Cue Bluster-King

Yesterday (Monday, August 14) we took the big dog (Sabrina) to be groomed.
Don’t know as we’ll do it again. Grooming is rather traumatic, and the poor dog was quaking and shaking. The groomer also stuffed her into a crate for holding.
Our dogs want nothing to do with crates; which to them are jail.
More precisely, I don’t know as we’ll use this particular groomer again. I’m sure Sabrina will need another haircut.
He didn’t do much ($42.80). We told him we didn’t want her shaved, and to not cut her toenails. Someone apparently cut her quick, so she fights. Enough with the trauma.
But the dog doesn’t look any different than before. I suppose he trimmed her feathers some, but the coat on her back looks as thick as it did.
He also trimmed her feet, which were a hairy mess. But he missed tangles under her legs.
Unfortunately I feel like we’re two months late. Last month was the hot month, and she was dragging a heavy coat.

The bluster-boy has taken to loudly claiming I dream up reality, perhaps the most amazing thing I’ve heard yet.
It’s apparently because I continue to dispute his saying there wasn’t a toilet-paper-roll shaped water-tower atop Scott next to the airport.
My recollection of that ain’t dreamed up. Nor is my recollection that the Industrial Highway I drove navigated a narrow passage between Scott and the airport — putting Scott north of the Industrial Highway when I drove it.
There also has been a noisy dispute over a mysterious Reading facility, claiming I forgot something I never passed.
His only valid assertion is that we crossed the Reading near the airport — which at that time I thought was a Pennsy spur.
Back then I wasn’t aware Reading had a Chester branch. I never saw any trains. I’m sure if I had actually seen any Reading equipment, I would have asked questions.
He also noisily insists we took some specific route past that mysterious Reading facility, failing to note there were 89 bazilyun other possible routes.
And the route we took did not (I say “not”) pass some mysterious Reading facility — which would stand out like a sore thumb. (I can’t imagine forgetting such a thing.)
What we seem to have here is a fevered desire to make me inferior to him; as if I were some sort of challenge to his fragile psyche (although I did have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to dispute his recollection of where we got off I-80).
He keeps claiming my memory is failing — the same guy who can’t remember who he took to his prom, and forgot the LHMB, which he rode, for crying out loud.
What notable morning dreams I’ve had lately have been rather pedestrian; although this morning I was wandering a 600-type bus all over Rochester in search of Main St.

The S. Floridy aggregate question is a paper tiger (kind of like Dubya defending the war in Iraq). Of course he knows the answer, and the gallon-capacity of Porta-Johns.
But does he know the name of the theorist that pilloried the supposed good intentions of the American Revolution? Of course not — he doesn’t even know how to alterate depth-of-field in a photo.
Do I ask him who the theorist is? Would that be fair? No; his specialty is Porta-Johns, and aggregates, I guess. Not my specialty!
Boston Harbor is awash in sewage, Bubba. And your backhoes are taking out tunnel-ceilings in the Big Dig.
Too much Flag-Out! (Hup-hup!)