You know you want to visit. Also? Join my cult.

Recently, I found yet another puddle in my house.

Yes, Lil’ Frankfurter decided yet again that peeing in the middle of the living room was a great option. In fact, it was a much better option than nosing the bell hung on the back door, alerting me he needed to go outside. To go potty. Because, as My Guy and I remind the dogs several times daily, “WE GO POTTY OUTSIDE.”

It’s like we have a cult, except instead of talking about Hale Bop or drinking Kool-Aid, we’re all, “WE GO POTTY OUTSIDE.”

Right. Except sometimes Lil’ Frank just can’t be bothered.

So, the other day, I found yet another fucking puddle. And although I’m usually just Mommy Dearest and yell something really useful like, “Shameful! Shameful!?” Well, this time? The spirit just got into me and I went off.

“WE GO POTTY OUTSIDE,” I said to a non-plussed Lil’ Frank. “What are you doin’, peeing in MY HOUSE? This is MY HOUSE, and I just let you live here.”

Then, it got weird.

“You ain’t got no J-O-B. You ain’t got no JOB! Git yo’self a jobby job and earn your keep!”

I just might be watching too many reruns of “Martin.”

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