Happy Times

These are happy times in my curious household as my littlest slob is starting to become acclimated to me, and, incredibly, vice-versa. I'm actually beginning to see him as "cute", especially when I scratch him behind the ears (he starts twitching and air-humping. Kinda like Poncho, my old incontinent, retarded basset hound the ex-wife kept in the divorce. I got a beat-up old Hyundai, so it was pretty much an even trade).

It was especially difficult for him to adapt to North American mores. His first few weeks were difficult, given that he didn’t understand the language and kept yelling “Boona Zeewa” at me every morning, getting progressively more frustrated during the day as I refused to acknowledge him. Now, he’s picked up the few words of French that I’ve fed him and it’s actually kind of fun watching him try to memorise profoundly offensive phrases in the hopes of using them when friends drop by. I’m looking forward to seeing Jade’s face upon being asked how her bowels are holding up after that unmentionable (Ed. note: AND FICTITIOUS!! Jade is a Lady) orgy.

Anyhoo, we really bonded last weekend over beer and football. I’ve learned that we share a passion for dark, hoppy brews, so we huddled in front of the TV, his 20-litre bucket filled to the brim with Fuller’s Porter, to watch the playoffs.

Football isn’t all that different from rugby, which is very popular in Romania, so he quickly took to watching it with me. During the first few games, he would giggle and mumble on every play, pointing at the players. I found out that he couldn’t believe that grown men would wear plastic armour when hitting each other. While he still hasn’t come around to believing that this isn't some special-olympics version of a contact sport, he has started to pick up the nuances of the game and reacting in tense situations.

…one reaction that CAUSES tense situations is when the camera settles on cheerleaders or on hot beer-commercial chicks. Unfortunately, my little bundle hasn't known the physical touch of a woman for a few months (I understand there was a period in 2004 when he was a part of a Bucharest adult theater ensemble), so the sight of voluptuous females with tiny hinder-regions causes him to burst.

Literally.

I thought I had seen all manner of excretions coming from him, but the quantity of genetic material which jutted forth the first time a nefarious Budweiser commercial came on was beyond impressive (and intimidating. But I'm not going to get into my porn-and-Got Milk?-posters-induced performance anxieties here). The floor was flooded and I was lucky that senile old Madame Tousigny from downstairs was away for her bi-monthly fertility treatments (she wants to carry her cats' offspring­. I tend to avoid her) as her ceiling must've been dripping with gargoyle goop. Further luck: when my wannabe-procreationist... "stiffend", he knocked his bucket over and we discovered that gargoyle ejaculate and brown beer make for a stunningly resistant thermal foam. We're in the premilinary testing phases with NASA, but if things work out, my gargoyle's onanism by-products will make me rich.

I guess he isn't so bad after all.