Author: Chris

My wife shared an article with me that said dogs not only pick up tone, but what you are actually saying.  That’s right.  Someone probably got a $20 million grant from your tax money to tell you your dog basically understands spoken language.  Hmm, well good, my dog is an idiot!

I have recently decided to test this, by having these one way discussions with my 6 month old pup.  Hopefully, some of these words sink in; after all, it’s science.

“How can your poop stink that badly? Good Lord, you eat the same thing for every meal.”

(After eating food off the table when I turned my back) “You are the worst dog on Earth.  I’ve seen German Shepards on black and white documentaries that were better behaved than you.”

(After escaping the fenced in back yard, yet again.) “Do you actually do anything, other than start the process of a stroke in my brain?  One that will hit me randomly, maybe 3 decades from now?”

(After trying to eat my shoes, again) “I make you into shoes if you touch my shoes one more time.”  (She grabbed my shoes three minutes later, I didn’t make her into shoes…yet.)

(After biting me in the head to wake me up) “I’m going to spray paint “4 sale” on you and hope some poor bastard gives me a buck for your worthless ass.”  (She didn’t stop)

Well, science is wrong on this one, so stuff it eggheads.  I guess the world is flat and dogs don’t know English, because she is trying to eat my shoes again.

Check my last blog for the recap – I won’t recap it, it’s right here on this site.

It was early am, Monday, in Mexico, sitting in beach chair, staring at a pile of shoes (the ones that hadn’t been stolen) and luggage.  We had little to no sleep, NO BOOZE (the horror), and nowhere to sleep.  I mean, as fun as sleeping next to a tiki bar on the beach was, it was surprisingly cold and the whole being burgled thing was annoying.  Keep in mind this is pre-cell phone, right smack in the middle of the whole calling card and pay phone craze of the late 90’s/early 2000’s.  We somehow managed to find that estudenttravel.com had an office in Cancun.

We managed to get there after finally eating and there were dozens of angry and abandoned college students in line, all screwed by the overbooking mishap.  Not enough people cancelled?  Eh!  Screw these paying customers, they’ll figure it out.  A couple of my pals had enough.

One of my buddies, normally very laid back, walked past the line, past the counter and right into the manager’s office.  There was bat in the corner, which my 6′ 1″ 235 pound pal grabbed and promptly told the manager we needed hotels and transportation for 20 in an hour.  The manager said he was calling cops.  The manager was told if he said anything in Spanish into the phone, the cops wouldn’t make it in time.  We had four taxis pull in within an hour and whisk us to an all inclusive hotel.  If we didn’t, it would have been on the news – American tourist clubs man to death over hotel mishap.

Everyone went right to bed except me and one other brave soul.  I came to party, not sleep.  Since it was a Monday, they had a piano player.  I sat and drank straight whiskey and listened to classical music like I wasn’t actually some dumb hillbilly for once.  After about two drinks, I went to sleep for 13 hours straight and NEVER LISTENED TO CLASSICAL MUSIC AGAIN.

The week was fun, I got free Pina Coladas from a bartender named Shoe, saw a fat German guy in his 50’s dancing in a speedo and we got free drinks from a drug dealer because my friend was so drunk he fell over and the mafia types thought that was hilarious.  Of course, when we went to fly home, our tickets were gone again and we went through a similar situation where ultimately, my buddies Brody and Nate volunteered to be the two left out and had to stay in a Mexican airport for an extra day, then got dumped in Atlanta with no more flights.  Their parents had to drive from Ohio and pick up them up in Georgia.  I would have volunteered, but I have a medical condition called being an asshole, so I couldn’t.

In summation, sorry you got ripped off Fyre Festival people, but you paid money to see a music party with Ja Rule hosting, so it’s really your own fault.  Boo hoo.

A big story recently was the Fyre (read: Fire) Festival, a music weekend in the Bahamas.  Basically, a bunch of rich kids paid a lot of money and flew down for a festival that, well, didn’t really exist.  The lodging wasn’t ready (they threw up tents on the beach) and nothing was in place – one girl even was quoted about the horror of no phone charging stations!  Well, it was a little worse for me and a few of my college pals on Spring Break 2000.

I worked year round in college, barely went to bars or ate out and scraped by – most of my disposable income was to go to Spring Break.  More because the other alternative was sitting in my empty frat house watching my roommate curse at Lara Croft from Tomb Raider and smoke Slim Price Lights.  I could do that year round for free.  I got asked to jump in on a trip to Cancun, all in one.  I had enough cash and had never been to Mexico, so I was all about it.  E Student Travel (.com) took my money and then the fun began.

