But… yeah. I did.
So I’m at the bakery and I’m doing things to dough. I’m not baking, because I’m not at all a baker. Bakers bake and I don’t do that. I do things to dough. There is a baker… he bakes the dough after I’ve done things to it. Whatever.
And Boopsie comes rolling through. He does that. It’s odd that he should do that — come rolling through the bakery — but it’s part of his charm.
“Oh… just kill me now, Somebody.”
Seems Boopsie is not having a good day.
“What ails you, Boopsie?” says I.
I say this because it is pretty much required. Not so much that it’s socially expected (and it is) but because Boopsie really will piss and moan until his complaints reach an intolerable crescendo that obliges someone to make just such an inquiry. Boopsie is like that (as are a shockingly large number of people) and I find it’s best to just avoid the unpleasantness and ask.
I don’t do it because I’m nice. That’s a vicious calumny. I’m not at all nice. I fake it fairly well, however.
“I hate men,” declares Boopsie.
Ah.
Men.
Being one of those, I can quite safely vouch for our less than enjoyable aspects. We have them. Saying “I hate men” isn’t entirely daft… it’s just overly petulant.
Really.
As a man, I can also vouch for our over-all cuddlyness and general charm. We can be sweet. We’re like dogs that way: cuddly, charming, can be sweet. You wouldn’t really want to be without us but we really will pee on the couch or chew up the slippers or otherwise provoke you into screaming “I hate men.”
Whatever.
Boopsie, you may recall, “needs” a boyfriend. He does. He said so just two weeks ago or so. Scroll down past the pretty pink orchid and see if I’m wrong. (I’m just not, you know.)
Boopsie, you may recall, satisfied this “need” for a boyfriend. He did. He did so by deciding that breathing and male were the only two pertinent qualifications for being a boyfriend.
Yeah.
And now Boopsie has had the occasion to “hate” men.
I’m going to say it now: Boopsie is quite mad. He’s nutty, bonkers, not right in the head. Tetched, loonie, quite possibly psycho also come to mind. Boopsie is in good company, I fear. Some days it seems to me that everyone is quite insane.
That does not at all auger well for me. No. But then I quite like men. They’re cuddly, charming, are really good at scratching certain itches… all around handy things. They also don’t puke as much as dogs do… as a general rule with copious exceptions.
“Boopsie,” says I. “This boyfriend of yours… is he still breathing, is he still male?”
“I should have specified that he not be an asshole,” Boopsie says.
“Well, decide where men who aren’t assholes are likely to be found and then go there,” says I.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” says I. “But really, Boopsie… consider adding literate to the job description. Consider adding a great many things you really do find to be required. You can’t just decide that a breathing male is adequate and then complain about how breathing males are inadequate. It’s cruel.”
“I’m cruel? Me?” shrieks Boopsie.
Oh yes.
