Tuesday, October 12, 2004

The Ho Depot. We Can Do You. You Can Help.

Hot Wife called me at work yesterday to ask if I would stop on the way home to get a bag of food for Weak-Bladdered Dog. Such a loaded question.

Weak-Bladdered Dog doesn’t eat normal dog food. Dog Chow and the like, which are easy to find and relatively inexpensive, cause Weak-Bladdered Dog to itch spastically, gain weight, pee on the carpet, develop inner-ear infections, sing showtunes in the middle of the night and display symptoms of doggy Tourette’s Syndrome: “Bark. Wooop! Bark. Fuck it. Bark.”

So to keep Weak-Bladdered Dog in good physical health, we have to visit the Pet Hospital and schlep home a 30-pound bag of specially formulated food that, based on the price, must be made of crushed diamonds and beluga caviar. No joke: $52 for 30 pounds.

But the real reason for my hesitation about getting food for the dog is that it requires a stop at what I call “The Ho Depot.” I call it that because every one of the 19-year-old girls who works at the Pet Hospital dresses and makes herself up in a way more suited to a night performing in a titty bar than an afternoon shepherding mastiffs and retrievers back for distemper shots.

I approach the reception desk and Ho #1, whom we’ll call Bambi, rises to greet me. Bambi is wearing a tight-fitting black blouse with a neck plunge so severe that I can see what she ate for breakfast. Her boobies are clamoring to be set free from the push-up bra they’ve been stuffed into, and Bambi smells as though she has recently bathed herself in an eyeglass-fogging, septum-searing perfume from the cosmetic counter at Target.

“Hi,” she squeaks. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, my eye starting to water from her Eau de Tramp. “I need a 30-pound bag of Overpriced Dog Food.”

She giggles. “Oh. I think that’s the bag that’s too heavy for me to lift. Let me call for some help.”

Bambi picks up the phone, punches a couple of buttons with her acrylic nails, and her voice trumpets out through the intercom. “Jesse, can you please bring a 30-pound bag of Overpriced Dog Food to the reception desk. Jesse, 30 pounds of ODF to reception please.”

Within minutes, Ho #2, Jesse, arrives with a small handcart in tow. My dog food is here, but I can’t take my eyes off of Jesse’s horrendously misshapen breasts. She has had some work done, but it appears her surgeon was Stevie Wonder. One boob is pointing directly down at the floor. The other is staring at me, checking me out, wondering perhaps if I am a talent scout for Hustler Magazine. Her hair is blonde, her make-up caked on and she is wearing clothes that – and I mean this sincerely – my daughter will never come anywhere close to. The fatherly instincts in me want to ask Jesse to put on a sweater.

She speaks. “Good timing, sir. You got the last bag.”

To distract myself, I dig into my pocket and pull out some cash. I take out $50 and set it on the counter. I need to pay for this food, get it out of here and take a cold shower.

“Actually,” Bambi says, “It comes to $50.05 with tax.”

“No problem,” I say, reaching back into my pocket. “I think I have a nipple in here. Nickel! I mean nickel! I’m so sorry.”

Bambi and Jesse giggle. They think I’m cute. I think they’re scary.

“Don’t worry about it, sir,” Jesse says. “It happens all the time.”


At 9:58 AM, Blogger Lala said...

For a minute there I thought you were going to write about Home Despot - You need us, we don't need you.

Why is it that my dog can eat an entire chicken carcass and be fine but he cannot stomach store brand chow? Luckily there is Costco, where they sell miracle food that he CAN eat. Not as expensive as yours but I still have to buy the g-damn membership just to feed my dog.

At 12:17 PM, Blogger ck said...

can i just say "thank you, kind sir" for making me smile today? i stumbled upon your blog through the genius that is dooce and now i'm addicted to yours as well. dote! you made this hellish work day a bit more barable. gracias, chico.

At 12:28 PM, Blogger baybee_doll said...

lmao..thanks for that..reminds me of high school

At 12:59 PM, Blogger Gigi said...

Reading this entry I've become the Weak-Bladdered Reader...roflmfao!!

At 7:47 AM, Blogger Shiz said...

Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!

And "It happens ALL THE TIME"? If it happens all the time don't the two of them know that SOMETHING must be WRONG?

Funny story, though.

Can you send an anonymous letter to the pet place? Suggest that there be more professional manner of dress? Ew.

At 9:52 PM, Blogger The Lioness said...

Very funny, this, will happily read on! (Just so you feel better, I buy a 15 kg bag of ODF for 63 Euros. I could weep.)

At 8:55 PM, Blogger Dave said...

I have a solution. Buy your dog regular dog food. That way, you'll save money *and* kill the dog at the same time.

Of course, you would miss out on the big tittied bimbos who like to show off their cleavage. I don't know... it's a tough one.

At 6:50 AM, Blogger Fadedpaperdoll said...

I bet it happens all the time.


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