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The problem with Seattle weather isn’t the rain – that’s highly exaggerated – the problem is the dog-years it ages you to have to live through several completely unpredictable manic sun-rain-sun-rain cycles nearly every day.
If dog years go by at a rate of seven to one, why are dog days long and slow—and, more important, what’s it called when you have to live through seven days worth of crap each and every day?
At work, I sometimes wish that my time there was measured in dog years.
Rufus says he’s glad he’s not a dog, but my friend Schuster told him he’s wrong, because given the 7 to 1 time ratio, if he could get away with humping the neighbor’s leg for only ten seconds, it’d be like having sex with her for more than a full minute; this was a perspective, Rufus admitted, that he hadn’t considered.
If one assumes that 42 is the answer, and that stories of creationism are correct, and that God rested on the 7th day, working only the first six, this would go a long way (6 x 7 = 42) to helping prove my theory that God’s watch tracks time in dog years.
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