My schnauzer, Schatze, stares at me while I do my budgets early Sunday morning. I know what he’s thinking in his tiny, pea brain: “I would like to go outside sometime in the forseeable future, Mr. Sit There in Your Short Pants.” His beady eyes judge me. I notice his grimy-ass goatee and laugh. Oh, Schatze, you little pecker.
I’ve already vacuumed. The dishwasher AND dryer clicked off an hour ago. Even scrubbed the god-damn refrigerator and stove. It’s not yet 11 a.m. and I’m thinking about dinner. I am the fucking domestic man. On the stereo, Miles Davis replaced the four yapping sports reporters on television, hammering away at God knows what. Damn, Mitch Albom’s ears are ENORMOUS, like two frying pans.
I pounded the Off button with satisfaction. See ya, fuckos.
Paraphrasing Bukowski here, sometimes this life is too sweet.
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Looks like I’ll be living off $80 this August.
Schatze runs to the door, doing helicopter spins.
