that ain't the way to have fun, son

Ahhh, the weekend. And after a week spent working exclusively on the most hated case of my (albeit brief) career, it is more welcome than usual. The short version: We represent a certain business that by the nature of said business employs almost all women. The lawsuit (a rather complicated Labor Code issue) stems from a bitter inter-personal conflict between two of these women. My job as of late has been to contact these ladies, and as many of their coworkers as possible, interview them, and try to figure out exactly what went down before the deposition subpoenas start flying.

Which means that I have spent all week long on the phone, listening to gossip. This one's a drunk. That one's crazy. She said this, she didn't say that. I can't believe her, who does she think she is. It's like watching a week-long marathon of Melrose Place without the benefit of attractive people and without the mercy of commercial breaks.

So I desperately need the company of rational and sane adults this weekend. Unfortunately, I'll have to settle for the company of the renowned blog siblings Elise and Nathan and their respective spouses. We will most assuredly Wii it up, which will probably involve Nathan mercy-ruling me in Wii Baseball. Again.

And it will get me out of the house. Which is great because we have two dogs staying with us. This makes for a total of three dogs. Get it? Three Dogs? The title of this post? It's a stretch, I know.

For one joyous week, we are blessed with the presence of two additional chihuahua dog-things. They are Raz's aunt and sister, who reside up in Diamond Bar with some friends of Thad's. Their names are Sophie and Roxy. But I can't ever remember which name applies to which dog. So I just made up nicknames for them. Sawyer style.

Sausage. A little white girl-dog who earned this monicker as a result of her cylindrical and generally bulbous physique. And what lady wouldn't want to have those very words used to describe her figure? I would suspect not many.

I'm not a big fan of this dog. I think because it always has this demeanor of profound self-pity. The dog-thing actually furrows its brow and shivers ever so slightly, as if you communicate to you, "I am abused." Even when you are feeding it the filet freaking mignon that is owners pre-cooked, pre-packaged, and sent with it, it looks up at you in abject misery, as though you were attempting to feed it vulture innards.

Fruit Bat. This dog I just flat out do not like. It is evil. It is black. Black as coal. Black as pitch. This dog is so black that it absorbs all wavelengths of light. Its ebony hide is physically incapable of reflecting photons back to your retinas. So when you look at it, you're not actually seeing a dog. You're seeing a little chihuahua silhouette. Lurking about the house. It is plotting against you. Oh, mark my words. It plots. And it waits.

And it doesn't bark. It stares at you and it emits noises. It makes a high-pitched squealing noise, but at the same time, it produces a low and ominous grumble. It sounds like an '84 Ford Granada is trying to pull into your driveway. But no - it is the Fruit Bat. Digesting something evil.

So perhaps a day-trip up to Valencia is just what the doctor (of jurisprudence) ordered. In other news, it has been proposed by the Pierpoint powers-that-be (a.k.a., my landlords) that I officially be in charge of all things youth-related. Heading up the youth program at our church would basically mean that I would keep doing all of the things I normally do, which consists solely of making the kids slave away their weekends on Halo sites, taking them to violent movies, and forcing them to listen to Damien Rice.

I have decided that my title should be "youth guy". This of course is not a real title, which is great, because if I had a real title, then I would have to grow a goatee like any self-respecting and competent youth worker.

But since I am a person who is burdened with neither self-respect nor competence, my scruff may remain unshaped.


Picture me rollin'...