Laboratories and a guinea pig named Crust

Oh, how the days are snailing themselves along. This is the last week of classes before Christmas. That means that if you don’t count exams and papers that need writing and all that crap, the x-mas holidays have almost begun. My only problem at the moment, is that some evil troll has apparently come up from below and magiced every hour to be twice as long as it’s supposed to. That’s just not right. I should be the only evil troll in this storybook, dammit.

At the moment we’re doing our very last intensive lab course in microbiology. They let us mess around with DNA. I have come to the conclusion that I’ve really got the makings of a mad/evil scientist, seeing how I would luuuuve to muck around with my own DNA. That’s the first sign: willingness to be your own guinea pig.

I used to have a guinea pig when I was a kid. I named it Skorpa, which is Hellholish for Crust. Crust was…well…psychotic, to be completely hones. She had her own outdoor area, from which she would try to launch attacks on the neighbour’s cat. It’s a good thing Crusty spent most of her time behind bars.

Memory lane is an interesting place. Jupp-jupp.

To poop or not to poop

There’s an understanding between myself and The Pooch: I walk her and she might just choose to take a nap when we get home, rather than try to sit on my lap while I’m working. Other times she’ll forego on the nap, run to fetch her ball and proceed to throw it at me, convinced that this will make the thought of playing with it completely irresistible. After all, it usually works when I do it to her.

We were halfway through our Sunday walk, when all of a sudden, an elderly woman comes running towards us. Her arms were waving in the air, determined to get my attention.

“You know, it’s perfectly alright for you to walk your dog,” she says when she catches up to us. “But it’s very, very important that you pick up its poop after it.”

I thought that she could not have noticed the big, black, shit-stuffed doggie bag in my hand, nor the seven empty bags sticking out of my pocket, so I held the warm, swelling back up in the air and informed her, in a slightly cool tone of voice, that I always picked up after Pooch.

I assumed that she would back the hell off. No such luck.

In stead she goes on and on about how important it is to pick up those previously mentioned poops because people stepped in them, and so on and so forth. There was a small river running along the road where we stood. I studied the river, and then I looked at the lady while I contemplated whether or not I had the energy to throw her in. Probably not. Sick of listening to the sad tale of innocent shoes being thrust into piles of dung left behind by other dogs and their irresponsible owners, I pulled a fistful of empty bags out of my pocket and held them in front of the meddlesome woman’s face.

It had a rather peculiar effect. Granted, she turned around and started back towards her house, but she kept on talking about poops and shoes and whatnot, while looking back at me. Perhaps she’d been inhaling them, or something.

I looked at Pooch. Pooch was looking at her ass, as if it was a foreign object that she’d only just discovered.

Next time I’ll throw that woman in the river. Definitely.

Pooch in the mood for love

I am currently living in a hell of screaming and howling and the constant sound of IIIIIII and pitter-patter of claws scurrying from the door to the window. Back and forth, back and forth.

The Pooch is in heat…

Granted, the pooch has been in heat before and she’s always been a little whiny during that period, but this is the first time that she’s ever had a hunky man-thing sitting right outside her bedroom window. And if Pooch had been given more experience with hunky man-things over the years, she would have learned to separate them from the sickly boys with dickey tickers, like the one sitting right outside said window.

Last night she became ready for the making of the pups. On that very day, I decided to let her come with me to take out the trash. Pooch loves taking out the trash. She’s also a big fan of fetching the mail and raking leaves. Not that she helps any, she just likes to watch.

Anyway, our trip to the trash bins took us right past where Hunky Man-Thing sits on his lead. Pooch looked at him. Hunky Man-Thing looked at pooch. Then Pooch realized that I we were heading back to the house – the complete opposite direction of where her heart (and other bits, obviously, that I won’t bring up here) told her to go. In protest, she planted her bottom firmly on the wet lawn.

Great.

So I pulled.

Pooch resisted as best she could. If she’d had those big, bulgy buttocks that some creatures have, I’m sure she would have clenched onto every little piece of grass.

Eventually I dragged her onto her feet, and she walked all of two paces before dropping down on her side and immediately beginning to screech. It was like watching a two-years old throw a tantrum in a store.

I ended up having to drag her along like a carcass. The only thing which separated her from any piece of roadkill, were the high-pitched squeals emanating from her.

Two more weeks of this. I’m going to lose my tiny mind.

Buttmunching

Today I am completely exhausted, and I'm not quite sure why. I could probably figure it out if I gave it some thought, but I'm too damn tired. Still, I did read something in the news the other day that I thought I might share with you all, knowing that you enjoy twisted things almost as much as I do.

There is a man in Sweden who has eaten parts of his ass on tv.

That's right. I did not make this up. Just to make sure that you're all paying attention, I'll repeat it.

There is a man in Sweden who has eaten parts of his ass on tv.

Another man cut of two small slices, which the swede ate and concluded that they tasted exactly like sellery. Later a spokesperson for a religious community went out into the media and said that he finds the whole stunt tasteless and that he sincerely hopes that it won't become a trend among the young.

Imagine that... Just when the cops were getting good at stopping underaged drinking.

Kiss, slap, kissy-kiss

I've started classes in genetics yesterday and learned about loads of syndromes that I think I have half the symptoms for. Interesting. Also, just like most of the world, I was dragged onto facebook a while back. And just like everyone else, I added a lot of application in order to do strange and peculiar things to my friends and relatives. One of them was X Me. X Me seemed like a funny sort of a go-between, offering a wide range of actions. It did everything from hugging to kicking your buds in the groin. Neither does it discriminate. X Me was more than willing to deliver any action to your pals, even to the really weird ones that I might not have been really tempted to get too close to in real life. Yes, X Me was a handy little thing - until it turned on me.

One fine morning - okay, so it was a chilly and rainy morning - I logged onto facebook, only to find that X Me had been hugging everyone on my contact list in my absence. I found this to be a little odd, but at the same time a hug is a rather innocent sort of a thing, isn't it?

But it didn't stop there.

24 hours later I discovered that X Me had now started slapping people left and right, only to turn right around to kiss them all and then slap them again. It was clearly having some emotional issues. In the end I could see no other option than to put it down. Poor thing...