Bad Puppy

What is it about a roll of toilet paper that fascinates puppies and young boys? I woke up this morning to my whole bathroom papered in a most unbecoming manner. Said guilty party was wagging his tail, satisfied with his design. Said guilty party's little ass isn't happy about it.

Is it sweltering hot where you are too? Because over here, I feel bad that my furbabees have to wear their furcoats outside. Wow. It's not pretty on the roof these days. I think sweat is running out of my nose. Heh.

Yesterday, I was waylaid on the roof by a young crapenter. Mind you, it's 150 degrees up there. with the hoots of his crapenter buddies from the lower section, he insisted that I read his ten pages that he'd written. Said he was the next whats-his-name, Ferrentino. Said he's a powerful writer just like that movie director Ferrentino.

Sigh.

"You mean, Tarantino," I corrected him politely.

"Yeah, him. You have to read my story. Want to go out and have coffee?"

Sigh.

This kid is, like, majorly young. He had his notebook in his hand, all ready to impress. I make it a point to try not to discourage anyone who writes. So I flipped through his ten pages (you don't want to know about the mutants shooting bullets at the humans who talk like crapenters, running through the Florida backroads, really you don't) of squiggles. I looked up. His puny chest was all puffed up. I looked over his shoulder. Ranger Buddy was just waiting. Just waiting. Like the rest of my roofer boys.

Sigh.

"Umm," I said.

"I told you it was good, didn't I?" the crap-boy said, smiling. "You aren't going to steal my story are you? Then I'd have to sue you."

Sigh.

"Do you know anything about exposition and dialogue?" I asked.

"Don't use those big words on me, man," he said. "Just say how good I am."

"It needs work," I said instead, trying hard not to say anything bad. Because he did write ten pages. I understand the pain of writing ten pages, believe me. "You can't have mutants shooting up with your guys and ten pages later I still have no idea what the plot is about."

"It's like that movie director, I tell you," he said. "I'm starting from the end. It's good, huh?"

I tried not to sigh again. How do you tell a puppy that toilet paper decorating is not art? Okay, my puppy gets a good whack with the toilet roll. This boy is not my puppy. I'm not going to offer to train him either.

"Sure it is," I said, handing him back his notebook. "Now go write the rest of it."

"Want to have that coffee?"

Ahh, the heart of the matter ;-).

"Nope," I said.

"Why not? We can talk writing and stuff."

Never whack a puppy dog too hard. "You are just too good a writer for me. I'm just going to stay home and practice my writing."

"Come on, if I'm that good, you'd want to go out with me. I'm going to be famous."
Never reward bad puppy behavior with treats either. He'll never understand that he has been bad.

"Son," I said, walking past him toward my snickering guys, "you may write like a Ferrentino, but you are still a lousy crapenter."

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