Dogs > People

The last time the wife and I were in the city, we took an afternoon train ride to Coney Island. We brought along another couple and tickets to a Cyclones game. It was cool. Coney Island’s a trip and the Cyclones stadium had ample ballpark food and cold beer. There was this weird wedding ceremony on the field after the game where the bride and groom walked under a player' crossed-bat canopy and everyone got pre-packaged entemann’s wedding cake on the way out of the park.

All in all a good trip, so it was back to Manhattan to meet up with our friends, the Haskwells. The train back sat in the station longer than usual, no doubt waiting for the last stragglers from the Nathan’s and the evening hanky panky on the beach, so the four of us went over the WTF factor of the recent bizarre baseball nuptials we just witnessed. Just as I was about to voice my opinions on the subject, a couple fell into the train car and sat kiddy-corner from us. The dude was holding two large sodas with and angry but disheveled look on his face and the girl sat crying, over a duffel bag on her lap. Years marriage have given me a keen eye for two people fresh off a spat. This looked like an interesting one and we now had solid entertainment for the long ride back to the city.

The girl–we’ll call her the antagonist– was dressed like she just came from a heaven’s gate initiation meeting. Skinny as a rail, she wore a straight white cotton dress and white nike sneakers with those short pom-pom ankle socks. Her hair was nearly white on top and jet black underneath, making her head a homage to the delicious black and white cookie. She was over-made up and her tears had streaked her black mascara down her pale cheeks. Her posture was bent ovduffel duffle on her lap and she was still crying. Our protagonist was tall and reminded me of a dumber Michael Rapaport–if that’s possible. He had the two afore mentioned large drinks in his hand and a scowl directed away from his girl, like his anger kept him form even looking in her direction.

“That roller coaster was awful. The guy lied about how bad it was.” Girly yelps.

“It did exactly what the guy said it would do.” Michael Rapaport says.

The girl wipes tears and mascara from her face and looks back to her duffle bag, which I began to realize had mesh sides like a dog carrier. Yup… It was a dog carrier and I could see what I'm sure was a dog’s leg. And it wasn't moving. She started crying again and pet whatever dog/animal is in the bag. Why was she crying? Surely the dog’s just sleeping. Right?

I couldn't consider the alternative, so I looked away and tried to think about other things.

But wait… They… She… she said they went on a roller coaster. What did they do with the dog? Are there lockers on Coney Island to put pets in while on the rides? Did they have someone watch the dog? Do Carnies even do that sort of thing? If so, I can’t fathom trusting Cleatus the Pixie Dust Spreader with my pooch while I take a turn on his squeeky Tilt-a Whirl. Surely, they didn’t bring their beloved canine on the Cyclone with them. Nah... They couldn't sneak a pet onto a carnival ride. Could they? Now that I think about it, I once watched a good friend ride a stand-up roller coaster with a rented tux in a bag, so I suppose its possible. But… I… no. No! That didn't happen. No one’s that dumb. These people had the sense to buy the dog a carrier–a quite nice and no doubt expensive carrier–surely they had half a thought between them that putting the dog on a roller coaster was a bad idea.

By this point, however, they both seemed concered with whatever's in the bag... Like it's a little funeral! My God, These people killed their dog! They took the little bugger on a goddammed roller coaster and gave it a heart attack. I feel sick to my stomach now. I want to make a citizens arrest! They killed a dog and everyone knows dogs are way more important than people. This horrific act deserves the retrabution!

I quickly turn–without taking my eyes of the perps– and explain what I've seen to the wife. Her reaction is the same naseous stomach that I have and she puts her hand over her mouth in horror. And so we sit with our horrible realization for what seems like an eternity. All the while I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to approach, subdue and possibly mace the two murderers. I'll have to wrestle the poor dog from them and then we'll have to file witness reports. I'll have to call the Haskwells and let them know we'll be late for bepossibility There's always the possibilty of it being leaked to the press. Our apprehension of this scum could make the front page of the Daily...

Wait. Wait!

Movement! We have movement from inside the bag! Suddenly, a little sleepy-eyed pug puppy pops his head from the bag. He's okay people! He's okay! A huge sigh of relief comes from our side of the subway car. The dog is fine. THE DOG IS FINE!

"Maybe they were just having a stupid fight about something else" My wife says to me.

I nod in agreement, but who cares? They could have been beating each other with flaming sticks and tar. In the end, all that really matters is the dog is okay.

