I Go to Work...I Go to Work Yo
Mama thinks I need to work. More specifically, she thinks I need to accompany her to work. Something about bonding and companionship and YAWN whatever. So it is Saturday, my day off, and she dragged my sorry ass off to work. Fine, no problem. But guess what! I refuse to do ANY RESEARCH or write a complaint. That is not in my portfolio of skillz that pay the billz (yes, Irish Wolfhounds can be ghetto too). I am more of an artiste. A thinker. Or is that a napper? I get the two seriously mixed up.
So here I am in Mama's office doing what I do best. Well, yes, napping and looking handsome but that's not all. Farting. Nice stinky ones. She'll think twice about bringing me here again.
By the way, her office has way too many stairs and damn, I was panting. Granted, I was going down the stairs but yikes! that was scary. Mama's guilt did set in nicely and I got about ten dog treats I chomped down and some of her human food as well. Sucker.