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…and, up until last week, she had never slept in it once.

That is, until KB had the bright idea of moving it from our guest room bed to a little side table next to our couch in the living room. During the day, the sun pours in through the window right on that spot, so it’s quickly become Meatshake’s favorite place to lounge when the sun’s up.

Today, I went in the kitchen to do the dishes. When I walked back into the living room, I found this:

Mr. Fabulous in Meatshake's bed... on a side table.

I laughed so hard I cried.

That’s 80+ pounds of dog laying in a tiny cat bed on a tiny side table.

She’s incorrigible,


…now if she could just learn how to pay rent.

Amazing and smelly,


…I fell asleep in bed with my laptop on my chest.

Apparently, a few hours later, I woke up and wrote Kathy this email:

On Wed, Nov 3, 2010 at 3:09 AM, wrote:

I need advice on this.

They sent me a catalgog for the new place because they couldn’t process my stories.

And, yeah, I could fall down and do shome shit, but it is apparent.

I have no clue what any of that means.

Catalgoging my dreams,


I was awake for approximately forty-five seconds this morning when the following happened:

I got out of bed, grabbed the two glasses of water that were sitting on the nightstand, and headed for the kitchen.

The glasses of water...

About two steps into my journey, I stepped on my belt, which I usually throw on the floor next to our bed every night before I hop in.

The belt...

Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. Sadly, today is far from normal.

Excruciating pain shot through the heel of my left foot. While hobbling back toward the bed (and spilling water all over our bedroom in the process) I looked down to see my belt trailing behind me like a rogue piece of toilet paper.

I had stepped directly on my belt buckle; more specifically, directly on the sharp metal tooth of the bastard.

The sharp culprit...

Finally realizing what was going on, I screamed and fell on the bed, spilling even more water on my journey down.

I quickly set the glasses back on the nightstand and pulled my left foot up onto my right knee. Sticking out of my heel and staring back at me was Elvis.

I yanked the metal hook from my foot, the blood giving one final squirt on the buckle as I pulled it away. Trying not to step on my left heel, I made my way into the bathroom and threw a huge bandage on the wound.

The hole in my foot...


Hello, Wednesday. How long you in town for? Twenty-four hours? Yippee.

For more bloody stories about foreign objects in my foot, click here,


Old Poop!