That's a new one on me. I might have suggested a little milk and a head scratch. But if humping it is the way to go, then hump it, Gus, you must!
Gus: Waahhh ....
Me: HUMP IT, boy!
Gus: But, wahhhhhhh!!!!!
Me: I said, hump it, kid! Do I have to spell it out for you?
In the seven or eight minutes he allowed us to sleep ('cause he's a giver, that one), I dreamed that I was desperately trying to schedule a photo shoot with Tyra Banks for one of our financial brochures. Because nothing says "lending, marketing and compliance solutions" like a Victoria's Secret model.
And in other news of the pint-sized variety, I gave blood today. After that sleepless night, I figured, hell, what's another pint of life force drained from my body? When the woman took my pulse, I swear to you, she said, "GOOD LORD! I can not hear your heart beat!" But she could feel it pulsing, so I'm pretty sure I still exist. Then when she took my blood, I have to tell you, she was a WEE BIT aggressive with the needle. And she wasn't concentrating. She was flailing. Flailing and singing Barry Manilow and laughing and NOT CONCENTRATING ON THE STABBING OF THE NEEDLE INTO MY ARM. And it reminded me just a little too much of the insane anesthesiologist who nearly paralyzed me via epidural as she chattered about her houseplants. I don't mean to be dramatic, but I prefer people NOT TALK when they are inserting needles into my arm. Or my spine. Anyway, this post is not about me, right? It's about Gus. The pint-sized terrorist who will no doubt be humping it tonight.