This was sparked by a blasted internal promotion here at the slave. Despicable sign greeting me as I trudge out the elevator. Coding contest. Groan.

"Code like a ( symbol for a butterfly ). Gloat like a ( symbol for a bee )." Picture of a suit, all in black and white except for his red boxing gloves. Good thing I don't smoke anymore and carry around the spark. Pyro the damn poster board.

Firstly, stealing someone else's overused catch phrase, evincing your talents and creativity that escaped you, puts you on the tard list. Why didn't you just use "Take my code, please" or "Waaazuuuup! It's a coding contest. Waaaaazuuuup!"? Those are just as lame and fitting a brainless weasel like yourselves. I don't like being smarter than my bosses. I really don't. Not about to obliterate brain cells to resolve that situation however.

I might be able to accept that since a butterfly flits, it might flit through code. That would take a few cocktails though. But as anthropomorphic attributes go, bees have never been classified as gloaters. Busy, stinging, buzzing, never gloating.

Also a geek contest should never be compared to boxing. Maybe some kung-fu references. But punchy, knuckle slurred, pugilism just don't fit.

The whole mess just increases the wonts to hide the fact I work here. Fucking coding contest. Leave it for the MIT brats. Wage slave geeks have no desire to show chops on the clock or off.

Anyway.

Friday of the Eleventh in the month of April continuith: Pop meets us at Lambert, introductions to Sunshine, dumps us in the van, and we wuz off.

Get mauled by four doggies. My folks are deep into the world of Vizsla dogs. They are amatuer breeders, and do much of the show stuff, like Westminster. Vizlas are a Hungarian hunting hound. Look them up if you're interested, they are quite handsome creatures. Demonstratively affectionate. Packed with energy. They sort of look like grey hounds, or weimaraners, but slightly smaller and rust colored. They were on me like I was wearing Milkbone undies.

Brassie was most pleased one of her littermates returned. In the realm of the spanky parent's household, Ma and Pop were pack leaders, and the rest of us, pooches and sapien offspring included, were just soldiers in the litter. So, Brassie the grand old lady Vizsla, considers me a brother. She parked herself in my lap.

Brassie is a doll. So sweet and gentle. Except when it comes to critters. On quite a few occasions I personally witnessed her obliterate birds in midair in the backyard. Puffs of feathers. The funniest thing was a squirrel she chased. The varmit leaped for a tree, Brassie chomped. Little grey homie had to live the rest of his days sans tail.

Brassie has a bit of doggie senilty. Somewhat comparable to human Alzheimer's. She'll just stare off into space, confused as to how to move. Or uncontrolably shake at commands she no longer understands. Also, she's a little fucked up about Lash. My old buddy, who they had to put down last year due to bone cancer. She seems to think that when Pop takes me away, I'll be gone forever like Lash, off to the vet's to be put to sleep. So she overly worries whenever I leave the house with Pop. Little darling.

Alright, I will stop with the insane pet owner analysis. It was good being surrounded by mammals though. Damn good.

Curse my Swiss cheese recollections. Can't remember what deliciousity Pop whipped up for our pleasure that night. Back into home cooking. Damn that's a warm fuzzy swelling in my middle. Glow. However I do remember the next day......

Saturday of the Twelfth in the month of April: Aroma wake up call.

Morning cramps assuaged with fresh muffins. Pop has this great bran muffin recipe with dried apricots and honey glazed tops. Fresh from the oven, butter melts into it's fluffy center. Matched with sausage links and cantelope slices. Most pleasing morning I've had in some time.