Thursday, June 18, 2009

Scruffy Dog Report. 06,16,09



“War comes to California, USA, and to my tiny big town.”

All my new mornings arrive with a veil of pink mini-fear cause by rat-bastard wasps.

The pharmaceutically shaped, scurvy legged, alien antennaed, palladium-ball eyed, turd eaters give me the creeps.

Insects that we’ve all seen breeze-surfin’ and dumpster-divin’ on hot summer sunshine, now dance uninvited, lost and strangely fascinated with my double glazed, vinyl clad, kitchen window.



Not everyday,
but several times a week,
or more several times a month,
or 12 times more several times a year,
a posse of theses yellow bastards infiltrate my home and frolic on the pane above my dish sink.

Then I kill them.

With my left hand clutched at the collar of whatever gender clothes I might be wearing,
I use my remaining hand to puree these winged evil-shits with my July edition of a free, un-asked-for and never-ending subscription of a homo-erotic glossy magazine called ‘Men’s fitness’.


Hit-smash and run...count the damage..re-approach...
and send the next-in-line to hell.


One billion years of a garbage diet has luckily rendered them stupid,
and their attraction to my east facing kitchen window is their undoing.

They flap gossamer-like and skim, or walk their last green mile up my clean glass and wait blindly for the thundering wraith of my ‘men’s fitness’.

The lucky ones have their heads snapped off like the plastic tops from over-priced bottled water. Their craniums fly bewildered to dry out behind the toaster, and bodies fall gooey to my new wasp graveyard of tile and grout.

The ‘not so lucky’ land wounded into last night’s dishwater to drown while I laugh.

My Nazi-like hate is never unchained, mad dog like, at honey bees or their plump cousins the Bumble,,,,,
only these sectional, meat-eating, yellow brownish, bully pricks die by my hand.

In rare moments of Christian charity, I have offered, these vicious bug-humpers, peace accords and vodka,
but the ungrateful party-poopers ignored me.
So I returned to the war-art of clubbing the pups with magazines.