Friday, February 17, 2012

Puglypaloosa News

Nigerian underwear bomber gets life sentence

DETROIT -- Nigerian Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, who tried to blow up a Detroit-bound international flight with an underwear bomb on Christmas Day 2009 on behalf of al-Qaida, was sentenced to life in prison without parole Thursday.

Photo of either Abdulmutallab or one of the Jackson 5

Abdulmutallab, 25, the son of a wealthy Nigerian banker, pleaded guilty in October and admitted he was on a suicide mission for al-Qaida when he tried to detonate explosive chemicals hidden in his underwear minutes before the plane landed at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Fortunately there was no one in Detroit at the time, as they were all attending job fairs in other cities.

In order to illustrate the magnitude of the threat, Puglypaloosa spokespug Black Bart stated that - as part of the Puglypaloosa 4th of July fireworks extravaganza - he plans to demonstrate the destructive force of explosives similar to those Abdulmutallab carried, by placing some in a random diaper provided to visitors as one of many amenities available in Puglypaloosa public restroom facilities.

The government said Abdulmutallab first performed a ritual in the airplane lavatory — brushing his teeth, perfuming himself, then briefly making out with Britney Spears in a stewardess outfit — and returned to his seat.

The device didn't work as planned, but still produced flame, smoke and panic in the cabin. His groin was badly burned, similar in fashion to an infamous coffee spill / flirting rebuff incident suffered by a heavily-intoxicated Puglypaloosa patron during a return flight to Boston in 2011.

On a related topic, self-appointed "defendant-advocate" Black Bart so far has allegedly failed to return unused bail money wired to his bank account from Abdulmutallab's Nigerian relatives.

Reports from the prison where Abdulmutallab is being held, confirm that fellow inmates have so far been reluctant to approach the underwear bomber and introduce themselves to him in their traditional, amorous fashion.

- Scoop Puerileuwaite, Puglypaloosa Press / Neuters News Agency

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Tuesday, December 06, 2011

The Great Pugsly - Part III


The meeting I'd been coerced* (* much like this blog update) into arranging, had finally arrived in the front room of my tiny cottage.

Me: "Foamy, I'd like you to meet my neighbor, Mister Pugsly. Mister Pugsly, this is my cousin Foamy. Be sure to keep her in the locked and upright position until we have reached cruising altitude. I'll be out on the porch with my crack pipe, headphones and pimp hat."

Pugsly: "No offense, old sport, but I left the Rohypnol at my mansion, so let us go there."

Me: "If you like. This is Foamy, so it probably isn't necessary. However, once there, I strongly advise that you not allow her to view clouds or your shirt collection."

We tour Pugsly's impressive mansion and wind up in his master bedroom suite.

Foamy: (Gazing out the window) "I'd like to get one of those pink clouds, put you in it and push you around."



Pugsly: "No offense, old spice, might we wait until we are married for you to push me around?"

Foamy: (Turning her incredibly short attention span to Pugsly's T.J. Maxx shirt collection) "I've never seen such beautiful shirts before!"

Me: (Makes hanging by tie gesture while rolling eyes) "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Foamy: "Is this a scrapbook containing printouts of all my blog postings?"

Pugsly: "I had a lot of free time and Internet access during the war. Anyhoo, why did you marry Mr. Foamy? Why didn't you wait for me?"

Foamy: "Rich girls don't marry canines, don't you know? Plus you were poor. Also, the neutering was a concern. Do you think it was easy for me? Young Lieutenant Pugsly scoots across the carpet and into my life, wearing your romantic uniform that hid who you were ... where you came from ... breaking my heart with your impossible love! Going off to your adventure ..."

Pugsly: "I told you I'd come back for you, in my tweet*. Your Facebook* status indicated that you'd wait." (* Editors Note: Did you notice how I incorporate current technology in order to make this timeless story more accessable to today's generation of hipsters?).

Foamy: (Sobbing into one of Pugsly's T.J. Maxx shirts) "I'd waited so long! Paula Abdul was completely clean and sober by the time I'd given up. We were so close .. in our 3.5-minutes of love. And I couldn't stop crying, but I wouldn't let go of my laptop containing your last blog entry, never knowing if there would be another. I hung onto it and hung onto it ... until ... townsfolk started comparing me to the Log Lady from Twin Peaks."


