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Well ladies and gentlemen, it’s Saturday morning and I’m planted in front of the computer prompting A.I. for Vogon poetry and Tonka memes.
At least it was Saturday morning, and that’s what I was doing.
It’s Saturday evening now, and I’m preparing for the sad reality that daylight saving time is upon us.
Would you like proof that government is inept and corrupt?
Keep changing the time on your microwave ovens and car radios twice a year for no real reason.
Once the memes and poetry were generated, I broke out the electric blue leash adorned with the cannister of poop bags, affixed it to the matching collar of our Weimaraner support staff, and returned to the scene of the crime.
The dog park.
That’s the place where Tonka (the aforementioned support staff) had an unfortunate encounter with Mr. Chomp Chomp after attempting to share a joke about why dogs lick themselves.
Spoiler alert.
Because they can.
That encounter took place about six weeks ago. Sadly, Tonka has spent all that time since healing from a wound and surgical scar that didn’t close properly. The good news is that he got his stitches out last weekend, and is free and clear to return to the dog park for more rough housing and debauchery.
No more cone or inflatable donut to inhibit his indiscriminate wound inspection. The onesie has been removed as well.
To mark the occasion, I’ve commissioned a poem in the spirit of what’s been ranked as the third worst poetry in the known universe.
That would be Vogon poetry.
As a rule, I’m no fan of poetry.
Even still, I would be remiss if I didn’t mark the occasion of Tonka’s return to the dog park by verbally vanquishing his medical accessories with a lame assault on the English language.
Verbal brilliance is my thing, so naturally I had a large language model do the dirty work.
Naturally, you’ll remember the Vogons from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. They were unpleasant in every way, obsessively bureaucratic, and as mentioned before, proud authors of the third-worst poetry in the universe.
I rank these people right up there with intrusive mariachi bands squeezing out off-key ballads in low-ceilinged Mexican restaurants where the acoustics turn every trumpet blast into a bureaucratic migraine.
Much like refired beans, it will totally ruin a nacho.
Please don’t enjoy.
Ode to the Onesie (Vogon Style)
by Gruntblat Q. Vex of the Bureau of Canine Apparel Enforcement
Oh flibbering flapjack of stitched containment,
Thou navy-hued sausage casing of canine despair,
With turquoise piping like the veins of bureaucratic regret,
You clung to the Weimaraner’s flanks like a tax audit in July.
Behold! The stitches, now evicted from flesh’s lease,
Their tenancy terminated by the scalpel’s cruel decree.
The cone, that satellite of shame, banished to the cupboard of memory,
Where it shall rattle beside expired flea meds and the ghost of dignity.
Tonka, noble beast of gray and grievance,
Strides forth unclad, unstitched, unshackled,
His hindquarters no longer a zippered mystery,
His expression: Whiskey Tonka Foxtrot incarnate.
Let the mariachi Vogons wail in discordant tribute!
Let Scout raise a paw in sarcastic salute!
Let the fajitas sizzle in sympathetic resonance!
For the onesie is gone, and the dog is free.
