It wasn't too fucking long ago I went out of the house and bought my new pet ferret, Mr. Bizdick. He settled right in, started using the appliances, switched channels on the wall size flat screen television. Mr. Bizdick was only a week and a half old, and was already able to bargain for control over my collection of DVRs. He has clear preferences in regards to film. Sometimes he insists we watch Gone With The Wind in its entirety, no interuptions.
Our love life grew to maturity within minutes of letting Mr. Bizdick out of his plush ferret taxi. Cost me a fucking fortune. But Mr. Bizdick travels in style. Me too. Soon as I flicked open the hatch, he ran up my slacks, vaulted staight up off my belt and gripped my face like an octopus in a fur coat. We stayed like that for a full six minutes, then Mr. Bizdick started looking over the house.
In almost no time, I noticed I felt afraid to express my views. Mr. Bizdick forms opinions faster than a cheetah crossing the Autobahn. He watches the evening news, then accuses me of ignorance. But it's cute as hell the way he snuggles. He gets in the crook of my arm. Like a shot of smack.
I think my new house pet is gas lighting me. He keeps suggesting that my wardrobe is too conservative. It isn't, and I know it. Then he tries to undermine my philosophy of life. I believe that Cinderella makes the sun come up each day. Everytime I go out shopping, Mr. Bizdick re-aranges the furniture, so that it's harder to navigate. It's a way of slowly chipping away a person's sanity. But fuck it's cute the way Mr. Bizdick snuggles.
Our love life improved, all over again. Mr. Bizdick thinks I should renovate the house. He's saying I'm retarded for not investing properly.
I'm hopelessly dependent upon Mr. Bizdick for emotional support, which he doles with an eye dropper.
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