Dog Day Afternoon

Suddenly I was itchy as hell. It felt like east coast summer camp by the lake, when Mosquitos and poison ivy collaborated to make you wish you were Edward Scissor Hands and you could just (no pun intended) handle shit (he sure looks like a Cure fan). I looked to my right and the dog sitting next to me was also itchy, writhing uncomfortably against the sharp edges of cabinets in the record store. I don't know this dog. Its owner had popped in and mush mouthed out some language that I thought said "can dogs come in the store", I said "yes", but what she actually asked was "hey stranger, can you watch my dog while I drink beers next door". So there I was, sitting with a short haired itchy poodle who was crying tortured yelps in a store full of people. I was receiving the look of distain that white folks reserve for black dudes running dog fights, this is one of the worse looks you can catch, only Jared Vogel knows the more cutting gazes (not only did he suggest a sub par sub sandwich, but....). I glanced back with a limp shrug that I pray suggested "I don't even know this dog and I'm definitely not mistreating it". Well, now I'm itchy and I really hope the owner returns and this isn't somehow my dog now, I always imagined I'd end up with a golden retriever, not a poodle with a rose red bow in its itchy head. I don't know what it is about me that exudes trust, but I'd really like to shed it. Maybe I'll pretend to have Tourettes and just curse people out as my ice breaker, shake hands with my middle finger drawn, see if that saves me from scratching my skin off with an elderly poodle, sad eyes looking at me like I owe him some backlog of kibble. The 3rd installment of the redwoods podcast is here, I haven't listened to it yet because my voice sounds like Gilbert Godfrey and Fran Dresher's synched up orgasm during an air raid at a Nickelback concert, but you should. It's full of soft racism, hard dick jokes and music sweet music.

This look seems to say "are you my new daddy"