Dead Fish in a Box

The chronicles of a suburban fishpimp trying to keep it rural.

My Photo
Name:
Location: United States

Monday, March 26, 2007

Is This the Face of a Killer?

Our dog, Tolkien, goes to work with Mrs. Fishpimp. His daily duties are generally limited to entertaining and relieving stress of the human staff and barking at the UPS guy. Today he applied for a promotion...to pest control. The boss has been trying unsuccessfully to catch the rats in the back yard for about 6 weeks now. But today, while playing fetch with a coworker in the back yard (the office is the owner's former house) he saw a rat running along the retaining wall, locked in, and struck with lightning precision. With coworkers screaming at the carnage, Little T thrashed the vermin, at one point throwing it several feet in the air. When Mrs. Fishpimp finally arrived on to see the Toe standing triumphantly over his bloody trophy and her coworkers in full mortification, she praised him for his good work.

When we used an exterminator at our rental house last fall it cost us $80 per rat. I'm writing up an invoice for services rendered.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Serendpity!

I went to see a friend's band play down at Finn McCool's in the U-district on Friday night. He's in one of the hundreds of bands nationwide named "Vote For Pedro"; they're probably one of the better ones. That part was good. As I wandered into the bar I saw another friend who I've been trying to catch up with for weeks. That part was great, but the best part happened when I went to the bar. I ordered a pint of Red Hook ESB. This lonely-looking late 20s-ish dude saddled up to a plate of bangers & mash told the bartender he'd pay for it. I turned & looked at him for a long second and said "Really?". He confirmed my free beer and stated that he was a rep for Red Hook and thanked me for supporting their brand. I said "Right on, brother!" The only thing that would have made the evening better was if I had been on my game enough to switch from a pint to a pitcher. Oh well, as Simon always said "Talk about a gift horse hitting you in the mouth!"