To my left is Winston, the little gay dog, in a pink sweater vest that reads, "Closet? What closet?" Wearing sunglasses, he's hyper and wants me to get started because he's got other things to do.
Beside him Goddess is passed out and snores in the chair with empty bags of Doritos littered on the floor. She was here when I arrived, finishing her hourly medical treatment of medicinal marijuana for the glaucoma she swears she has.
At the opposite end of the table is My Guardian Angel who looks terrible, taking long drags off her cigarette followed by sips from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon. She seems distracted and lost in thought. Her white robe is dirty, the blue stole wrinkled, her long black hair hasn't been washed in weeks and hangs limp in her face as she blows halos in the air.
The Cat Lady wears her dingy yellow bath robe with a blue towel wrapped around her head. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth and cat hair falls every time she moves. Smelling like kitty litter, she's looking into her yard smiling at the thirty or so feral cats wandering everywhere. Her buff boyfriend of the week is shaving his chest and legs and keeps winking at her.
On my immediate right is Gypsy, the gender confused cat, obviously wondering why he's here at all. Gypsy normally shies away from most everything because of his paranoid personality disorder. He and Winston, the little gay dog, don't get along and both constantly vie for the managing partner's attention.
"All right," I say, "let's get started."
"Screw you!" my Guardian Angel snaps.
Gypsy darts from the table and runs downstairs causing the Cat Lady to jump up and run after him leaving a blanket of cat hair raining down on us.
Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as a good sign and flashes his evil genius smile while fumbling for nail polish in his man purse.
Startled, Goddess wakes up, yawns and says, "People! Please! Why can't we all just get along?"
"Is there a problem?" I ask.
My Guardian Angel angrily flips me the finger.
"Is everything alright out there?" the managing partner yells from the other end of Corporate Headquarters.
"Yes Dear," I lovingly answer.
The Cat Lady is chasing Gypsy screeching, "HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!"
Goddess rolls another Dobie and Winston, the little gay dog, paints his nails orange ... because the little Son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) knows I hate that color. My Guardian Angel throws another empty beer can in the back yard and another magically appears from nowhere.
I sigh heavily.
It's a Monday," I mutter under my breath.
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