A few days before we were to fly out, we found out there weren’t any plane tickets.  We held out hope they were just late, but it turns out something more sinister occurred.  These college booking groups figured a really high cancellation rate, so they overbooked, which is cool – as long as the cancellations actually happen.  They didn’t in 2000!  The day of, with no tickets and no refund, we decided to go to the sorority annex, crank the heat to 80, put on swimsuits and drink like fish.  We were even putting on suntan lotion and sunglasses.  About six hours into the “party”, the phone rang.  A family friend in a legit travel agency found a way to backdoor stick the website with the airplane tickets, but we had to fly out of Pittsburgh and oops – we had to be there for a midnight flight and were all shithoused.  A team of parents showed up and helped us get there, equally annoyed and entertained by this gypsy band of idiots too drunk to walk to gas station to get hot dogs, but who were now about to fly to Mexico at midnight.

We had a layover in Atlanta – the plane had engine trouble.  We ended up being there for nearly 24 hours, hungover and without access to our luggage, which was all checked for the long trip.  The greasy lotion made the duckbutter worse and I would have stabbed someone to brush my teeth.  We did get two meal vouchers though, which is almost the same as lying on an airport floor with a tequila headache, unable to sleep due to the stifling heat and lack of human comforts.

We finally flew to Cancun and arrived after midnight.  Our local guide was a young Mexican kid, very angry that we were late.  He spoke fast and ripped us up and down for making him wait all day.  Bad move.  He almost got tarred and feathered, but he was also our lifeline.  We shuttled to the Jack Tar Village, a five star resort.  After a heated exchange, in Spanish, our guide returned to tell us there were no rooms.  Our plane delay, plus the overbook, meant our rooms had been given to someone else.  We asked him what the next step was.  We went to another hotel, probably more like one star.  The next step for him?  It was to run full speed down an alley.  Well, ain’t that grand?

There we sat, at a tiki bar on the beach in Mexico, our stuff piled into a heap, with members of our crew dropping like flies into beach chairs.  A group of little kids ran up, grabbed some of our shoes, and scattered like the wind.  This appears to be the theme of Cancun, we surmised.

Around 3 or 4 am, a very drunk man claiming to be a manager, with a mustache and floral button up shirt, unbuttoned of course, walked up smoking a cigarette speaking limited English.  “You want room?”  He handed one of us a key.  “Oh wow!  Thanks!”  Without any reaction, he then said, “You just have to throw the guys in the room out.  It’s yours.”  I was attempting to pry the bar cabinets open before, but now we had a new fun game – assault the passed out strangers in a bizarre gringo survival match.  After some debate, wiser heads prevailed.  No good can come from charging a room like the Alamo.

Another drunk approached, this time an American college student.  “The girls can use my shower!”  No, I’ll go too.  I didn’t really trust this guy, plus I really, really didn’t want to miss this shower.  “No man, just the girls, I’ll watch out for them.”  I bet you will, creep.  I go, or no one goes.  He finally let us all in and as a parting gift for him trying to be a peeping Tom, I left my two day old undies on his bathroom floor.  Enjoy, scumbag.

So, now it was about 6 am in Cancun.  I had slept about 2-4 hours since waking up Saturday, I had no underwear, and we still had no hotel room.  KINDA WORSE THAN NO CHARGER, HUH FYRE FESTIVAL?  To be continued…

We have a little park near our house.  My daughter likes to go and see “doggy woof woofs” and throw rocks at other children, I mean in the small stream.  Sorry, I was thinking of my childhood for a second.  It’s nice, except that other humans know about the park also.

One day, a very thin man, looking like a Roald Dahl character, was strumming guitar.  It was tolerable, until I realized he was playing the same three chords, in the same order, the entire time.  It reminded me of me in college, so I hated him.

Last visit, we saw a lovely family together with another family.  The one young dad had two kids and thought it wise to put on his marijuana leaf bucket hat.  They argued the entire time, alternately insulting one another and yelling while the kids begged strangers and passersby for attention.  At least they weren’t cooking meth in the park, credit where credit is due.

Also, just this past time a woman came around the corner with a 180 lb. Great Dane.  I like dogs, except when you notice they are unleashed in a public park while your toddler and new puppy are with you.  She told the dog to stay, but made absolutely zero effort to move more quickly.  The dog started jogging our way and she yelled, “Pick her up!”  My wife scooped up my daughter and my pup about had a stroke.  I then grabbed her werebear by the collar.  She sauntered up and then said, “Oh he’s very nice.”  I’m sure he is!  So nice, in fact, you screamed “Pick her up!” in a panic, then God forbid you move your doughy form faster than a slow ooze while I prepare to fight Cerebus with one arm.  She got her oxen finally and uttered not a word of apology, seemingly annoyed she had to put the leash back on.  Are there any private parks anywhere with an IQ test requirement?

