My dog and I have agreed to disagree on a few things. For example, he likes eating things he finds lying in the street. I do not. I think that one should avoid mud. He thinks that one should roll around in it and then jump on me when I’m wearing my most awesome jeans.
The other day, after a filthy incident involving a 90%-melted snowman, I was forced to cancel a very important meeting with some extremely wealthy business men in order to give him a bath. With the shower massager and lavender-scented dog shampoo in hand, I came to a startling realization. I, an esteemed, internationally famous blog writer, was on my hands and knees carefully spraying mud off of a dog’s penis.
Just then, our eyes met, and he gave me this look that seemed to say, “And after this, I would sure enjoy a nice sandwich.”
I’m not going to lie; I’m a very powerful man—the kind of man who uses words like synergy and best practices. Like most men of my status, I have a whole team of personal assistants who loath me. Now, listen underlings, I know I’ve made you all do some pretty soul-crushing things over the years. But while you sit and silently resent me from your tiny cubicles, let me ask you this: Aside from the Holiday Party last year, have I ever asked one of you to literally wash my genitals with a shower massager? I didn’t think so. And, when was the last time I went to the bathroom and then made one of you pick it up with a plastic baggy while I watched?
My point is this: toughen up, you bottom-feeding little drains on my profitability. It could be a hell of a lot worse.
Now I’m going to ask you one last time. Where in the motherf*ck is my f%cking latte?