Fleekin Floygn

Inappropriate Dad: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

ID: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID-

Wait. This isn't going to work. SON OF A BITCH. MY FIRST DAY BACK TO BLOGGING AND THIS IS THE SHIT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH?


Blue ocean, gentle rain, cries of small children...Ok, I'm back.


Aging Hungarian: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

AH: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID: Nothing...

AH: But how did you get more of it?

ID: Dad, what the hell are you talking about?

AH: What? It looks fuller somehow. That's all I'm saying.

ID: I have an awesome stylist and I've found the product combo that works for me.

AH: So you didn't get any, uh...?

ID: No, dad. I didn't have any folicular surgeries, if that's what you're getting at.

AH: Well, good. So why don't you have someone in your life?

ID [to self]: Fuck me...

AH: Is it that you just aren't interested in dating? Or have you just not found the right person yet? I mean, why don't guys want to date you?

ID: Trust me, when I find out myself, you'll be the first to know.

AH: I mean, seriously, what's the matter with these guys? You're way better looking than most of them. You must be able to have your pick of the lot. What's wrong them?

ID: You've clearly never been to Church St.

AH: I don't need to go to Church St. I can tell you that you're better than average looking and it's time for them to wake up and take notice.

ID: I don't know what to tell you, Dad.

AH: Well, work on that. Also, we're putting Finnigan down.


My family has decided to put down my asshole of a dog, Finnigan. While undeniably moppy and cute now that we've stopped going to the effort of grooming him, this dog is the biggest dick you'll ever meet. He'll be all cuddly and fine one minute and then just go off on someone the next, snarling before rushing them and then usually going for their feet. What a motherfucking winner. Clearly, nobility in battle is a trait not found anywhere in my family's dynasty. Evidently, the brochures we read on Wheaten Terriers before getting Finnigan did not include "Giant Douche" on their list of breed characteristics. According to the behaviour specialist at the Humane Society, his aggression will only get worse if moved to a new environment so giving him away is not really an option, nor, despite my adamant suggestions, is providing a wide range of steel-toed stompers to our numerous house guests. So it's nighty night for Kujo.

I'm not really that sad about it. In addition to mental health akin to Naomi Cambell's, Finnigan's just kind of a pain in the ass. He's home all day in his kennel, no one really wants to walk him and he eats dehydrated powdered meat and rice balls. His life fucking sucks. I took him out on Saturday for what I suspect was the last time and he was just so happy frolicking in the snow for the 180 seconds before I took him back in. Living your life, a dog's life though it may be, for approximately ten minutes out of your day is a pretty shitty way of living. Our family has many accomplishments but we just outright failed at Dog. Even my aunt has stated her belief that our dog is depressed at his own lifestyle. I just think we need to cut bait on this one. Conversely, my younger brother is having a rather strong emotional reaction (read: moping around like a little bitch), which I'm secretly hoping will usher him into his Sylvia Plath phase.

In other news, my other brother narrowly avoided death in Chile and I'm a big whore when I go home for visits.

HAPPY BELATED PURIM, MAFUKAS!