I Quit. Sincerely, John Q. Public

Dear Mr. Torrance and distinguished members of the Board,

It is with great joy and a Maker's Mark-induced belligerence that I present you with my resignation. Five years ago, I began pissing my days away as Department Manager in this stale, fluorescent poisoned hovel you so generously call an office. Today, I stand before you as a nothing more than a sad, hallow shell of a man. I'd like to congratulate you in successfully breaking what my wife once called my "iron percerverance". Please know that I will take the horrific lessons I learned here to my grave and when I wake in the night screaming in terror, take comfort it's all because of you and your horrible horrible company.

Of course, one could always argue I'm partly to blame for my gradual mental deterioration. Some might say I should've up and ran from that first interview, when the 400lb bi-polar monster (with whom I would later share a five year "temporary" office) told me he liked both boys AND girls. Its probably true that I would've been better off quitting midway through year three, when large clumps of my own hair began falling out and my wife begged me to stop crying on Sundays. But I soldiered on, knowing that my hard work and determination would surely pay off in the form of a promotion or raise. Instead, my countless hours of overtime were rewarded with pay deductions for "Friday free donuts" and "company oxygen use". When the work load began to increase as a direct result of my own talents, you pushed my hours back to nearly part time and stripped me of my benefits, causing me to fall behind on projects. Your drunken attempts to "rally me" with personal insults and threats of black mail at the company picnic did not go unnoticed by my wife, children and recent cancer surviving Mother-in-Law.

I was promised my own office when I accepted the position, even though I'd be sharing a space with the afore mentioned 400lb monster for the first month. That month turned into a year and eventually stretched into four more. To add insult to bi-polar injury, at each weekly staff meeting I would be informed that the notion of my office mate moving into his own area would only be entertained after all the morning's Howard Stern jokes had been exhausted. Needless to say, my notion was never entertained. As a result, I had ringside seats to an overweight bi-sexual relationship breakdown, an overweight bi-sexual relationship reconciliation and an overweight bi-sexual habitually filling his lip with Kodiak chewing tobacco, awarding me the pleasure of cleaning make-shift Snapple bottle spitoons from my own desk, chair and car hood. I have been privy to smells that would displease the hoboest of hobos and have removed countless kittens from "the warm spot" of my printer. In addition, I've been the sounding board for such pearls of wisdom as, "I collect power tools, I'm weird like that." and "My doctor told me last week that I'm probably an alcoholic, but this week I saw on Oprah that I'm really not"

So to summarize, Fuck you all. I wouldn't trust any of you to hand me an oxygen mask during a plane crash.

Yours in eternal damnation,

Employee #34457

P.S. When you all come to that final stop of your little road to perdition and you're kneeling before Satan, awaiting judgement, be sure and throw me a wave. I'll be the one poking at your eyeballs with a gasoline-soaked stick.

Self-confidence builders and breaker-down..uh..ers

Builder: Confide in a trusted friend. Explain all your hopes and fears and use their advice to slowly start up that road to feeling better.

Breaker-downer: Drink a twelve pack of High Life, drunk dial your best friend and throw up on your phone.

Builder: Find something that you're good at, makes you happy and distracts you from your stress.

Breaker-downer: Find a couple in love, approach them and claim the guy gave you VD and ask what free clinic he uses.

Builder: Find solace in your canine companions.

Breaker-downer: Blame all your troubles on the high price of dog food and unsuccessfully attempt to sue your dogs in small claims court.

Builder: Buy a new hat.

Breaker-downer: Go to a Red Sox game wearing a Yankee hat while yelling "Got Rings?" every minute on the minute.

Builder: Cook dinner for someone you love.

Breaker-downer: Cook dinner for the homeless, then berate them for leaving a lousy tip.

Builder: Call your Mom and reconnect.

Breaker-downer: Go on Dr. Phil and blame your Mom for everything including 9-11.

Builder: Consolidate your debt and make a conscious effort to improve your credit score.

Breaker-downer: Spend your entire paycheck on pop-tarts, whiskey and bail.

Builder: List your life goals and try to cross off a different goal each month.

Breaker-downer: List your many enemies and formulate a plan to pit them all against each other in a circle of jealous rage.

Builder: Start writing a weekly column. Good or bad, just write.

Breaker-downer: Write several partial columns, scream and throw your computer down the stairs. Repeat.