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I Can't Stand My Filthy Hippie Owner

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I Can't Stand My Filthy Hippie Owner

Jesus Christ, do I ever hate my filthy fucking hippie owner, Zach. You have no idea the hell I go through, living in this disgusting house with him and his hordes of skank-ass hippie friends.

I didn't ask for this shit, you know. I try to keep clean, giving myself frequent tongue-baths. But it's simply impossible when, everywhere I step, there's a moldy black-bean pita sandwich or an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked joints.

I never get a moment's rest, either. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, there's at least a dozen smelly-haired fuckers sitting around getting high and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, or planning another pancake benefit for East Timor. Get a life, losers.

The agony never ends. I can't even sleep, because, every time I try, Zach starts beating on his bongos, while some other unwashed bozo tries to play some crappy didgeridoo he made out of some PVC pipe. And if I hear one more hippie fumble through the bridge of "Sugar Magnolia" on Zach's untuned acoustic guitar, I'm going to squeeze my head between the bars of my cage and twist until my neck snaps.

I'm a ferret, goddamn it! I have a very acute sense of smell! Day after day, I am forced to choke on the nauseating stench of strawberry incense and sweat-soaked Guatemalan wool doused in patchouli oil. And do you think that my owner could actually put down his bong long enough to clean my fucking cage every once in a blue moon? Of course not!

Then there's that friend of Zach's who hitchhiked down from Boulder last week–Rick or Ryan or something. Whatever his name is, I just think of him as the "'That's Cool' Guy," because that's all he ever fucking says. You'd think that, after the 200th time I squirmed away from this bastard, he'd figure out that I don't want his grubby hands on me. Not this burn-out.

"That's Cool" Guy must be brain-damaged from one too many acid trips, because, a few days ago, I was just trying to make it across the living room to hide behind a big stack of dirty cereal bowls when he lunged at me and spilled bong water all down my fricking back. I smelled like holy hell for the next four days! I tried to lick myself clean, but I had to stop because I started seeing things. I swear, after a while, that Phish shit my owner plays 20 hours a day was almost starting to sound good.

The absolute worst thing that ever happened to me, though, was when that son-of-a-bitch Zach got out that goddamn collar and took me down to the park to watch him take off his sandals and juggle sticks. I stretched the leash as far as it would go, but I'm sure people could still figure out I was with that loser. There was a bunch of squirrels standing by a tree, laughing their asses off at me. Christ, talk about humiliating!

I tried running away once, but Mr. Smarty Patchwork-Pants found me hiding underneath the front porch. I'd rather eat worms than choke down any more of that organic bulgur crap that motherfucker dumps in my bowl every day.

Mark my words, one of these days, I'm gonna make another run for it. It was the last straw today when he tied that teeny fucking hemp necklace around my neck. I chewed through that piece of shit in 10 minutes. Just because he thinks it's goddamn 1969 doesn't mean I have to play along. If I can just make it past the rusted VW microbus in the driveway, that fucking hippie will never see my ass again.

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