Well, it's been another long and bizarro day at the White House. I don't know how much longer I can stand it.The stress is making my hair fall out and I think I'm becoming bulemic...I can't stop making myself throw up. But then, maybe I'm just getting an ulcer.
I never asked to be a celebrity dog. Give me a few trees and parking meters to sniff in the city or a patch of stinky mud in the country to roll in and I'd be happy as a clam. (Are clams happy? I'm skeptical.)
But here I am, stuck here at this big pile of limestone with a lunatic and a pack of uptight suits who could use some primal scream therapy. That ballon-faced guy, Karl Rove, especially, makes my skin crawl. He's all cute and lovey dovey with me whenever G. W. is around (as cute and lovey dovey as someone who looks like an evil version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy can be, that is). But the other day when G.W. went down the hall to ask Condi a question, he kicked me and told me I looked like a yak someone had cut off at the knees.
Laura's not too bad, but I don't think they can raise her Prozac dose any higher without killing her. But G.W. - the lunatic - is my biggest problem. He's getting creepier all the time...
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