So I'm sitting on the couch licking my balls when all of a sudden I lose my balance and roll off the cushion and onto the sleeping cat who immediately let's fly with fangs and claws and all things feline. When the fur finally settles I start checking myself for holes. Everything seems fine except for my tongue which smells like ass. But then I look on the coffee table and my canine heart collapses. McCann's laptop has taken a direct hit and bleeds shiraz while the light slowly drains from its screen. A civillian casualty. Collateral damage.

Of course McCann is pissed. "That was a $60 bottle of The Dead Arm....a D'arenberg classic. What a friggin waste." Then a look of sad revelation crawls across his face. His Garageband, his iTunes, the new songs he just finished recording......all gone.

Devastated.

Needless to say, I will be in the doghouse until long after I'm dead. A moldering pile of beagle bones; abandoned and despised. No more wild romps thru the Newfoundland woods. No more tossing of the stick. No more scratches on the belly. No more food....

Worse than the obvious and profound guilt, is the nagging feeling that I probably had it coming. For weeks now I have been fostering a mean spirited attitude towards my friends and relations. As if I were somehow above it all. Better. My head has been full of negative thoughts and pessimisim and it has worn me down.

I believe in Karma......and she is a total bitch. If you scald your arse, you better learn how to sit on the blisters. I also believe that everything happens for a reason.

Maybe the cost of a laptop is little for the sake of a sympathetic soul.

Or maybe you should never lick your balls on the couch.

Tosh