Walks

Juice was moaning at my kitchen table today, saying, “I can’t believe I ate an apple while I’m wearing cherries. This is such an inconsistent phase!”

“I can’t believe you’re studying from a blank notebook,” I said. “Nothing you do is consistent, Juice, but I take French. I’m smart.”

“Are you smart enough to know what a ‘walk’ is?” Juice asked.

“Um, no.”

That’s when Juice introduced me to the world of “walks.”

“A walk is when you walk somewhere, enjoying the outdoors,” she explained as we walked toward Greasy Burgers.

“Makes sense,” I said, pushing the glass door open without using the pushbar. “I love putting my greasy fingerprints on Greasy Burger’s glass doors,” I told her. “That makes sense too. See how logical I am?”

“You wanna talk logical?” Juice smirked. “Look. When I touch this super-size cola painted on the wall, it looks like I’m holding it.”

“Big deal,” I said.

Borel then interrupted us, gushing that the library had received a new supply of French books.
“Floating hearts come out of them when you open them,” she said.

So Juice and I are heading to the library, figuring the floating hearts will visibly express our love for the dreamy nerds who work there. Wish us luck!

Puppies my butt!

Last week one of my next-door neighbors put her dog up for adoption after finding out that she had caninivorous tendencies. As soon as I heard the news I ran over to her house and rapped on the door. She wasn’t home, but I came back later and told her that I wanted to adopt her dog.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.

“Me too,” I said. “I love dogs. It’s fashionable.”

She brought me into her house and brought forth an adorably tiny lump of fluff and flesh.

“Here’s my puppy-shnuppy-cuppy-fluppy-yuppy.”

“He’s got dots for eyes!” I squealed.

I toted home my new pet, set him on the floor, and watched him jump up and down in front of me. “I’m so glad I didn’t let her eat you,” I said. “But stop sticking your tongue out at me.”

“Eat me,” barked the puppy.

That was only the beginning of my problems with that stupid dog. He proceeded to reassemble my mom’s nasty-smelling citrosa plants, which I had toppled over and kicked around in hopes that Mom would think the stinky things committed suicide. Then, when I tried to feed the dog, he wouldn’t eat.

“You’re going to eat these shoes whether you like it or not!” I screamed, trying to shove a heel sole into his little mouth.

“You can’t make me,” he barked, backing away from me.

Then I decided to teach him to fly so that he could migrate with those droppings-happy sparrows come winter, but I had no luck. Finally I called up my caninivorous neighbor, who rushed over with a bag of groceries, saying, “So you say he wants to be eaten?”

“Yes!” he barked.

“Munch away,” I panted.