Later, Pugsly and I converse alone.

Pugsly: "I'll fix everything ... just the way it was before. Just the way I was fixed. She'll see."

Me: "You can't repeat the past."

Pugsly: "Can't repeat the past? Of course you can, old sport! Is Rick Perry not another "W"? Is Herman Cain not another Don King? Is Michele Bachmann not another Sarah Palin? Is Mitt Romney not another John Davidson? Is Ron Paul not another Marshall Applewhite? Is Rick Santorum not another Jimmy Piersall? Is Newt Gingrich not another Newt Gingrich? Is Jesse Jackson not another Puerileuwaite?"



It was when curiosity about Pugsly was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on, one Saturday night.

Foamy: "Have you ever stalked anybody else?"

Pugsly: "No. However I did date quite a few celebrities."

Foamy: "Of course, you could never love anybody but me. I love the way you love me. I just wish it would last longer than 3.5 minutes a pop."

Pugsly: " Well I love that you love the way I love you." (puts on a Bobby Vinton CD)

Me: "Today is my birthday. I am 30, once again. And I shall be going to Denny's for my free meal."

Meanwhile the 2-rubes are fighting over global warming and who really invented the Internet, in their government provided former-Vice Presidential lodging over the garage.

Husband: "Maybe you think you can fool me, Tipper. Maybe you can. (gazes out the window) But you can't fool God. God sees everything."



Wife: "That's an advertisement for the Canadian version of 'Breaking Bad'. You're so dumb, you think carbon credits are viable."

Husband: "Let's not fight anymore. Let's stay in and watch 'The Sarah Silverman Show' reruns on Netflix. There's some dangerous drivers out tonight (husband and wife both gaze out the window as Pugsly and Foamy whiz by, mooning the couple)."

I stand in Foamy's driveway as Pugsly pulls up.

Pugsly: "What are you doing here?"

Me: "Just standing here."

Pugsley: "Did you see any trouble on the road?"

Me: "Yes."

Pugsley: "Did the rubes over the gas station look upset?"

Me: "Yes.

Pugsly: "I thought so. I told Foamy I thought so."

Me: "Why didn't you stop?"

Pugsly: Foamy prefers drive-by moonings."

Unbeknownst to Pugsly and I, the rube decides to get revenge.

Pugsly: "Imagine what this island looked like when those sailors from the Flying Dutchman first saw it. Fresh green ... no smoke monsters or irritating black guy yelling "Walt!" every 30-seconds. They must have held their breath, still looking forward to a satisfying end to the story ... afraid the writers would get lazy ... before all of the plot holes were filled in ..."

Me: "The rubes saw your bare asses, and you drove off!"

Pugsly: "All I can see is Foamy's moon. All I can think about is Foamy's moon."

Me: "You ought to go away for awhile, completely off-grid, perhaps to Alberta or Toronto."


                                           CN Tower, Toronto Canada

Pugsley: "I can't leave! She'll be coming just as soon as she can get away."

Me: "Summer's almost over."

Pugsly: "Sad, isn't it? Makes you want to ... I don't know ... reach out and ....dress it in a gimp suit and hold it prisoner in the basement of a pawn shop."

Me: "There'll be other summers. (Pugsly starts walking away toward his mansion) They're a rotten crowd. Except possibly for Lamby. You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."

I'll remember the rest of that day as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspapermen, in and out of Pugsly's house. A rope across the main gate, and a policeman by it, kept out the curious. But little boys discovered they could enter by my yard. There were always a few of them, open-mouthed, about the pool, attempting to scoop out one of the many Snickers bars deposited there by the rube as payback.

Shocked and horrified by what appeared to be a substantial amount of human waste in his pool, Pugsly had recoiled in revulsion, failing to remember that a wood chipper borrowed from the 'Fargo' set was directly behind him.

All I could think of was Pugsly's extraordinary gift for hope. A romantic readiness such as I have never found in the absence of Viagara, and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.

