Sunday, June 29, 2014

Heart Attack!

My poor female staff's Mum has had two heart attacks in the last two weeks.  Both times she ended up in hospital with bleeping things all around her and a mask stuck over her nose and mouth so that if my male staff came to visit she wouldn't be able to smell him.  These hospital people are so clever,  they think of everything.  The first attack was fairly minor, in fact they weren't even sure it was an attack until they'd taken blood tests after the event.  The second one was nastier though. It was last Wednesday night.  My female staff was out teaching people's bellies to dance and we cavies were at home with my male staff watching the TV and pooping on the floor.  I don't mean my male staff was pooping on the floor, he has a special room for doing that.  The phone rang, it was female staff's Mum saying that she was having chest pain and difficulty breathing.  She said she'd taken three of her angina pills but they hadn't made any difference so she'd called an ambulance.

My male staff said he'd be right there. She only lives about four miles away.  By "right there" he of course meant about three hours because before he could go anywhere he had to catch us and we had absolutely no intention of making life easy for him.  We all scuttled off in different directions and hid behind various items of furniture, peeking out now and again to see where the big ugly brute was and then ducking back into cover.  We took it in turns to distract him by sprinting across open ground so that my male staff thought he had a chance of catching the sprinter.  He didn't of course, he's far to fat and lumbering and while he was distracted the rest of us would quickly change our hiding place so that when he came back to look for us we were nowhere to be seen. Generously, we always left him a poop as a consolation prize.

After a while we grew bored and let the silly old fool catch us.  Anyway, he was getting very stressed and red in the face and we were worried that at any moment he might have a heart attack himself.  So the four of us Baci, Tom, Alfie and myself were unceremoniously bundled into the back of the Hyundai Getz and we raced through the night to my female staff's Mum's house, arriving at exactly the same time as the ambulance.  The paramedic pretended not to be surprised at being greeted by a large middle aged man clutching four guinea pigs to his chest (I'm sure they see more bizarre things than that in the course of their duty.  People wearing "I VOTED FOR TONY ABBOTT" tee-shirts for example.)  and went inside to deal with his patient.

My female staff's Mum was sitting in her armchair breathing with great difficulty and complaining of chest pain.  Her face was grey and pinched.  The paramedic quickly attached her to a monitor - that's a machine for measuring pulse and blood pressure etcetera, not a large rodent eating lizard. My female staff's Mum loves animals very much, but at that particular moment I doubt that she would have appreciated being strapped to carnivorous reptile. Anyway, the machine bleeped a few times and spat out a strip of paper with numbers on.  "Looks like you're having a heart attack." Said the paramedic.
 "No shit Sherlock!" I said, but as usual all the human heard was wheek, wheek, wheek, though he did glare at me as if he understood.  He then jabbed my female staff's Mum with a needle and squirted something from a little bottle under her tongue.  Then another ambulance arrived.
 "This ambulance will take you to hospital." The paramedic informed my female staff's Mum. I can't because I'm working alone and you'll need someone in the back with you.  These two new paramedics loaded their patient on to a bed and popped her into the back of the ambulance and drove off leaving us feeling sorry for the first paramedic who was obviously some sort of social misfit who couldn't get anyone to work with him due to either a personality defect or lack of personal hygiene.

We four guinea pigs and my male staff followed the ambulance to the hospital and sat in the emergency waiting room while they stabilised my female staff's Mum.  Well actually my male staff sat and read the March 1977 edition of Nation Geographic while we cavies scuttled about on the floor, sniffing at the sticky little puddles of blood and playing hide and seek amongst the overdosed junkies laying around under the chairs.  It was fun. I hope we get to go back there again soon. The only downside was the continuous racket made by a variety of kids with things either stuck on their heads or irretrievably jammed into some orifice or other.

At last a nurse called my male staff's name and he frantically gathered us all up and stuffed us into an overnight bag that he had hurriedly packed for my male staff's Mum. It contained vital items that an eighty-five year old lady might need in hospital.  There was a bunch of basil, a recipe book, a carton of milk, her favourite china elephant and a fridge magnet advertising a local fish and chip shop.  We were shown into a curtained cubicle where my female staff's Mum was laying on a bed surrounded by things that go "bleep" and "bip....bip....bip" She was wearing an oxygen mask and was apparently still having a little trouble breathing. Nevertheless, she did look a little better than she had at home and was absolutely delighted that my male staff hadn't done the boring, obvious thing and packed her bag full of clean nighties, toothbrushes, toothpaste and fresh underwear. Any fool can do that.

