What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part I)

The wind whips against my door like a slave driver. So I put Red on her leash and let her drag me out into the mud. A gust almost lifts me off the ground. She looks like a kid flying a kite at the beach. Or running down the street with a birthday balloon. I try to rein her in enough to where she can’t jump from the sidewalk to the street. I’m not sure how acute her fear of cars is yet, but I assume it’s minimal.

We took a left down Cleghorn. There’s a little Mexican boy that lives there. I call him Chunk. I call him that because he’s a fat little fucker. I haven’t seen him since the leaves began to fall. He never wore a shirt during the summer, so I assume he doesn’t got one. That would explain why he can’t be found in cold weather.

It’s not a Mexican neighborhood, though. I wish it was. Then I could get a decent chalupa. Austin’s family is across the street from Chunk. I think they might be Irish. I say this on account of Austin’s bright red hair. That and his sister’s big doughy titties. I’m not sure if Irish broads having big doughy titties is an actual stereotype or not, but I’d like to think so. I assume Red’s Irish as well. She doesn’t have tits, but her red coat makes her look like a Hell Hound.

Further up the street there lives the Pill Lady. She looks just like a sweet old lady. You walk by her house and she’ll be standing there on her porch waving and smiling. She’ll say something sweet like “Hey, what a pretty dog you got”. And then when you’re all comforted by this grandmotherly figure, she asks if you’re holding any pain killers. So, yeah, I was kinda looking forward to turning her down for the umpteenth time, but she wasn’t there. Either I’m the only one stupid enough in this town to walk against this wind or Pill Lady and Chunk are out shopping - for shirts and pills respectively.