Sometimes I find myself asking myself, Were the shelter really that bad...? I mean, sure, my name were Oscar and that was seriously effed up but there was a lot less shit to deal with. Case in point:
Last night kicked off with mom n dad cleanin' up da house after all they stuff was exploded everywhere after our trip to The Sequoias (more on this trip later but let's just say you can take the chola outta LA but you can't tell this bitch not to guard her house! Or a rental cabin! Or a blanket where you are pretending to be a hippie by a creek.) Few hours in, the house was cleanin' up pretty good when Dad made his first crappy discovery: Chester had pooed on da pile of dirty sheets in the bedroom. Dad actually seemed to take the dirt squirt in stride and said excitedly and with only a little butt of sarcasm, "Way to go, Chester! You dooked on the dirty laundry instead of the clean!"
But things was about to go down the drain...
Little later on, Dad was pattin' himself on da back about how much he been cleanin and was crowing, "Man, we are in good shape!" As he say this he walk back into the bedroom n discover that drop-a-brick Donald had ass-juiced all over the bed. (Which were puzzling since Chester generally takes care of this hygiene matter for Donald at least four times a day.) Dad were not so Zen at this second assfront (like affront - SAT word, holla! - but with ass juice).
Mom n Dad stripped the bed. Luckily they had just one day earlier cleaned the duvet and the comforter and all the sheets so they hadn't forgotten how to do it. Dad remade the bed and Mom went to brush her teeth but she had only brushed like one of her gigantic teeth when she heared Dad yellin from the livingroom. Dad is not a religious guy but he was yelling Oh My God OH my GOD OH MY GOD like he filled with the Holy Spirit if the Holy Spirit fill you with rage which maybe sometime it do how the hell should I know I only been baptized ON THE STREET. REPRESENT. Anywhatever, turn out Chestwerp really weren't feelin' well cuz he had caca-ed INTO the lump's play yard. Chester hid in the bathroom. Yes at last he shuffled into the correct location for his current state (liquid not solid) while Dad ranted at Chester, the world and Mom for telling him he better not wake the baby. "She not gonna wake up I'm aloud to be mad you get mad too!" I didn't transcribe this shit but you get the picture. Mom took over cleaning because she were deemed more gifted at getting the tiny turdlets out of the holes in the play yard grate - perhaps it remind her of scraping her cups of yogurt clean, or managing to squeeze every last drop o' Ranch outta the bottle, or relievin' the frying pan of those little bits of bacon grizzle crust, or...
At last it were time to go to bed. After a lengthy debate on where their leaking lowrider should sleep, Mom n Dad decided on the bedroom, in the crate, with a blanket. At three in the morning/night? the stench woke us up and this time Mom had the noble task of cleaning out the crate while Dad rued the day he were born (you n me both, Dad!). Chestsquirts got a towel 'stead of another blanket but 'pparently he had a turdle (like trouble but with a turd) gettin' comfy cuz he were bangin' 'round in his crate for the rest of the morning/night.
All I can say is good thing I'm a bitch without no job so I can sleep off this shitty night! Mom, if you readin' this please pick my ass up a Slurpee cuz it hot outside (though nice n cool in the bedroom since you gotta leave the A/C on all day cuz if you do windows Donald might use his shortened legs to shorten his life).