A doctor and a couple of nurses were busy playing Space Invaders or something on the blood pressure monitor, but they soon left us alone, allowing my male staff to release us from the bag so that we could stretch our legs on the floor.  Baci immediately scampered under the curtain into the next cubicle while the rest of us set about chewing various important looking cables.  Meanwhile my male staff set about asking my female staff's mum a number of stupid questions that she gallantly tried to answer through the oxygen mask.
 "How are you feeling now?"
 "Mmmmmfff ssnnnnfff faaagummmmfff." I think that translates to "How do you think I feel? I've just had a heart attack you dopey bugger."

Anyway, five minutes later Baci reappeared and was dripping wet and rather smelly, but was looking quite pleased with himself.  I followed the trail of little puddles he was leaving behind him under the curtain and discovered another elderly lady on a bed. Evidently she had a catheter, and the bag was foolishly left dangling from the bed at guinea pig level by some inexperienced nurse.  Not unnaturally Baci had chewed a rather large hole in it and had then been showered in bright yellow, strong smelling wee, a substantial pool of which was now spreading across the floor.  I zipped back under the curtain and hid under my female staff's Mum's bed.  I knew instinctively what was going to happen, and sure enough after a couple of minutes there was a loud crash and a cry of pain, followed by the clumping of running human feet.  Yes, you guessed it.  The doctor had slipped on Baci's pool of wee and broken his leg. Still at least he was in the right place to receive the best medical attention.


Onustly, I dint meen to hurt the doctor. He shood have looked where he was going. Anyway, it was stoopid of the nurse to leev the wee bag hanging where any old ginny pig cood reech it.  It was kompleetly predickable. I don't fink it was my fawlt at all. I fink I'm the victim in fact cuz I got all wet and stinky.  I fink I will soo the hospiggle.

Oh, by the way, Uncal Billy has arsked me to tell yoo all that there won't be a blog for a cupple of wheeks becuz we are going on holiday. He says that wiv any luck the next blog will be on 28th July.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Stalin's Hamster

Like my staff I'm getting on a little now and we are beginning to share some of the same characteristics and habits. For example: I waddle, they waddle. I sleep a lot, they sleep a lot (when I let them). I have fur growing all over my body, they have fur growing all over their bodies. I inspect my bowel movements, they inspect their bowel movements. I eat some of my bowel movements, they eat at McDonalds.  Sleeping more obviously means that I dream more too and just lately I  dreamed that I had passed away and had crossed the Rainbow Bridge - the animal version of paradise.  Here there are no angels sitting on fluffy white clouds playing celestial music on harps and no seventy two virgins unless you count the snails who are hermaphrodites and are therefore relieved of the messy, noisy inconvenience of sex. No, the other side of the Rainbow Bridge is a delightful temperate glade where all the late animals mix and frolic together and not one of them eats the other because food is unnecessary; obviously because once you've kicked the bucket you're not likely to starve to death are you? 

I also dreamed that the only humans allowed to stay on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge are those whose animals want them to be there, but it's a little more complicated than that. In my dream I bumped into Blondi - Adolf Hitler's German shepherd and Stalin's Siberian hamster Neville.  Both of them said that their humans are allowed to visit them because even though they were total arseholes while they were alive they did at least love their animals.  They're not allowed to stay however. Neither Blondi or Neville seemed to know where their formers owners now reside, but they did mention that their moustaches often appear to be a little singed around the edges and that they always seem to smell of sulphur.

My staff were there of course. They were allowed to stay because they'd never done anything truly evil apart from trying to feed me cauliflower once. Bastards! I hate bloody cauliflower.  Anyway I'd requested that they join me over the Rainbow Bridge because I needed someone to change my bedding now and again. They're harmless enough in a bumbling, incompetent sort of way.

My late pals Boris and Badger were showing me around. Both had settled in well and were making lots of friends.  They were just pointing out the best place to curl up for a nap when I noticed a human wearing only a tiny pair of swimming trunks.

 Mr Abbott and Clive, his pet budgie.

