit, stay, shut-up," said Tweet.
If only I had listened. Instead, I blurted: "Are you suggesting that you prefer a cowardly butt-and-done immediate withdrawal strategy?"
Luckily I have wifi, because now I'm shut out of the house and writing this in the driveway with the sounds of a slamming door and shouts of "WE WERE NOT TALKING ABOUT SECTS" still ringing in my ears.
I dunno. I think I should have listened to Woody and had them both neutered when we first adopted them. But I always thought it might be fun to have a litter. Now I don't think I could handle more than two of them.