Hyperbole: The Single Greatest Word of All Time?

There is an iconic scene in the Godfather in which Hollywood studio head Jack Woltz finds the severed head of his prize horse resting in bed with him. This famous scene has been playing in my head a lot lately, because in the apartment below where I live there is this little ankle-biter excuse for a dog that barks constantly in the morning. I don't need an alarm clock when I have this dog living below me, as it's daily yapping sessions are like, well, clockwork. Every morning at seven I awake to YEP...YEP...YEP...YEP... ... ...YEP. And when my eyes first open I am usually in that dreamy state between homicidal mania and tired apathy, but the sound of this fucking dog does something to me, like each bark is some kind of injection of pure liquid hatred. It takes everything I have in me, every fiber of my being to not go Mike Vick (seriously?) on this pooch. After fantasizing about all the Jason Vorhees methods of getting rid of this dog, I always end up swallowing my anger like the vinegar my mother used to feed me when I was bad, and go out and sleep on the couch. I am a bedtime slave to this dog. A dog that is not mine. A dog I have never seen.

The band I am currently listening to is Dr. Dog.

© Eric Moore - 2010