So we’re all sitting here in the sun room, watching Tale of Despereaux. My kids were eating pasta with sauce, I was eating a Weight Watchers mushroom-and-cheese pizza (not for health reasons—it just happened to be in the fridge).
My daughter asked for some more noodles, so I went to the kitchen, filled her bowl and returned to the couch. Our dog (known as “our motherfucking dog” for the remainder of this post) hopped up on my legs with the green squeaky toy she likes. Then, BLLLEEEEEEEECCHCHCHCHCHHH!!!!
Norma the motherfucker vomited white liquid all over my knees. It ran down onto the floor and streamed across my feet.
I am a man unaffacted by 99% of nasty. I’ve had a rat skull fall atop my head. I’ve had my kids barf all over me. I’ve cleaned up roadkill and removed all sorts of mold.
This, however, got me.
As I was cleaning off the vomit, my daughter looked away from the movie and said, “Oh, yeah. Daddy, I forgot to tell you Norma was eating the pizza.”
In summation: Not only did Norma vomit across my legs, but I actually shared a pizza with her.
Ew.
