Of COURSE the dog is French
I was in the throws of really enjoying my self-pity when I stumbled across this gem from the BBC:
Former French President Jacques Chirac has announced that he has given away his beloved dog after it attacked him for a third time. (It bit him on his belly!)
Mr. Chirac's wife, Bernadette, said the dog had been treated for depression after finding it difficult to come to terms with leaving the Elysee Palace.
Hey, do you know what, Mrs. Chirac? Fuck your depressed dog! This is a bad time for me to read about a dog who's receiving treatment for depression because he can no longer live in a French palace. I am, for the time being, tapped-out of empathy. Bring him here and I'll give him something to be depressed about. I'll stomp on his little Maltese paws.
C'mon Universe! Give me a break, would ya? Don't throw stuff like this in my path right now, okay?
Former French President Jacques Chirac has announced that he has given away his beloved dog after it attacked him for a third time. (It bit him on his belly!)
Mr. Chirac's wife, Bernadette, said the dog had been treated for depression after finding it difficult to come to terms with leaving the Elysee Palace.
Hey, do you know what, Mrs. Chirac? Fuck your depressed dog! This is a bad time for me to read about a dog who's receiving treatment for depression because he can no longer live in a French palace. I am, for the time being, tapped-out of empathy. Bring him here and I'll give him something to be depressed about. I'll stomp on his little Maltese paws.
C'mon Universe! Give me a break, would ya? Don't throw stuff like this in my path right now, okay?
* * *
I didn't go to the gym this morning. I heard a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee calling out to me. You understand, don't you? Instead, I took a brisk Autumnal walk from 41st Street and 9th Avenue, down 42nd Street and then up Lexington Avenue to 48th Street (a distance of approximately 1.3 miles) carrying my commuting bag (+/- 15 pounds) and the weight of expectations (incalculable). Does that count as a workout?
posted by The Unbearable Banishment at
6:48 AM
8 Comments:
The dog's depressed because it's no longer living in a palace? Are friggin serious. I can't afford a fucking house and the dog is upset it no longer lives in a palace.
I hereby deem that enough of a workout. More than enough.
Know what my dog does when he's depressed? He licks his ass. When he's happy? He licks his ass.
If he bit me in the belly? He'd be licking his ass in another house, or castle. Whatever.
And yes - that counts as a workout! A delicious one!
I did go to the gym, but then I consumed two large chocolate chip cookies with cream frosting between them. Oh, and they were dipped in chocolate on one side. Just writing that makes me want to throw up. Anyway, I think you are way ahead in the calories burned/calories consumed game.
Sid: Kind of makes you feel less than a dog, doesn't it? It did me!
Leah: Does that mean I don't have to exercise tomorrow either?
Sally: That's the hardest I've laughed in a long time. THANKS.
Cat: The exercise negates all those calories you consumed. Nice work! I hate working out. I only do it so I don't have to curb my eating habits.
kinda busts up those stereotypes of the french as 'rifle droppers'. well, at least the french dogs will demand their due, n'est ce pas?
(and yes, i'm such a hick that i pictured the dog in a beret... because i'm a redneck)
What's a fucking dog got to be depressed about?
Yes, that counts. I pretty much did the same thing. Except instead of walking on New York Street I paced my bedroom 37 dozen times. And instead of the weight of the world on my shoulders, it was only the weight of one email.
Same dif.
And p.s. LOL at Sally's dog!
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