I thought of Pugsly's wonder when he first saw the recycling bin full of empty liquor bottles at the end of Foamy's driveway. He had come a long way to this motley collection of bloggers and misfits. His dream of finding at least one marginally honest and reputable woman must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to escape it once commited.

He did not know that - much like the bizarrely-placed wood chipper from 'Fargo' - it was already behind him.

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Saturday, June 11, 2011

The Great Pugsly - Part II

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My cousin Foamy lived in one of Good Egg's glittering white palaces with her husband Mr. Foam, whom I'd known from one of their frequent over-the-top drink-fests. They had spent the years since their marriage drifting unrestfully, not unlike Stephen King's floating vampires from Salem's Lot.


I had the familiar conviction (since overturned on appeal) that life was beginning again with the summer. By autumn, my mood would be very different. No longer would I want privileged glimpses into the blogger heart, provided one could even be located.

About halfway between the two Eggs and New York, the motorway hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a short distance, presided over by the eyes of one Doctor /t.



Quite inexplicably, the good Doctor opted to billboard advertise here rather than in his native Canada. Some would claim it was for the same reasons that "Doctors" from the Hydroxycut and Liposene commercials can never be successfully Googled.

This desolate area is a valley of ashes, a fantastic farm where memes, what-my-day-at-work-was-like posts, and links to YouTube videos grow like shredded, colon-eroding wheat.

Because I hope not to take another year or so to conclude this story, let's agree that a garage / gas station was located in this particular location of misery and despair. Furthermore, allow me to quickly state that a couple of married rubes lived above the aformentioned garage and that these goobers were cruelly toyed with by Mr. Foam. As you may see before year's end, this plot element will lead to tragic consequences involving Leelee's swimming pool and the shocking discovery of a cadaver unlike the human variety that are frequently encountered in that body of water.




Whew! Glad to get that out of the way! Anyhoo, onward.

There was much speculation constantly swirling about Pugsly. Some claimed he was German, rumoured to roll with the Kaiser. Others obsessed with pinpointing the source of his wealth. Did he always take a penny and never leave one? Was it he who marketed bath-salts as crystal meth? Was he once kept by Martha Stewart?



A few lived in fear of him, worrying that Pugsly may get something on them. Serena's penchant for picking up and disposing of men involved in divorce litigation, K-9's anonymous shipments of explosive ornaments to leftist government operatives, and - of course - Lamby's fleet of Bahamas drug-running cigar boats, were all secrets at risk of exposure.

One blogger thought she heard that he had killed a man once for wearing sandals and not being Israeli, or perhaps was a spy for nosy neutral countries during the war. A horny school adminstrator in Texas heard he was into oil, and henceforth she would stalk him incessantly.

And then there were the ladies desperately wanting, many of them rationalizing: "You can't live forever! This means the shame would have an expiration date!"

One morning, a man presented himself at the door of my humble cottage. "Mr Pugsly would be honoured if you'd attend his party". It was at this evening soiree that I would first meet the mysterious stranger.



Pugsly - "How do you do, old sport? I'm Pugsly. Look here, what's your opinion of me, anyhow?"

Me - "I hadn't really thought about it. I normally choose not to participate in surveys."

Pugsly - "I'm the son of wealthy bean-farmers from the Midwest, all dead."

Me - "Well that explains the smell."* (* note how this witty reply works on 2-levels)

Pugsly - "I was raised in America but educated at Oxford. It's a family tradition."

Me - "I thought it was a tradition for MOST families to raise and educate their kids."

Pugsly - "My family died, and I came into a great deal of money."

Me - "Tragedy is no excuse for that type of perversion."

Pugsly - "Then I lived in many European capitals, trying to forget something sad that happened long ago."

Me - "I tried that once when I lost my hot dog stand business. Frankly, Vienna made it almost impossible to forget."

Pugsly - "And then came the war. I was promoted to Major after I distinguished myself in battle."

Me - "I once extinguished myself in a fire. However it was one that I had set at the office, so there was no promotion."

Pugsly - "Every Allied government gave me a decoration, even little Montenegro, down on the Adriatic Sea."

Me - "It prefers to be called Montecountryofcolor now."

Pugsly - "Please leave."

Later I met the vaguely sinister Meyer Wolfsheim, who was quite acquainted with the mysterious Pugsly.

