Uuuuuuuh.

1. Wow, my profile pic sucks ass. I'll have to try to find a better one.

2. Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw a frightful, strange, sad, yet hilarious sight.

There was a couple on the sidewalk, and both of them were probably tipping the scales at a quarter-ton or more. I'm not sure exactly how they were walking without breaking their ankles under the sheer weight. I guess it was good they were trying to walk, at least.

But I digress.

These two people were not alone. Oh, no. They had a small child with them, probably about two years old. I think it was a girl. Cute kid. This child was sporting a very unfortunate fashion accessory: a pink harness and leash.

That's right, you heard me: the poor kid was ON A LEASH. A bright pink LEASH.

Once the initial shock wore off, I alternately felt disgusted and amused. Waves of nausea followed by fits of evil laughter.

Okay, I get why the baby was on a leash. Hi, we're a rotund couple, and were somehow blessed with a healthy, active, curious toddler. We need exercise, and we're gonna try walking. We'd like to take the kid out to enjoy the sunshine, but we have some concerns. If she starts running, we're both screwed because neither of us will ever catch her. EVER. And, if she biffs it, neither of us can bend down far enough to pick her up to comfort her and kiss away her boo-boos. HEY.... if we put her on a leash, she can't run away! And if she biffs it, we can just hoist her up into our moist, doughy arms with the leash! Problem solved! Now, how are we going to get our tennis shoes tied?

Then, there's the other side of the coin. The humiliation and restriction of being on a leash. Trying to exercise those chubby toddler legs, chasing a butterfly, only to be yanked back by cruel disappointment in the form of a pink webbed nylon harness. DENIED. Stopping and bending down to pick a dandelion from a sidewalk crack, only to be dragged to an upright position and forced to move along like a puppy sniffing a fire hydrant. Fun, leisure and life in general passing you by at the age of two.

Oh, the years of therapy awaiting this poor child. And not just because of the leash. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Of course, as all this ran through my head, there was the horrible undercurrent repeating itself in my head and inducing bubbles of insensitive chuckling: "Bark! Bark! Bark!"