Next up is Ree, The Hotfessional, one of my very first bloggy loves and the first woman to say she wanted to lick me. Which kinda creeped me out a little at first and then I was all over the Ree lovin’.
So, same goes for my biatch Ree, give her plenty of clickity clicky and smootchy lovin’. And a big fat MWAH for Ree for helping me out.
Hi y’all. Actually, since this the “most awesomest of all awesome in the world” Kelley’s blog, the correct term is “all y’all”. ‘Cuz there’s a bunch of you. So, hi all y’all!
I’m Ree from “My Life as a Hotfessional”. Not that kind of Hotfessional. I’m the kind of Hotfessional that works in an industry that is mostly men. I like to throw them off their game by bending over and flashing cleavage. Or crossing my legs while wearing a short skirt and stilettos. Conservative banker types (my clients) and computer geeks (my peers) simply don’t know what to make of it.
Now, shush. You can’t tell them that I know they’re incapable of arguing a point coherently when I adjust a bra strap. It’s how I WIN.
(No I don’t. Well, sometimes I do.)
Annnnnywayyyyyyy, for the past three months, I’ve been traveling every week from Ann Arbor, Michigan (where I live) to Chicago, Illinois (where I work).
Basically, it’s a 241.99 (yes, I mapped it) mile trip each way. And no, I DO NOT drive. If I drove that trip twice every week, someone would die. Probably the fucker changing lanes with signaling. No, I fly the “friendly” skies. In fact, if you come by my place, you’ll be regaled with stories of the glamour of business travel through the letters I write to the dumbshit assholes people I encounter on my trips. (And, from time to time, the people I live with.)
But that’s not what this is about. When Kelley asked me to guest-post for her, I tried and tried to think of a topic. After a couple of glasses of really cheap fine Pinot Grigio, I decided to tell you about the time my Dad stored dog shit in our refrigerator.
Not tiny dog shit. Great Dane dog shit. The mutha of all poops.
My dad, a 32-year-veteran of the local police force worked his way from Patrolman to Detective to Sergeant to Lieutenant and to Deputy Chief before retiring. (No, I never dated. Surprised?) He went to the FBI National Academy. He went to bomb school. He was interviewed by newpapers and lauded by city officials. He rescued a 12-foot-long boa constrictor from an attic.
One case involved the tragic death of a homeless man in a park. The back of the man’s head was bitten in several places, and he was found face down, but it was winter. No one knew if the bites were the cause of the death or the unfortunate after-effects of something finding his frozen body.
At any rate, one set of suspects were a couple of Great Danes. “Hannibal” and “Cannibal”. (This pre-dated Silence of the Lambs by at least 20 years, too.) Hannibal and Cannibal ran through this park on a frequent basis. They had never shown the slightest bit of aggressiveness to anyone that they encountered. Not the children that played with them regularly. Not their owners nor any neighbors. Gentle as pussy cats.
Dad had to try to prove their innocence. The only way to do that was to make them poop. And comb through the poop with a pair of tweezers. He needed to find out whether or not there were pieces of
this man’s hair in their waste. Or portions of the wool cap he was wearing.
Where did he do this, you ask?
NOT, as you may expect in one of those top-notch crime labs like you see on NCIS or Law & Order. Oh no. He used our kitchen table.
(He covered it beforehand. It’s okay. You can stop gagging.)
But to keep it at the exact right temperature, it needed to be refrigerated. Poop gets melty if it’s left out in the warm kitchen too long.
So, really, it should have come as no surprise to my mother when she opened the plastic storage container that she thought held a couple of leftover hamburgers.
Epilogue: Hannibal and Cannibal were found guilty by way of playfulness. It was found that the guy started running away from them when they came to the park. They thought he wanted to play chase. In his weakened, homeless, state…when the two 170-lb dogs jumped on him, he fell and punctured a lung. With his face in the snow and the dogs jumping around him, he asphyxiated. None of the bites were found to be the direct cause of death, but the gentle giants were euthanized. When, a few years later, my Dad decided to get a couple of dogs for the family, he got two Great Danes. Bibi and Beau. They were the best dogs we ever had.