  "Who's that creepy looking dude with the sticky-out ears and the small parrot down the front of his bathers?" I asked.
  "Oh him." Said Boris. "That's Tony Abbott, the Australian Prime Minister."
I was shocked. "When did he die?" I asked. Boris laughed, well wheeked actually.
  "He's not dead," said Boris "but he does spend quite a lot of time in Canberra which is probably the next best thing.  No, he's here as part of a delegation from the Australian government looking into the possible privatisation of the Rainbow Bridge."
  "What?" I cried, horrified. "He can't do that can he? The Rainbow Bridge is an essential service like electricity and water.  If you sell that to some private company they'll just set a charge for crossing the Rainbow Bridge and keep increasing the charge every year so that they can pay vast salaries to their CEO. They won't be accountable to anyone.  They'll probably sell half of this lovely glade to a developer to turn into a carp park or something.   In any case the Rainbow Bridge doesn't belong to the government it belongs to the animals who live here surely."

  "Well technically that's right." said Badger. "That never stopped Margaret Thatcher though did it?"  We see her sometimes by the way.  She's allowed to visit her King Charles Spaniel, Tebbit. She smells of sulphur too and her handbag always seems to be smouldering for some reason."
Badger continued. "It didn't stop old John Howard either when he flogged Telstra.  Honestly, humans are so stupid. They pay taxes for years and years thinking all the time that they own a telecommunications service, then up pops a dopey looking little short arse like John Howard who says No, you don't own it at all. I do, but I tell you what, I'll sell you half of it if you like. And can you believe it, the silly buggers fall for it and pay for it all over again.
 "Anyway," said Boris, "the sale of the Rainbow Bridge will be completely above board."  Mr Abbott says there will be an open tender process."
 "Hah!" Exclaimed Badger. "That just means whoever donates the most cash to the Liberal Party election fund will be the new owner. My money's on Gina Rinehart or Rupert Murdoch."
 "Great!" I thought to myself. "Soon we'll all be crossing the News Corp Rainbow Bridge."
 "I hope Gina Rinehart buys it" said Boris. I know she loves animals.  She purchased just over a hundred dalmatians the other day.
 "Yeah" said Badger. "I heard she was planning to make them into fur coats."
 "Whaaaaaaat!" I said. "You're joking!"
 "Of course I'm joking, she didn't make them all into fur coats." laughed Badger and I heaved a sigh of relief. "No," he continued. "She ate most of them."

Gina Rinehart explaining to the RSPCA exactly how many of the dalmatian puppies are left.

At that point I woke up with a jerk, which is of course something my female staff does every single day.


I don't want to dye just yet, but wen I do I'll be abel to cross the Rainbow Bridge if I can afford it and polajize to my Uncal Boris. We yoozed to share a kage wen we furst came to live with Uncal Billy, but then I started byting Uncal Boris and wunce I even took a big mouthful of his fur. I spat it owt cuz it tasted horryball. Uncal Billy sed it was my teenage whore moans wat made me byte Uncal Boris.
Here's a pitcha of me and Uncal Boris when I was a baby.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Not The World Cup

I bet you all thought I'd be rambling on about the World Cup in Brazil this week didn't you?  Well, I'm hardly going to mention it all, except to say that Baci, Alfie, Tom and I all like to watch the games on television.  It's not so much for the football itself, we just like to see all that juicy green grass and we wonder what it takes to get a job as one of the many hundreds of guinea pigs it must take to keep it that short.  I did apply for one of the jobs but I didn't even get an interview despite my CV stating that I have vast experience of stuffing my face and that I am quite willing to commute from Australia to Brazil at my own expense. (Well, my staff's actually, but they didn't need to know that.) It may or may not have escaped your attention that the World Cup has never been hosted by Peru.  There is a very good (if little known) reason for this.  They just can't get the number guinea pigs required to keep the grass short enough there.  One can tell by looking at us that we are not stupid creatures.  Peruvian guinea pigs are rightly suspicious of humans that try to fatten them up.  They know that if they take on the job of keeping a football stadium grass short they are likely to end up in that very stadium during the game on a snack vendors stall.
 "Piggy pies! Get your hot piggy pies here!"
 "Cavy burgers and Coke! Only five Nuevo Sol!"
The Brazilian gig is a lot safer for guinea pigs except that they are likely to have to succumb to being shaved all over. Still, some of us would gladly suffer that indignity for the sake of a good feed of fresh green grass.

A Brazilian guinea pig.