Me - "Have you known Pugsly a long time?"

Wolfsheim - "Known him? I made him."

Me - "I sure hope it was consensual."

Wolfsheim - "No, I meant that I made his acquaintance just after the war. He was so poor, he wore his uniform because he couldn't buy clothes."

Me - "Ladies love a pug in uniform."

Wolfsheim - "But I thought, that's a dude to bring home, introduce to your mother and your sister."

Me - "*Sigh* I made the same mistake with Ted Bundy."

A week passed and then I was paid an unexpected visit at work by Pinky Baker, one of only two professional golfers who wasn't a lesbian. She caught me alone in my cube, perfecting my stroke.

Baker - "He wants to know if you'll ask Foamy to your cottage and let him come over."

Me - "Who?"

Baker - "Pugsly."

Me - "But I was going to Spackle the den."

Baker - "Looks to me like you've done enough Spackling. Pull your pants up and call Foamy."

The date was set and that morning there was a knock on the door of my cottage.

Worker - "Mr Pugsly sent me over to cut the grass."

Me - "Tell him thanks, but I wax it myself. Oh! You meant the lawn. Yes, quite all right. Go ahead."


...


(Tune in next time for Part III - Romance and Death: Impossible to Separate)

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Saturday, December 11, 2010

The Great Pugsly


Gone is the romance
That was so divine
'Tis broken
And cannot be mended
You must go your way
And I must go mine
But now that our love dreams
Have ended


What'll I do
When you are far away
And I am blue?
What'll I do?


What'll I do
When I am wond'ring who
Is kissing you?
What'll I do?


What'll I do
With just a photograph
To tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone
With only dreams of you
That won't come true


What'll I do?


In my younger and more precociously vulnerable years, a renowned code poet gave me some advice that I've been struggling to decipher and possibly then consider, ever since. "When you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "remember that all the people in this world haven't had your advantages. For while you are multidimensional, they are all ones and zeros. Zeros, mostly."

He then went on to cite my good looks, wickedly witty sense of humor, charm (especially with the ladies) and convincing humility as just a few of those advantages.
Around that time, his scripting caused my browser to freeze, so in consequence I reserved all my judgement until offshore tech support purged the offending code.

It was by poor choice that blog vote predetermined I spend the summer on a slender and withering appendage known as Shlong Island. As a struggling Ponzi schemer, I could only afford to squat on that less fashionable side of the Discourtesy Bay known as Bad Egg.

While the filthy rich, and also the occasional Canadian expatriot  and Australian celebrity thrived and inflicted themselves on the more fashionable arm referred to as FabergĂ© Egg, I made do in a cottage where the only amenities were a Meth Lab left in haste by a previous tenant, and Lambonline dial-up Internet.

Only my neighbor, Pugsly, would be exempt from both Ponzi scheme and generic distain for other lifeforms. Pugsly, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. For Pugsly turned out all right in the end. It was what preyed on him, what foul dust floated in the wake of his posts.

At least twice a year, teams of warehouse club sample servers, amateurish writers, unabashed plagiarists, copyright infringers and under-the-table Teamsters would descend upon Pugsly's place to construct Puglypaloosa.

Like moths to a zapper, errant bloggers would wander into Pugsly's fragrant and enchanted garden; perhaps wondering why he chose not to "defoliate" per commonly accepted hygenic practice.

There was music from Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers through those summer nights among the trolling and the word verification and the stars. They started their quest for bondage involving animal costumes, and yet somehow ended up at Pugsly's blog; a simplicity of mind serving as its own ticket of admission.

 
(end of Part-1)
 
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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Injunction Junction

Hi everybody,

So sorry for the delay, however because of the impending legal action, I was required to wait 90-days before posting anew. Thankfully that requirement has now been met and I can fill you in to the extent that the law allows.

Suffice it to say, Black Bart and all Puglypaloosa funds are nowhere to be seen. I am hoping for the best, and that this will be revealed as pure coincidence. However there are many indications that the 2-disappearances may be related.

