Another lively Friday night in Hotel California, dear reader.  That rotten charwoman has adopted a particularly moronic dog.  As moronic as the dog may be, however, I think it’s ultimately smarter than her.  She is asking the dog questions and apparently expecting an actual verbal response from the dog, in either English or Spanish.  When the dog doesn’t respond appropriate, or you know, at all, she asks the question again, as if perhaps the dog simply didn’t hear her the first time.  When there is no response the second time, she gets increasingly angry and asks the question again.  It’s weird and awful to have to listen to.  I guess the weirdest part is that they are not yes-or-no-questions, but rather questions that solicit explanations or an expression of preferences, or whatever.  It’s just bizarre.
When she is not attempting to engage it in active conversation, this thing runs around humping everything.  At this point I’m stuck in this smoky room for the time being because I don’t feel like being sexually assaulted by an overly dim canid.  I told her she needs to get the thing fixed as soon as, but she says she can’t afford it.  I told her I’d do it for $20.  Her response was not positive, so I offered to do it for free.  That was two days ago.  She hasn’t spoken to me since.  But she sure can’t stop speaking to this fucking dog.
How am I supposed to write the most important book in the world with this idiotic and oddly nasal cacophony going on in the hallway just outside the door?
Ugh.
I’m pretty sure she stole this dog.

N.P.: “Psycho Killer” – One Bad Son