That is all I'm going to say about the World Cup.  Oh I almost forgot, just one more thing.  My male staff is always banging on about what a great team England had in 1966 when the won the World Cup for the first and only time.  He goes on and on about how that team would easily beat the "bunch of losers" that form the current England side.  What he forgets is that today's professional footballers are stronger, faster, fitter and more technically proficient than those of the 1966 era. Even a guinea pig know that.  For heavens sake, the captain Bobby Moore drank lager at the same rate that Lance Armstrong consumed steroids and both Nobby Styles and star midfielder Bobby Charlton smoked like chimneys.  I'm willing to bet that even the weakest team in the 2014 World Cup would run England's 1966 winning team ragged. In fact I'm even willing to bet that even a team made up from this tournaments referees would give England 1966 a run for their money.  In any case, all this speculation about the results of games between teams of one era and another is as big a waste of time as trying to teach a guinea pig ride a bike.  It's not going to happen.

Before I get on to my main subject of the week I'd just like to say a few words about the above mentioned Bobby Moore. He was and still is my male staff's hero and role model.  He remembers that golden afternoon back in July 1966. England had just beaten West Germany 4-2 and handsome Bobby Moore, blond hair glowing like a halo in the watery sunshine climbs the steps at Wembley Stadium to collect the Jules Rimet trophy from Her Maj Queen Liz.  He's lifted onto the shoulders of his team mates for a lap of honour and every boy in the country wants to be Bobby Moore, while every girl wants to marry him.  My males staff says he could have been just like Bobby Moore, and its probably true - all he needed was talent, looks, determination and temperament.

Few people knew that only a few months before Bobby Moore captained England to victory in the World Cup final he had been suffering from testicular cancer and indeed had had one of his crown jewels removed.  It was a well kept secret because his club - West Ham United had told the press that he had a groin injury when he had to miss part of the regular season.  His testicle had become so large and swollen that he was about to be given the honour of becoming an honourary guinea pig, even though it hadn't quite reached the stage where it was dragging on the ground.

Like most men he decided to ignore the problem, hoping that it would go away and it was only when his first wife Tina rolled over in bed one night and accidentally connected with his tennis ball sized testicle with her knee, causing him such excruciating agony that he went to see the club doctor the next day. Sadly it seems it was too late because on the 24th of February 1993 he died of bowel cancer aged just 51. My male staff is certain that his testicular cancer was the start of his decline.  Do you know what?  I think that if my male staff wasn't such a dinky-di, true blue, big, hairy, Sheila chasing Aussie bloke I'd say he had a man crush on poor old Bobby. 
 "Wait a cotton-picking minute Billy!" I hear you cry. "your male staff is English isn't he?"  Well yes, technically, although since Australia currently has the better cricket team he is claiming to be Aussie born and bred.  However, in the extremely unlikely event that England win the 2014 World Cup you can bet your last bunch of basil that he will very quickly become English again.

Now look what you've made me do, encouraging me to rabbit on about football, I've forgotten what my main subject was going to be this week.  Be quiet and let me think for a moment will you.  Ah yes, I remember - Benign Positional Vertigo, or as it is also known - FAOTS. (Falling Arse Over Tit Syndrome).  My female staff has it and it causes her to lose her balance and suddenly go staggering off to the left and has to grab on to something substantial to stop herself falling over - a wall, a fence or my male staff's nose.  Her doctor is sending her to a fizzy-o-terrorist who specialises in certain exercises that cure FOATS.  It's caused by a disturbance to the ear canal - also known as the Farr Canal, at least I assume that's what its called because that's what my female staff says by way of explanation every time she falls over. 

Meanwhile the most entertaining place to be is at her belly dance class.  Regular readers will know that she teaches belly dancing and sometimes performs at restaurants.  Since she's become afflicted with FOATS I have insisted on going with her to watch her beginners class.  She stands at the front and tells her students to follow what she does.  As they're beginners she keeps it slow and simple until her FOATS kicks in, at which point she staggers off to the left and crashes unceremoniously into the wall followed by her students who apparently think its all part of the choreography.  It's great fun. I thoroughly recommend that you come along and watch.

My final word this week is a piece of advice to the young men of ISIS. It is simply this.  Read the Koran.


I'd like to play football with Uncal Billy and Alfie and Tom but Uncal Billy's staff won't let me becoz I keep mounting their heds. I don't meen Uncal Billy's staff's heds coz I'm not tall enuff to reech. I meen Uncal Billy's, Alfie's and Tom's heds.  They let me play wunce but i got a red card for mounting everywun.  Now I haff to sit and watch the others play until I've lerned that it's not akseptable to mount the other players. 