My mother-in-law called me at work yesterday and let me know my wife had accidentally locked her keys and phone in her Jeep at the zoo, with my daughter and her stuck outside.  I realized it would take me an hour to get to the house and up to the zoo, so it struck me like a bolt of lightning.  We have car care service!  That’s where it went downhill.

I pulled the card out – it was my wife’s from 2015, not in my name.  I realized I never got a card.  Oh well, we’ll figure it out.  “Are you experiencing a life threatening emergency?”  No, but I may be if my wife doesn’t get in her car soon.  “Your membership is expired.”  OK, I don’t remember getting a renewal, but I’ll renew now.  “You can’t get service if you’re not a member.”  Yes, I got it, that’s why I’ll renew now.  “We sent you seven renewal forms since January.”  Actually, you didn’t.  I check the mail every day.  No matter what, let’s go ahead and renew, thanks.  “You aren’t current.”  OK I GOT IT.  I’LL GIVE YOU A CREDIT CARD NOW.  “Hold please.”

9 minutes later I hung up and called back, now somewhere between angry hornet nest and hippo in fight for leader of the pack anger levels.  “I can renew you.”  Oh thank you Jesus, someone who is competent.  Three minutes later, “Now I’ll transfer you roadside assistance.”  “Hello, are you safe.”  Yes.  “Your membership isn’t current.”  Actually, yes it is.  I just paid $151 and was transferred over to you from the person I paid.  “You didn’t pay the ERS fee.”  I don’t know what that is, I just need a person to come out and get my wife and daughter in the car.  “I can’t do that without the ERS fee; the last rep should have told you about it.”  Now I’m at Hulk smashing a city/just stepped on a pile of Legos in bare feet angry.  I DON’T CARE WHAT THE ERS FEE IS I’LL FUCKING PAY IT.  IS IT ONE BUCK?  IS IT TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS?  I’LL PAY IT IF YOU GET SOMEONE TO HELP GET MY DAMN FAMILY IN THEIR VEHICLE.  (Two thousand is a little over my skis for car service, but I was rather annoyed.)  “Oh is your daughter in the car?”  IF SHE WAS I’D HAVE THE WINDOWS SMASHED IN, NOT CALL YOU PEOPLE FOR HELP.  I JUST GAVE YOU $151, NOW GET SOMEONE’S ASS MOVING TO THE ZOO!  “I’m sorry, calm down sir.  We’ll help your family.  I’ll waive the ERS fee.  We’ll put you as a priority call and get someone there as fast as we can!”  THANKS.  (Breathes heavily like a mental patient for 10 seconds)  GREAT.

Then they got there in 12 minutes, got them in the car in less than one minute.  Apparently the company’s vision statement is, “Rather than help the customer, keep reminding them over and over and over that their membership is three months out of service until they spasmodically scream curse words at us out of pure rage.  Instead of getting their money and getting them secured for the future, make sure to push them to their mental capacity for civility – why bother getting a membership renewal, when you can torment them like a cat plays with a mouse?  Oh and when they nearly threaten to drive over to our corporate office and carve holes in people, give them superior service at the last minute to leave a good taste in their mouths!  Everyone wins!”

We got a new puppy this year because our daughter loves dogs so much; plus we thought it would wear out our peanut too.  (Flashback: Day one – “Hope this dog wears out Gracie!”  Day 3 – “What in the hell have we done?!”)  This overload of cuteness has peed more than an old man being force fed Mountain Dew and dollar beers, bit me more than a swarm of mosquitoes and has been yelled at so often I’m surprised I can speak in normal tones to other living creatures now.  So we did puppy class.

Going in, I thought I had the dumbest animal on Earth, and my last dog, Bean, was a straight up doofus.  I used to call Bean the following: Dummy, Dumbness, El Estupido, Captain Dipshit, Melonhead, Puddin’ Head, Dumb Dumb…you get it.  We even had a voice for Bean that sounded like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh mixed with Droopy and Bean was about 50 times smarter than this terrorist Merry we brought in.  Then I went to class and realized Merry was a genius compared to these other mutts.  Still ornery as a popcorn fart, as my Grandma used to say, but smart.

One guy in my class had a dog so awful, he had to hold it like a newborn the entire time.  Another guy had a herding dog that shot out and nearly strangled itself for an hour straight, no matter what was going on.  The two ladies in my class that said they were also trainers failed the trick session and the one lady’s dog peed on the floor four straight weeks.  Holy crap, they get worse than this golden torture I call Merry?

After God knows how many weeks, she learned to sit, lay down, roll over, stand and (sort of) stay and leave stuff alone.  Of course, I have anemia from the puppy teeth bleeding me out like Dracula drew out Lucy Westenra, but we have a paper now, so that means my dog is someone now!  Now, to get this damn dog to get a job and let me retire pre-40 like I planned two days after starting my first real job after college.