Sponge-Brain Poof-Pants

May 2017

Yet another true, factual, and accurate episode of everyone’s favorite dog, Sponge-Brain Poof-Pants:

I didn’t bother extracting any promises of actual work help from “Supervisor” Skipper, so guess what Little Mister Mischief did? While I was on one side of the boat’s bottom applying a second coat of bottom paint (blue over black, so at the next haul I can see where it wears thin), he approached the boat on the other side to rub his dainty little tush against the wet blue paint of the keel. He must have arched his back and twisted in a very particular way because he made the paint marks look exactly as if some old man with paint on his latex gloves had given him a quick rub. YOU KNOW who’s getting blamed for this, right? What a clever, devious little shithead he can be.

Btw, this little pooch has something wrong with his head. Evidence: his behavior while I worked. Painting is quiet work, of course, so I had no problem hearing the cries of the ospreys wheeling overhead. Because I’ve been living on the water for years now, I have, in fact, learned to decipher their kip! kip! calls. I heard one osprey say to another, “Hey! Bro! What is that little thing down there? The brown and white thing. See it moving? It’s alive, so can we eat it?”
The other said, at least what I think he said, ‘cause he mumbled, “Ya, it’s edible, but look at it: there’s more meat on a mouse! Not a snack worth the effort of flying away with.”

Well, apparently Skipper can understand osprey also. He started “barking smack” up at the skies: “Hey! Hey! HEY! Your curving talons couldn’t pierce my studly rib cage anyway ‘cause you ugly parakeets ain’t shit! HEY! Go ahead, fly away, you CHICKENS! Baawk, baawk, baaaaawwkk!”

The ospreys were gone, gone, gone, and he just kept on barking smack at them, endlessly. Little Dog Dude, is there no room in your widdle head for a brain cell that computes relative size OR one that recognizes overwhelming predator status? Either brain cell would benefit you, maybe get you one step out of your alternate reality. You poor thing.

April 2017

I got suckered AGAIN! The damned dog said (telepathically) to me, “C’mon, Unckie Mik! Bring with me you! I promise I’ll help you work!” Stoopid dog did nothing but bark at invisible monsters he spied in at least 64 points of the compass. Worthless little waste of good air and fur, I don’t know why I put up with him!


This is Skipper, a.k.a. PooPoo, Puff-Butt, and Pain-in-the-Ass. His mama said to me, “Again I have to be gone all day, so my sweet little pups will have to stay in the boat alllll by himself. You know how he gets when left alone, what with the frantic jumping at the window and the drooling and the blue, blue howling . . . so maybe he could hang out with you? He could help you work on your teak, y’know.” ***

Well, let me tell you all, this is one lazy little dog. All I got from him all day was poor excuses for why he couldn’t work: “But I don’t have opposable thumbs!”

I paraphrased Clint Eastwood’s line, “We’re sailors! We adapt! We improvise! We overcome!”

So the little shit says (telepathically) to me, “C’mon, man! I don’t even have hands!”

See? Always an excuse! I told him to pick up a piece of sandpaper in his mouth and rub it against the wood, but he just stared at me with his drowsy, beady eyes, stared me down, he did. Little slacker dumb shithead.

“Oh, he can help you do your teakwork!” Bull. The only things he’s good for is to pet and rub and hold my chest down when I take a nap and to share a whole can of Cheez-Wiz shot right down our throats (don’t anybody tell his mama about that last one!)

*** ‘Round here, reality is very fluid.

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