I have a hard time getting really worked up and irritated at Bosda. He has an air of silly naivete that reminds me of a puppy.
Now, it may not be a nice puppy. It’s more like the kind of puppy you buy from the family of five that sells a litter of “REGESTERID PUREBREED LABS” in front of the Wal*Mart on Sunday afternoon. You know the ones–they have that old Dodge with the pool of oil under it and own twenty-three teeth between them. Sure, it comes with scabies and it’s been trained to drink out of cut-in-half Coors cans filled with rain water, and it’s a monorchid, unsound, and you’ll never get it quite houstrained–but hey, on the bright side, you’ll be able to tell which threads it’s been in by the TRAIL OF YELLOW it leaves all over the place. It’ll never learn to “sit” or “stay” or “stop shitting in the living room you GOD DAMN FUCKING DOG,” but there’s that certain charm there that you just can’t explain, ya know?