I'm laughin at yoos!

Yo, peeps, Rubinman in da house! Yes, it’s really ME, the R-Man! I’m here because, it’s like, I read Amber’s last entry? The one where she’s whining about me peein on that “radiator”? And it was as I thought. They see me peein’: they hatin’!  So, like, here’s my side of the “story”. I think you’ll find it’s quite different from what Amber tries to to tell yoos.

So, I have called this entry “Watergate”, and the reason I have done that is because it’s about me peeing in the house. Hee! Do you see what I did there? Do you? Do you?

Anyway, yes, I have been peein’ in the house. Like, A LOT. I’ve not just been peeing ANYWHERE in the house, though: the Rubinman is more cunning than that. No, I’ve been peein on the radiator in the office, and I’ve been doin it every chance I get. Which, like I said, is A LOT.

Before I go any further here, I just want to clear one thing up. Amber and Terry? Them? They’re all, “Wah, Rubinman! Peeing on the radiator is not big and is not clever! Wah!” But, as with so many things in life, They are WRONG about this. Wrong, wrong, WRONG. They are so wrong they could not BE more wrong. Because peeing on the radiator IS big. And it IS clever. And don’t let anyone ever tell yoos differently, kids, srsly.

Here is how I do it, just in case yoos need any tips: I wait until They go to see “Gym” and THEN I do it. They go to see this “Gym” dude almost every day. WHO IS HE? Who is this mysterious “Gym” and why do they go to see him so much? (Also, I gotta say this, but they dress like a couple of asses when they go to see “Gym”. Sorry, but it’s true.  Lycra pants, Amber? Really?)

Anyways, I put up with this “Gym” crap for a while. And then one day I was just like, NO. ENOUGH. I’m not puttin up with this ONE SECOND more. Because I like it to be all about me all the time, you know? And when it’s all about “Gym”, it’s not all about me? So, like, this “Gym”, dude? He is takin the attention that is rightfully mine. Srsly, I am ALL about the attention, so I am totally goin to hunt down this “Gym” and I’m going to bite his bum. It’s, like, Gym? If you’re readin’ this? You better worry, dude, and I’m not even jokin.

So, it’s like, that’s the story of WATERGATE. (God, I totally crack myself up sometimes, I really do.) I’m goin to keep doin it until they crack. I think that might have been today, actually, because when they came into the office and they saw the pee, their faces were all mad and they were, like, goin insane? Hee! And what’s funny about THAT is, they haven’t even found the pee I did ON MY OWN BED yet, either. LOL!

Smell yas,

RUBIN

P.S. WRONG

No one puts Rubinman in the corner!

Now, clearly this isn’t the classiest post title I’ve ever come up with in my life, but let it be a warning to you folks: if you have “problems” with vomit (you know, like I DO), you’re going to want to skip this one…

So Rubin was ill over the weekend. I could tell on Saturday morning that Something Was Up, because he didn’t freak the hell out to quite the same extent as he normally does when the post arrived in the morning. Like, normally he reaches Excitement Level 10, but he only got to about a 9.5.

“Something is wrong with Rubin,” I told Terry and my parents, who we were visiting that night. “He is ill, is probably dying. Either that or is faking it for sympathy.”

“Pish!” said my peeps. “Is fine. YOU are one who is faking it. Rubin in rude health. Lookit him being all healthy!”

But I knew I was right, and so when he suddenly and extravagantly threw up the next day, all over his bed, I was not at all surprised, and I would have phoned my dad to say “I told you so!” if I hadn’t been too busy gagging at the time. Dad, if you’re reading this, though: I TOLD YOU SO.

Anyway, we washed Rubin’s bed (by “we”, I obviously mean “Terry”, by the way),  and gave him an old towel to lie on while it dried, because, well, if he’d been sick once, chances were he would be sick again, and sure enough, not an hour later, that old towel was also making its way through a spin cycle, and Terry was once more down on his hands and knees, scrubbing vomit from the floors.

I, meanwhile, took Rubin out into the garden. You know, just in case. He issued out of the back door with all guns blazing, and proceeded to bark enthusiastically and hysterically at the imaginary postwoman who lives at our back gate, so I assumed he was feeling better. “Is better,” I told myself. “Whatever he’d eaten that didn’t agree with him, it has gone. He is fine now.”

And this was how I came to make my fatal mistake – bringing Rubin back upstairs and settling him down on my knee. ON MY KNEE. My knee, from which, Rubin was perfectly placed to vomit copiously ALL DOWN MY LEG twenty minutes later. GOD.

As this happened, I made my second fatal mistake: lifting him from my knee while he was in mid-vomit. Because my chair was right next to the open doorway of the room. The open doorway which Rubin soon filled with vomit, leaving me trapped in a small room with vomit down my leg and more of it barring my exit.

DID I MENTION I AM NOT GOOD WITH VOMIT?

(I hope you weren’t eating while you were reading this by the way.)

And that was how we spent our Sunday. Rubin is absolutely fine now, so we reckon he must have eaten something, probably while he was outside, ferreting around in the grass. We’re keeping a really close eye on him, needless to say, and are making a tremendous fuss of him, which he has been thoroughly enjoying.

As relaxing Sunday afternoons go, though… well, let’s just say we’ve had better.