Goddammit. Once upon a time everything was normal, then the voices came.
One in particular. That sort of whiny faux-American all-purpose voice for animal commentary. I can’t remember if it was Bryn or Bryony who started it. “My name is Stigwump. My life is awesome” – the soundtrack to a dumbass shitzu/Tibetan spaniel blinking incomprehensibly at the big wide world.
And then the accent passed to Sprite, summer shivering and whippet wistful stares at the log burner. “Goddammit. Make a fire. Bitch.”
And so it went. And so it goes.
Now, it’s not just everything Sprite says. “Goddammit. Where’s my chicken. I can’t believe you haven’t got it for me yet.”
It’s Helen’s cats. “Goddammit, you expect me to go OUTSIDE to take a dump. You dumb human bitches.”
Tomato seedlings. “Goddammit. I don’t know why you don’t put me where it’s warmer.”
And then, it’s me. “Goddammit, I can’t stop talking like this.”
And then it’s some of those other parts of me. “Goddammit, the only difference
between slaughter and laughter is an ‘s’, why you disrespecting my hobby?”
Some people are beginning to get worried.
“Goddammit, I don’t know why they get so wound up. I ain’t stopping my dumbass talking like this no more.”