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Pink & Hairy

Our local council has just reinstated annual bulk garbage collections and I'm so glad they have. For my old mate Badger and I they were the highlight of the year because we'd sit at the window to watch my male staff clearing out the shed.  He and I would watch my male staff enter the shed, full of purpose and intent.  We'd hear a few scuffles and thumps and bangs as he moved stuff around, then there'd be an almighty shout of "Faaaaaaaaaark!" as he shifted a large box of junk only to disturb what he'd later describe as an eight foot long taipan. "As thick as my wrist."  (A taipan is a variety of particularly venomous snake quite common in these parts.)  We'd then watch as my male staff would burst from the shed at a surprisingly high speed for a middle aged human, pursued by the above serpent who was obviously not best pleased at having his winter hibernation disturbed.  This sort of event could be relied upon to occur at least once during every shed clearing out session and was particularly satisfying to watch if it had been raining because invariably my male staff would slip on the grass in his anxiety to get away from the snake, ending up on his backside, frantically scrabbling about in the mud in an attempt to escape the "fangs of death" as he liked to call them when recanting the tale to others. Each time he told the tale the snake got larger and the fangs got longer and closer; so close in fact that he claimed he could see the venom dripping from them.  Once he'd calmed down and changed his trousers because, he claimed, they were muddy, (I for one don't believe for a moment that it was mud.) he and my female staff would go out looking for the snake to make sure it didn't go back into the shed.  They found a harmless two foot long tree snake.

Even more entertaining were my male staff's encounters with spiders who upon alighting on his clothing would make an immediate bee-line for the nearest opening - a sleeve, a collar or best of all a trouser leg.  Readers of earlier posts may recall that my male staff makes a particular sound when under attack from a large hairy spider, or even a small non-hairy one for that matter.  It's best described as a sort of high pitched "ai-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" and on shed clearing days this sound is most commonly followed by my male staff stumbling from the shed with his shirt off and his trousers around his ankles as he strips off in an attempt to locate the offending arachnid.  On one occasion this did prove useful as Badger and I had been watching with trepidation the approach of a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses intent on expounding the advantages of joining then in prayer.  Luckily their arrival coincided with a large, particularly furry huntsman spider  courageously scuttling up my male staff's trouser leg.

I can still see the look on the Jehovah's  Witnesses faces as a shrill cry of "ai-eeeeeeeeeee!" came from the shed and a large man with wild eyes and lowered trousers lurched out in front of them and, snatching their Watch Tower magazine from their hands started beating himself around the legs with it. Oddly we haven't been bothered by Jehovah's Witnesses since that day.

Anyway, this weekend as my male staff cleared out the shed I suggested to Baci, Alfie and Tom that they might like to watch from the window. They agreed to join me because there was nothing much else to do except perhaps munch on a little hay.  I told them that they could do that any time, but that the shed clearing happened only once a year if you were lucky.  So the four of us positioned ourselves with our furry noses pressed to the glass and waited for the show to start.

It was a bit slow to begin with. For an hour or so we watched as my male staff dragged various items of junk from the shed and placed them in a large pile by the side of the road.  There was an old settee, a large piece of mouldy carpet, an old television and the outdoors cage that I refused to use. (Do I look like an outdoors guinea pig to you?) It's about fifty yards from the shed to the road where the junk needed to be left for collection so my male staff piled the stuff into the Hyundai Getz and drove it so that he wouldn't have to make multiple journeys with lots of heavy items, he can be quite smart for a human sometimes.  However, on this occasion things went slightly awry.  After the final load he left the Getz parked next to the pile of junk and strolled back to the shed to give it a bit of a sweep.

Baci, Alfie, Tom and I were bitterly disappointed. Indeed I was a little embarrassed too after telling the others what a wonderful afternoon of entertainment they had in store. It looked as though it was all over.  The garbage truck arrived and two burly men in high visibility jackets started heaving our pile of junk into the back of the open truck. In less then ten minutes they'd finished, or at least we thought they had.  The two burly blokes were sizing up the Getz.  I nudged Baci. "This could get interesting after all." I said.
 "Oi Jacko!" One of the big blokes called. "Give us a hand with this will ya?"  Another burly bloke in high visibility jacket climbed down out of the driver's side of the truck and the three of them positioned themselves around the little yellow Getz and with a heave lifted it up and put it on the back of the truck, then climbed into the cab as the four of us guinea pigs looked on with interest.
 "ai-eeeeeeeeee" cried my male staff from within the shed.  At last, things were looking up.
He burst out of the shed, brush in one hand, trousers in the other just in time to see the garbage truck pull away from the kerb with his beloved Hyundai Getz on the back.

