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

You’re supposed to socialize your puppy from a young age. To expose them to as many different people, places and animals as possible. Not humanly possible, because I’m a human and I hate society. No, just plain old socialization will be fine. I’d like to think that I was sitting on that bench with Red today for that reason, but I wasn’t. No, I was hoping to run into Gregory. He owns a restaurant on Main Street. I know him on a first name basis because his restaurant is named Gregory’s. I don’t pretend to like him. Actually I do. No one can sauce up some chicken wings like Gregory can. But when I’m by myself there is absolutely no pretension whatsoever. I promise. Because honestly, I can’t stand the guy. Right before the recent election he’s got McCain-Palin signs decked out in all his windows. Now, I’m all for someone having their own beliefs and expressing those beliefs. This is America after all. But in a place of business? And it doesn’t help that those beliefs are in opposition to mine.

So I wait. I wait outside of Gregory’s for a man named Gregory to walk out and smoke his afternoon cigar. I could have gone inside to talk to him, but I had a dog with me. Poor planning on my part.

The truth is I pussed out. I had a whole notebook of questions about the GOP, but I pussed out. A scared journalist is like a dead soldier. Neither knew what they were getting themselves into. No Austin. No big doughy titties. No Pill Lady. And no Gregory. Back to the drawing board. Back to the day job, too.

-FIN-