Let’s get a rooster. Let’s get a rooster. We need a rooster. Let’s get a rooster. Know what would be cool? A rooster!
And instead of listening to reason, wherein I explain to him that we should wait until the new coop is done, and the chickens are ready to move to the new coop, and they’ll be away from the back yard and a rooster wouldn’t be able to attack and kill a cat, and then he agrees that that is a fabulous idea, he instead agrees that that is a well-reasoned, fabulous idea, and then on he goes. Rooster. Rooster. Rooster. Rooster. Want. Want. Want. Want.
I say, “I think 2008 should be the year we start saying NO to ourselves,” and he says “Then we need to get a rooster pretty quick! Haw haw! Also, some goats!”
Rooster. Rooster. Goats. Rooster. Rooster. Goats. Goats. Goats. Dog. Rooster. Rooster. Pig. Goats. Rooster. Rooster. Let’s go get a rooster. Let’s go get a goat. Oh, BESSIE. I wouldn’t bring a goat home until I had the back forty fenced in. I know what I’m doing! I’m so reasonable! Rooster. Rooster. Rooster. Goats. Rooster. Rooster. This rooster. That rooster. The other rooster. Roosterroosterroosterroosterroosterrooster.
I don’t want a rooster. At the very least, I don’t want a rooster until the chickens are moved over to the new chicken coop and I don’t have to worry about Mister Boogers getting his eyes pecked out (though if he doesn’t stop jumping the goddamn fence, I’ll scoop his eyeballs out with a spoon myself). Don’t want a rooster. Don’t want one. And also? Don’t want one. DO NOT WANT.
Rooster. Rooster. Laying on the floor kicking and screaming about a rooster. Agrees that we’ll wait to get a rooster until the new coop is done and fenced in. Rooster. Rooster. Rooster. Rooster. Rooster.
“Hey, Bessie! Let’s go to Lacon Trade Days and get a rooster!”
Because he will not shut the fucking fuck up until he gets his new goddamn toy, off we go to Lacon. And we get a goddamn rooster. And then he has the NERVE to bitch about the fact that I didn’t take “an active role” in picking the rooster.
I wonder why I wouldn’t want to take “an active role” in picking the rooster, given that I wanted it SO VERY MUCH.
At least he’s pretty.
(flickr)
Fred’s c0ck. Let him show you it.
Given that as much as I didn’t want a rooster, you can multiply that by sixty-three thousand, that is how much I don’t want a goat, so I estimate that he’ll be bringing one home round about next Thursday. GAH. However, with the idea that turnabout’s fair play, I’m going to use his own trick on him. I want a Roomba. I want a Roomba. Roomba. Roomba. Know what would be cool? A Roomba. If we had a Roomba, the floor would be clean right now. Let’s go get a Roomba. Roomba. Roomba. RoombaRoombaRoombaRoombaRoombaRoombaRoomba.
An Afternoon in the Life of Sugarbutt.
Hangin’ out on the air conditioning unit.
Hangin’ with the bros.
Going for a run.
Doing yoga (balancing on front left foot).
Trying to decide whether to go inside or stay out (when he stands like this, he looks like a little old potbellied man).
Repeat ad infinitum.
Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: You know what I really fucking hate? 2004: I guess it really does pay to be in the right place at the right time, eh? 2003: No one cries alone when I’m around, I always say. 2002: Next week will be a lovely roller coaster ride of stressed-out PMS hormones gone wild. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry. 1999: Have I mentioned that I sleep in the nude?]]>