(Note: I am reprinting some on-topic items from an earlier blog. This is one from March 28, 2008)
You thought you had me, didn’t you, Reynolds? (Or is it Grant, now?) You thought you were rid of me. Hah! You great, stupid oaf. You dare to match wits with me? With ME?
Lufthansa! There, I’ve said it! And I will say it again, and may my poop-fumed drool spray onto your face (okay, ankles,) as I bark it in wild triumph: Lufthansa! Lufthansa! Lufthansa!
You think because you tower above me, a lumbering, stumbling Tyrannosaurus to my fleet-footed pot-bellied pig, that you will have your way with me? That was your dream, wasn’t it? To be rid of me. To see me in your rear-view mirror. To push me out of your life, abandon me, and forget me — aside from daily prayers for my swift and painful death. Admit it! You hate me and plotted against me!
Well, guess again, human. You may look like Lex Luthor, but I am your Superdog! I will foil your nefarious plans every time. You don’t have the kryptonite to take me on, big boy.
“Sorry, babe,” you said to the mistress, with faux sympathy that wouldn’t have fooled a cat. “It looks like there aren’t any airlines that allow dogs in the cabin going over the Atlantic.”
“Sorry,” you lied, you bastard. “No way we could squeeze his fat, foul-smelling sausage body into a sherpa bag, anyway.”
“Of course, you could put him in the hold,” you said, half-sneering, half-gleeful. “Just because they say it’s risky for short-nosed, mutant, inbred, DNA-damaged, freakishly ugly, snorting, snoring, gasping, wheezing, half-toad, pissing-on-every-vertical-object, dogs, it’s probably not a very big risk. He’d probably make it.”
“There’s only a small chance that he would die gasping for breath in the belly of a 747,” you said, rubbing your hands in fiendish glee at the very thought of it.
Come here, Giant Shoes, come down here where I can whisper into you ear. Listen close: “Lufthansa, bitch! Ah hah hah hah!”
“Lufthansa! I’m flying, asshole! I’m flying to Germany on Luft-freaking-hansa! And then . . . oh, this part is so sweet . . . you, Reynolds, youwill drive me to Florence. And will I howl, howl, howl the entire way, all the way through Germany, through Switzerland, through the northern half of Italy? Will I howl until you lose your mind? Will I howl till you are ready to take your own life? Yes! Oh, God, yes!
Game, set and match, human. I’m going to Italy. You will haul me through airports. You will place me under the seat in front of you during take-off and landing. Then you will be my chauffeur. Serve me! Serve MEEEEE!
And I will never, never forgive or forget your efforts to dump me. Everything you hold dear will feel the warm trickle of my urine. Prepare to see yellow, my friend. Mmmm, I already feel my bladder swelling.