Haiku? I Do!

Just so you know, the headline has nothing to do with this post.

Even I don’t know what this post is about.

I haven’t really thought of anything yet.

I’ve been busy, you see. Writing lots and lots and LOTS at work and with walking the dog at night and well, you know. Kind of not had a lot of time to think about much other than work and dogs and working like a dog.

Synergy?

No!

Bad cliches?

Yes!

Don’t tell anyone but I skipped out of work early today for a couple of reasons.

1. I could.

2. It’s been a looooooooong time since I’ve taken advantage of ‘recording sessions’.

3. It’s my way of giving back to the company that thanked us all so much for winning a $9 million account by doing, saying and giving us nothing in return.

Speaking of work they have semi/sort of not really officially called off the dogs (Again! Bad cliches!) and I am no longer ‘in the spotlight’ for ‘failure to conform to the norm’ or ‘malapropisisming the ISO 9001 non compliance doo-hickey job knocker’ which I hear can result in very expensive legal action.

Well, I hope you’re all well and I sense another series of ‘Wayne Batchin’ It’ coming up this weekend. If it doesn’t materialize it’s because I’m too busy chanting my new prayer to Sparky the Adventure Dog, which is:

‘Poop poop poop poop poop poop poop…(aw, you get the gag)’

And what the hell. Write a haiku if you want.

Why not?

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DOA: Dog Owners Anonymous

I keep saying that I don’t want to turn into those weirdo couples that talk only about their goddamn dog. I mean, for crying out loud, I had at least 20 different dogs when I was growing up on the farm in Colorado and I never *sob* talk about my mom *sob* running them over every goldang time we turned around *sob sob sob*

But I’ve never had a house dog.

What sadistic, hateful, vengeful, life hating deity one day said, “You know what? I think dogs might be kind of OK with living inside- especially because they only need to whizz-n-pooh twice a day! Now, that’s a good dog!”

I HATE that deity.

NO DOG EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD EVER HAD TO WHIZZ-N-POOH ONLY TWICE A DAY!

Our dog- the wondiferous, spledoriforastic Crack Weasel-Der Weiner-Shitz-All (AKA Sparky) does whatever the flying fuck he wants and pees in the house at least 3 times a day.

Now, I won’t go into the theories about house training because it causes friction between the wife and myself.

I think she’s encouraging him to do his biz on the ever increasing shit papers that she lays down each night and morning, whereas I think we need to be putting less and less headlines from the Belfast Telegraph on the floor of our kitchen (no matter how full of shit/slant/hate the headlines might be it’s still only a piece of pooh paper to the Spark Master) and focusing more on getting the little turd scruffler to scratch on the door to let us know he’s about to blow his anus capacity.

We’ll get there in the end.

Cuz Sparky’s a genius.

He’ll train us good.

Too Little Too Late

Sorry Peeps.

Been busy trying to get the house dog-proofed, the garden dog-friendly and the bedroom dog-off-limits.

Normally, in a post politically correct world I would claim that Sparky-malarky (or Crack Weasel as I call him) is mentally retarded. How else do I explain his attitude, poop tactics and pee offensives?

Never mind.

The thing is, I don’t want to become one of those weird people who don’t have kids but go on and on about their dogs/cats/ferrets/hamsters/invisible friends.

But maybe it’s too late.

Say “Hi” Sparky!

That’s a good dog.

I’ve Done Worse For Less

Let’s just get this out there because time is running out.

I’m not vain.

I’m not a glory hound.

I’m a (quickly) balding, misplaced American who found himself in the land of 40 shades of green.

I’m neurotic and because we’ve recently rescued a dog my hands smell like dog piss and the pockets of my coat smell of dog treats. (The snacks ain’t bad. I tried one last night. It could use a little salt. (Oh, come on! You ate a can of cat food in college, like I did. Don’t deny it. I know you did! I’m not the only one, right? RIGHT?))

Most of all I don’t like to enter competitions because I really, really, REALLY hate to lose.

But this is different.

As you may or may not know The Irish Blog Awards are just around the corner but the time to cast your vote is right in front of your face.

As in Friday.

This Friday.

The 15th of February. Sorry, had to re-check that… The 16th of February.

Vote for me, OK? I can’t justify voting for myself (I told you, I’m not vain) but if I don’t make the short list and Jett from Letter to America doesn’t make the short list then there’s no reason to drive to Dublin to make another podcast on the blog awards.

So, please. Think of the children and vote “Wayne” early and often.

Transmission complete.

I’ve Become That Person You Hate

I carry an earth destroying ozone melting plastic supermarket bag in my pocket at all times to pick up dog shit.

I hide from the neighbors because my dog has pooped in their yard and I don’t want to pick it up because if they see me they’ll know my dog has pooped in their yard.

I constantly feel like I’ve got a pubic hair stuck in my throat (a throw back to my college days when I did things to get things. You know what I’m talking about. (wink wink)).

I get an extra hour of exercise/walking cuz somebody I know has to pee/shit.

I promise to NEVER talk about Sparky again.

(Unless he does something extra cute.)

(But only then.)

(I promise.)

(Really.)

(Only then.)

I Wish I Could Quit You!

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How to Train Your Dog in 15 Million Easy Steps

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This morning (6.45 am) I woke to this:

WIFE: Down, Sparky. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

Good dog!

No.

Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

What the fuck?

NO!

Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

Good dog! Yes, that’s a good boy! Yes, it is! Such a good dog. Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy?

Fucking shit!

Down! Down! DOWN! DOWN!

Good boy!

Don’t wake up Wayne! Nooooo sireee! Noooooo sireee! Don’t wake up Wayne! Don’t wake him up! No doggy… No we don’t want to wake up Wayne.

No we don’t!

No we don’t!

You will, of course, notice at this point that Sparky has not barked, growled, whimpered, farted or yipped. Sparky was not the one in danger of waking me up. But I still love them.

Both of them.

But one was taking a slight lead until they decided that MY sofa was now THEIR sofa.

Bad dog! Bad Sparky.

(Oh, I can’t stay mad at him…)