Unencumbered by trousers he raced after the truck yelling at the top of us voice. "Hey! Stop! You've got my car."  Not unnaturally, the truck driver, upon seeing a trouser-less madman chasing them while waving a broom, accelerated in an attempt to escape but after a mile or so he had to stop at some roadworks at which point my male staff was able to catch up and between gasps of breath managed to persuade the garbage men that he was not a dangerous escaped lunatic but the legitimate owner of the little car on the back of their truck.  Anyway, between the four of them they managed to return the car to the road and my male staff, still trouser-less drove it home.  I only wish I had been there when he was stopped by the police for a random breath test on the way.

At furst wen Uncal Billy sed that watching hiz male staff cleering owt the shed wood be fun I thort like......BORING. I'd much rather be chooing on sum hay, but then wen hiz staff came owt of the shed wiv no trowsas I wuz like.........Woah! Kool. Look at those funny pink hairy legs and the underwear wiv the pitcha of the Incredible Hulk on the frunt. Maybe Uncal Billy wuz rite after all. 

Monday, June 2, 2014


It's a little known fact that guinea pigs are very bookish creatures.  I myself have chewed my way through many of my staff's favourite books, from Chicken Little to Crime and Punishment. I never read between the covers but I do find the cover's themselves endlessly fascinating.  All those wonderful reviews by prominent citizens.  Have you ever seen a book with a poor review on the cover? No of course you haven't.  The publisher would never print it.  Nobody, not even my staff are going to buy a book with a review that says "..........utterly boring and banal.  On no account should you consider purchasing this heap of buffalo dung." 

Publishers are sneaky though, when one of their books gets a bad review they just chop out the bits of the review that they don't want and use the rest of it anyway.  That's why they always have those little dots as part of the review;  it's where they've removed the bits they don't like.  Here are a few examples. I have typed the bit that was actually printed on the cover in bold italics.

If you want to read a book that is ".........engaging, clear eyed, and richly written............" you'd better buy another book.

Honestly! The crap that get's published these days is "......truly remarkable....."

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness has ".........action, heartbreak and romance aplenty......" Sadly this book has none of these.

How this blithering idiot managed to get published is "........more extraordinary than any fiction....."

"Brilliant.............. soft and thoroughly absorbent. ...........soon every household in the nation will have a copy......" hanging in the toilet.

Of course the publishing industry is not the only one guilty of such tricks.  Broadway and West End theatres use the same tactics.

If  ".......the entire cast were...... any more wooden, they'd have to be treated for termites, or better still, used for kindling and set ......on fire........."

Talking of books and movies, did you know that my late friend Badger and I feature in a book by Brian D. Meeks?  You didn't did you? Shame on you. It's called Secret Doors - The Challenge and is available online.  It's a kind of Harry Potter-esque fantasy adventure.  I'm hoping they'll make a movie of the book where my part will be played by Brad Pigg.  I'm not sure who would be cast as Badger.  Charlton Heston would have been good but he's dead of course, although I must say that his death actually improved his acting.

So anyway, because I've been so busy this week, organising my staff and getting Alfie and Tom settled in I've hardly had time to think about what to write in my blog.  The two new guinea pigs need to learn that eating basil is very deleterious to their health, especially if I catch them chowing down on my stash.  They also need to learn that peeing on the floor when out having a run is not acceptable.  Peeing should only be done on my staff's lap, and preferably when they don't have a protective towel. They have a lot to learn but I'll soon whip them into shape.


I red a book wunce, It was terrybull. It was suppozed to be like this reelly funny joke book but I dint hunderstand any ov the jokes. There wuz like these too jokes abowt books and lyeberries and stuff.  Wun went like "Wot noyz duz a chikin make in a lyeberry?" The ansa wuz "book book book book." I dint get at at all. The other wun was like "Wot noyz duz a frog make in a lyeberry?" And the ansa to that wuz "reddit reddit reddit reddit." I dint get that either coz chikins and frogs make them noises wherever they r.  It duzzent matter whether they're in a lyeberry or a moozeum, they're still gunna make the same noyz. Anyway, if all books are as stoopid as that I'm not gunna reed any more.