Bad Juju

I must have jinxed myself and invited bad juju with my last post. I should have known better than to tempt the creative yet evil brain of Jerry Bruckenheimer. Since last week I’ve been hit by a literal shit storm. Before you people get all judgey- yes, I know what literal means. I was literally hit with human shit flying through the air. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

 

Thursday night, the night before Karen was to start her new job, we took the dogs to the vet. All we had to do was have papers signed off that they could be in the country. While talking to the vet we brought up the fact that we found a small lump in Luca Brasi’s abdomen last year and that the Spanish vet told us that it was fatty tissue. After *probably* blocking out the mental picture of Kirstie Alley’s extra vagina skin, our all American vet, while emoting perfect condescension for Spanish vets and all fools who would trust them, told us that he needed to check for himself.  

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I’m sure that Kirstie’s extra vagina skin is quite lovely.

 

  

After taking an ex-ray and finding a tumor the size of a baseball, Luke was going to need emergency surgery. He explained, in far too much detail, the risks involved in operating on a nine year old dog as well as the 50-50 chance that he’d have to call during surgery to tell us that the dog was riddled with cancer and ask us to put him down right there and then on the operating table. My wife went all Sophie’s Choice and told him to just kill me instead before realizing that wasn’t up to him and asking Morgan Freeman instead. I assume that our vet, Steve Sanders, was trying to punish us for having exciting lives in Spain while he hasn’t done anything since gradating from that stupid high school. I’ve constantly tried to reassure him by praising him for banging Kelly and getting Dylan off the drugs, but he just looks at me like, “I’m a veterinarian, not a fictional character from a teenage soap opera” but doesn’t say it because he’s too embarrassed and I’m all like, “Dude, have you done anything, like, AT ALL, since then?” but I don’t say it because I’m too embarrassed for him.

A perm? Good. A permed mullet? Better!

 

The surgery went well and Luca wasn’t riddled with cancer. Luckily Steve Sanders can cut up animals better than he can act. He got out the tumor and had to take out Bubbalou’s spleen as well. Unfortunately they didn’t save it for me. I would have liked to put it in a jar as a warning to other tumors of what happens when they threaten my family. Because that would be hardcore. Like, “See your cousin? He’s in a fucking jar on my dresser. And your cousin’s balls are in another jar on my other dresser.” Then the other tumors would all be like “Don’t fuck with him Essey, he’s fucking loco.” Because I’m pretty sure that all tumors talk with a Mexican accent.

 

That night, while still worried about Luke, we took Pablo Escobar for a walk and got caught up in a flash shitstorm. It was exceptionally dark and we were just passing one of the beach restaurants when we noticed 3 things simultaneously; (1) a weird gurgling that seemed to be coming from the earth itself- like Britney Spears had burrowed down into the ground like some kind of gangly hobgoblin, to smoke up my meth farm and got all gurgly and pukey (probably because my meth was rotten because I suck at meth farming) like that chick from The Ring, (2) that we seemed to be walking through inches of mud; weird since it hadn’t rained in a week, and (3) WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT FUCKING SMELL???

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I needed a win. Badly.

 

Just as the shocking and horrifying truth started to sink in, Britney changed DVD’s and went all exorcist and begun spitting large chunks of shit, shit flavored water, and piss flavored shitwater at our legs and torsos. In those last few seconds as the broken sewer line/meth-ed out, demon possessed Britney spewed out the contents of the underworld, I glanced down at The Puppy and she wore an expression of rapturous bliss. Like Mitch McConnell might look while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia while being blown by Harry Reid while congress repealed health care and the blue states burned.

 

While Karen ran home, I ran to a nearby, random house with a visible hose and went all mean prison guard in Rambo on myself and the dog, violently hosing away the gross. Karen had thrown away her shoes, her only shoes, before coming home so as soon as I got home I had to run out and buy her flip flops.

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Brit leaving my house. Maybe I don't suck at meth farming after all.

 

 

While I was gone and Karen was in the shower, The Puppy, still wet from her hosing and still euphoric from the unique high of human feces, chewed up a God damn library book. The one I was reading. The one I’m now going to have to replace at full retail value. I only had a one chapter left. The dog only chewed one chapter, the last one. And even though it wasn’t that great a read, my personality being what it is, I’m going to have to borrow it again just so I can read the predictable ending that I know is coming. So I’m going to have to borrow a book, that I actually bought, from people who will likely be all judgey and superior even though, technically, I pay their salary. Or will when they start taxing meth farming.         

 

Update: Since I wrote this post things are bouncing back to awesome again. An old, old, old, (he’s really old) friend of mine, Ricky Martinelli sent me a shirt that is so full of Win I don’t think I’ll ever lose at anything again. Not even *New* Risk, or as the press likes to call it; The Mexican Drug War. 

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I got a win!

 

I know one thing; I’m never again going to tempt Morgan Freeman and Jerry Bruckenheimer. I think they re-did the Job bet thing. Staring me. That’s ok though because I fucking Won.   

 

Duh.