Pets, pets, wonderful pets

Tonight I plan to watch A Fish Called Wanda.
It's something of a reward.

Over 12,000 words have been pinned, squirming to the page. Over half of these aren't the words: "Oh Jesus, Jesus, buggery piece of shit this is bollocks I'm writing".
I'm led to believe this is positive.

I've been swimming.
I've been kicked in the head by a small child and his plastic float.
I didn't sideswipe that car that zoomed up the dedicated right hand lane and forced his way into the backed up ahead only lane. And it was a BMW. And it had one of those "I'm poor with contraceptives" cards in the back window.
I have (mentally) given a troglodyte armed with trolley a severe verbal tongue bashing.
I haven't made any crank phones calls to Aneka Rice. Or Zora Suleman.
I've even written a blog post (this one counts).

But the top class comedy movie, A Fish Called Wanda, starring one third of Monty Python, about a fish, called Wanda, and with poor old animal loving Ken causing several small, yappy dogs to snuff it, isn't a reward for all this.

This film, where one small, yappy dog is crushed under a big heavy box, where another small, yappy dog is savaged by a Doberman Pincher, and where the final small, yappy dog is also killed*, all of this small, yappy dog slaying is for none of the above.

Next door have a small, yappy dog.
And it yaps whenever that concept physicists known as time is passing.
It's been yapping all fucking day.
At one point I shouted, "Shut up," quite loudly. Had someone been in the room next to my office they might have heard me.

Watching A Fish Called Wanda with its three glorious scenes of small, yappy dogs yapping no more is going to be so sweet.


* I'll know how the third yappy dog snuffs it about two hours. I cannot wait.

I've also written the phrase "small, yappy dog" so many times that now I don't know if there should be a comma in there or not.