A Dog's Life...

from December of 2006

About 8 years ago I met a dashingly handsome pit bull/boxer mix named Bubba. He hailed from North Carolina but his bark lacked any accent. He was born into poor dixie trash with his puppyhood spoiled by untold tales of abuse & neglect. Bubba found a new owner when he was about 21, someone he could trust and who would never let him go. He was a wonderfully behaved pooch, loyal, gentle and occasionally a little gassy.

Bubba had a roommate, a scottish terrier named Maxine. She was roughly a quarter of his size, but she ran shit like a General at Gettysburg. If she wanted to lay on the couch, he would have to get up and move. Maxine would always eat first. Any toy that Bubba was playing with at the time would instantly become hers if she desired it to be so. Being the elder, this bossy bitch took him under her wing...err...paw and taught him about true doggystyle.

Still, they were best friends, like Ponyboy & Johnny, R2D2 & C3PO, Kevin & Paul, Over time their living arrangement eventually blossomed into love. In their own little world of tugtoys, bellyrubs and outdoor defecation, they were everything to each other. They went on daily walks together, numerous car rides and many backyard excursions.

About a year ago, Maxine succumbed to old age. She lived a vibrant life but time caught up with her. Bubba was rendered desolate. He walked around his owners house for weeks trying to find her. Beneath the fur, he knew she was gone, but didn't want to admit it. At feeding time, he still gave leeway for Maxine to dine first, sitting back until his owner gave the OK. Bubba lost his appetite for everything he once enjoyed and the will to carry on alone.

Bubba passed away last week at the age of 84. He never fully recovered from the loss of his soulmate - fuck...does anybody? If there is a canine afterlife, may he be reunited with that one individual who completes him. May his eternal days be abundant with dead carcasses to roll in, leggy bitches to mount and all the shit he can eat.

National Epidemic or Erotic Excrement?

from May of 2007

So I was walking around my neighborhood this morning. A peaceful Mother's Day stroll while residents were waking up, calling their loved ones or doing yardwork. Keeping to myself, humming Elmore James tunes, I noticed a handbill laying on the sidewalk. Hmmm...this wasn't really the type of area where trash is strewn about much, so I was interested in it's content.

Is this really such an extensive epidemic that it needs to be addresses via streetwise propaganda? I mean, shit, everyone pisses. My one buddies' girlfriend leaks in her pants all the time, that doesn't mean she should send away for some informative pamphlet and sleep on the bathroom floor.

Apparently our good friends at Pacific International LTD, which is located nowhere near the Pacific Ocean, have taken it upon themselves to dry up America with their tried-and-true treatments of tyranny. Why must everyone follow their pissing protocol? We live in the greatest country in the world. Sure we're marred with racial inequality, political corruption on every level and freekin' Nascar, but we also have freedom of facial hair, Night Court in syndication and drive thru porno shops. I say if chicks wanna keep pissing themselves, that's cool with me. According to this flyer, bed wetting is caused by "incorrect sleep," which makes about as much sense as tit-flashing Stevie Wonder, but with over half a century of experience, I assume these pee pee professionals would hold some merit.

There's nothing sexier than when a hot chick lets loose a lemonade load on her deserving dude. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. These dry-jockied jerkbags are trying to desensitize the youth of today and steer children onto a path of the prosaic. I still remember as if it was yesterday, the first time I crossed the streams with a chick before. It was beyond cool. And ya know why, because my parents raised me right and showed lil' Smith the benefits of using toilets and urinals but also gave me the freedom of enuresis expression. As I celebrate Mother's Day by drinking an army of Pabst pounders, every time I urinate, it'll be like I'm hugging my mom and saying "Thanks."

Piss on your Cross & Shit on your Altar

from July 0f 2006

So I received this letter in the mail the other day. Signed, stamped and addressed personally to me...in ink. A two page message, front and back. Nice pretty handwriting on eye-pleasing yellow paper...from some chick, says her name is Shaunna. The return address was from 3 blocks away. Perhaps one my neighbors was informing me of a summer yard sale, or writing me a little thank you note for letting their dog take a shit in my yard, or maybe... wait...stand down Mr. Smith....it seems like one of my god-fearing neighbors wants me to join their religion. Awww...this is too good to pass up.

So I read thru the letter and its more vague a blonde guy's mustache. No real definition of spiritual immortality, just a lot of hand-fed humility to which your average cross-crusader would feel enlightened to. The sector of belief is not important, because every Christian religion is fucked. Holding solid tenet and devotion to the most contradictory and censored book to ever exist, the binded souls who find solace in these readings are destined for ruin.

Dont get me wrong, (to quote Dude Shimek) "it's a good book", but I'm too informed to revolve my entire existence around it. When I was a lil' shaver, I used to love Beverly Cleary books, but those were also mis-interpreted fiction but nonetheless, an entertaining read. I felt almost offended that a neighbor would take it upon themself to assume that my beliefs and convictions are weak and I should jump the bandwagon to their asinine cult.

The letter and accompanying pamphlet repeatedly stress that reading the word of the lord needs assistance and that therein lies their motive. Captain Beefheart wrote some weird-as-shit music which could be translated as brilliant narration, but to some people, hes perceived as nothing more than a slurring sebaceous slob.

Why should I join a creed that allows only 144,000 people to enter the feigned pearly gates of heaven? Is it safe to assume that there is still room for me? Probably not, since this has been a practicing sanction since 1870. Should I renounce friends and country to believe in something that is as dogmatic as the easter bunny? I think I'm cool where I'm at right now.

I figured that responding to the author and informing them that I would have to decline their intriguing offer to enlist in their crooked crusade would be superfluous, so I will take the road less traveled. If anyone in the Erie area has a large canine that takes big shits, let me know. My neighbors are in dire need of some new lawn ornaments . . .

Sarah Palin Parking Lot

I have very few words to describe this video.  Shot in Columbus, Ohio this clip features the dudes from New Left Media proposing political questions to people in attendance of a Sarah Palin book signing.  Holy crap... check 'dis shit...

A few personal highlights from this clip ::

• The one lady who states that the U.S. had an "Administration of Czars?"

• The bizzo who says that PETA needs to get the polars bears off the land so we can drill for oil.

• The little troll lady who's preferred Palin policies include "Fairness" and "Realness"

Hooray for ignorance.  Praise the uninformed.  These are the people that you share the roadways with.  These individuals may very well be in charge of overseeing your bank transactions.  And yes, these are the people that I compete with for jobs in the workplace.

Ehh... but the one chick is super hot.