(The members of an unseen orchestra softly play Aaron Copeland’s “On the Trail” from Grand Canyon Suite. They could have played “Hoe-down,” but American members will recognize this as the lovely piece of music that has been appropriated by the U.S. Beef Council for their “Beef! It’s what’s for dinner,” TV campaign… so it might not provide quite the same ambience. A small dog works at his desk mulling over a really silly report. He munches on dog biscuits as he works. He doesn’t know it, but soon his person will put him on Milk Bones Lite and—sadly—this is his last night of full- flavor biscuits.)
It was a dark and stormy night … No, no, that’s not right! I was born a poor… No, no that’s not right either. Stop being a Jerk and start over:
It was a wonderful day in the neighborhood when the members of the Sylvan Loop Irregulars received word that the Purloined Stash was continuing Westward Ho! from a secret location in an undisclosed Rocky Mountain State.
Quickly, Irregular members Larry and his sister Darryl, and his other sister Darryl and—yes—his other sister Darryl hurried to their mail-box post and then settled in for a long winter’s nap.
(Orchestra switches to Brahms’ Lullaby. Can you believe it? Aren’t these irregulars lazy! Last time fashionistas are hired for a job. Just wait until She-Who-Must-Be Obeyed finds out!!)
They had not napped long, however, before they awoke to see a Jeep with the driver seated on the wrong side of the car. “Oh like, where are we?” the Irregular fashionistas cried. “Is this like, really like, a Twilight Zone moment? But like, wow, maybe yeah, that’s like a clue like,” they thought. Sadly the thought was too heavy, and they dropped it.
Whatever.
But, hark, hark we dogs did bark; the postman was coming down the road. Our alert jarred the Irregular fashionistas from their vapid stupor, and they started contemplating peek-a-boo pumps vs. skater shoes vs. Uggs for the walk back down the driveway. They donned the fastest foot attire and got ready for the hand off. Too bad they got distracted by the postman who had stopped to ring twice.
It had to be the package; the postman always rings twice when mail must be hand-delivered.
The other member of the canine unit and I rushed to get She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed who was inside refusing to buy yet another “*^%^%$#$ three-ring binder” for the Short Boss.
(Orchestra switches to that old cowboy favorite: "Git along little doggie(s).”)
“Bow wow, what big eyes that postman has,” said Canine Freckles as he got this poor dog a bone. “The better to read the addresses with,” I replied.
She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed took her package and quickly went in the house. Then she asked me and Canine Freckles to round up the Irregular fashionistas so they could go back in the closet. Late that night we heard the odd rustling of tissue paper, and then She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed headed upstairs to the old chest where she keeps the treasure.
Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? For several days we heard nothing about the box.
This morning, however, we heard her tell Furry Face Man that she was going to go you-know-where to mail you-know-what (wink! wink!) when she picked up the Short Boss from school.
Verrry inter-es-tink. Maybe it was a red herring. “Red herring?” asked Canine Freckles, “I thought that’s what they were eating for dinner on Friday night…” I withheld comment. (Canine Freckles’ heart is in the right place, but clearly other parts of him are not. This will be the subject of a later report.)
I last saw the Purloined Stash at approximately 14 hundred hours PST as it was being loaded into a small foreign car. Box was not there upon She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed’s return with the Short Boss.
She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed went to the computer and sent a message.
“Whew, I’m glad that’s done,” she said as she opened a soda: pop, pop, fizz, fizz, “what a relief that is.”
--Report respectfully submitted by Officer Sir Doodles of Sylvan DCF, Sylvan Loop Irregulars, Canine Unit.
(Orchestra closes with “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.”)
It was a dark and stormy night … No, no, that’s not right! I was born a poor… No, no that’s not right either. Stop being a Jerk and start over:
It was a wonderful day in the neighborhood when the members of the Sylvan Loop Irregulars received word that the Purloined Stash was continuing Westward Ho! from a secret location in an undisclosed Rocky Mountain State.
Quickly, Irregular members Larry and his sister Darryl, and his other sister Darryl and—yes—his other sister Darryl hurried to their mail-box post and then settled in for a long winter’s nap.
(Orchestra switches to Brahms’ Lullaby. Can you believe it? Aren’t these irregulars lazy! Last time fashionistas are hired for a job. Just wait until She-Who-Must-Be Obeyed finds out!!)
They had not napped long, however, before they awoke to see a Jeep with the driver seated on the wrong side of the car. “Oh like, where are we?” the Irregular fashionistas cried. “Is this like, really like, a Twilight Zone moment? But like, wow, maybe yeah, that’s like a clue like,” they thought. Sadly the thought was too heavy, and they dropped it.
Whatever.
But, hark, hark we dogs did bark; the postman was coming down the road. Our alert jarred the Irregular fashionistas from their vapid stupor, and they started contemplating peek-a-boo pumps vs. skater shoes vs. Uggs for the walk back down the driveway. They donned the fastest foot attire and got ready for the hand off. Too bad they got distracted by the postman who had stopped to ring twice.
It had to be the package; the postman always rings twice when mail must be hand-delivered.
The other member of the canine unit and I rushed to get She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed who was inside refusing to buy yet another “*^%^%$#$ three-ring binder” for the Short Boss.
(Orchestra switches to that old cowboy favorite: "Git along little doggie(s).”)
“Bow wow, what big eyes that postman has,” said Canine Freckles as he got this poor dog a bone. “The better to read the addresses with,” I replied.
She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed took her package and quickly went in the house. Then she asked me and Canine Freckles to round up the Irregular fashionistas so they could go back in the closet. Late that night we heard the odd rustling of tissue paper, and then She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed headed upstairs to the old chest where she keeps the treasure.
Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? For several days we heard nothing about the box.
This morning, however, we heard her tell Furry Face Man that she was going to go you-know-where to mail you-know-what (wink! wink!) when she picked up the Short Boss from school.
Verrry inter-es-tink. Maybe it was a red herring. “Red herring?” asked Canine Freckles, “I thought that’s what they were eating for dinner on Friday night…” I withheld comment. (Canine Freckles’ heart is in the right place, but clearly other parts of him are not. This will be the subject of a later report.)
I last saw the Purloined Stash at approximately 14 hundred hours PST as it was being loaded into a small foreign car. Box was not there upon She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed’s return with the Short Boss.
She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed went to the computer and sent a message.
“Whew, I’m glad that’s done,” she said as she opened a soda: pop, pop, fizz, fizz, “what a relief that is.”
--Report respectfully submitted by Officer Sir Doodles of Sylvan DCF, Sylvan Loop Irregulars, Canine Unit.
(Orchestra closes with “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.”)
2 comments:
ROTFLMAO!!!
Oh, I'm wiping away the tears of laughter! That was hilarious but, being my newbie self, I still haven't the slightest clue about this whole "Purloined Stash" deal...
Oh well =D
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