Authorities are searching for Black Bart and the missing monies, and attorneys are diverting all attention from Serena's Workperson's Comp case to instead focus pro-bono on formal charges and protection from Puglypaloosa creditors. I am presently dealing with the aftermath of Black Bart's apparently endless, shady business dealings, least of which include the truckloads of illegal Mexicans and Canadians that he snuck in as cheap labor.

I've been able (until now) to placate both groups, pending a plan for repatriation to their respective banana republics. However I've run out of cheap beer and World Cup Soccer for one group, and even cheaper beer and Regional Curling rebroadcasts for the second. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Meanwhile, if anyone spots Black Bart, please report his whereabouts to the local authorities or dogcatcher. And remember that while he is not armed, he can be dangerous (mostly as a trip hazard). So use extreme caution, especially around stairs. Also be wary of his ability to charm and manipulate. As many of us can attest, he makes "The Most Interesting Man in the World" from those Dos Equis commercials look like a schmuck amateur.


Here at Puglypaloosa "Command Central", we've already been fielding reports of Black Bart spottings across the globe. Let's keep those updates coming in, and keep each other abreast* (* usually - in more carefree days - I would attempt a sophomoric aside here, however this is not the time for titillation) of developments.

So far these are a few of the unconfirmed Black Bart sightings:

- Seen at the World Cup in South Africa with Paris Hilton; reportedly showed little interest in her Vuvuzela; unlikely to be the real Black Bart, as he is a notorious horn-dog. Paris later detained for marijuana possession / tried to pin it on Black Bart.

- Allegedly duped British Petroleum into believing he was an "Oil Spill Consultant"; being blamed for failed design of first containment seal, which is identical to twist-off cap from Boone's Farm wine bottle.

- Multiple sightings with Lindsay Lohan; reportedly convinced her to invest in and become a celebrity endorser for "BLOactive", a cocaine-based topical acne treatment; also reputedly duped her into drinking by falsely claiming she could slip skin from a cadaver betweeen her ankle and the alcohol monitoring bracelet to fool the authorities.

- Identified as Mel Gibson's new sidekick; overheard convincing Mel that it was okay to "get crazy" and "tie one on", on occasion; also observed convincing "Braveheart" that his views were "spot on" (particularly the ones on relationships and minorities) and meant to be shared with others; then leaked (after first leaking on) the tapes.

- Allegedly convinced Larry King to "try other things while he was still young", allegedly to entice Larry into resigning so that Kathy Griffin* (* a suspected Black Bart associate) could take over (Disclosure: I am also  currently being considered as Larry's replacement) and install Black Bart as Producer.

- Suspected of orchestrating a Yankees coup where he is running the team by October (don't know how he plans to get rid of George Steinbrenner)

More reports to follow, as they become available.

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Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Puglypaloosa Award: The Pug Scores a Bogey


Hi everybody,

I know there's been a delay in delivering the next round of entertainment here at Puglypaloosa. For most of you, the effect of alcohol has worn off, and ugly regret is starting to once again seep to the surface. So what do you say I make it up to you with my award acceptance ceremony as today's humble offering?

The rules that go with this award (thank you Boneman for deeming me worthy) are to list five things about yourself and pass the award on to other bloggers.

1) I worry that people will notice I tend to dwell a bit too long on art that features female nudity.

I fully became aware of this "quirk" (along with my blossoming sexuality) during my first visit to a world-renowned art museum. I tended to linger longer in front of paintings featuring exposed breasts and nether regions.

Gauging by the numerous old-timers in trenchcoats around me, I was reassuredly not alone in my new-found legal voyeurism.

However before you judge too harshly, "bare"* (* note the clever wordplay) in mind that the ladies of my admiration were universally "Reubenesque" and thereby fostered a future appreciation of the typical female blogger.

(UPDATE: I just realized the previous sentence may be horribly misinterpreted by one or more readers** (** well, the honest ones)! By "Reubenesque", I - of course - did not mean to imply that anyone out there is "plump" or not in shape, as measured by today's unrealistic*** (***  geez, apparently) standards! I simply meant that with liberal applications of sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, Russian dressing, Black Bart and yours truly, you would make a fine sandwich.)


During the same visit, I chanced upon a full-size plaster sculpture of a naked woman in a brass bed* (* also rendered in plaster). Long story short: I wound up explaining to security that another patron squeezed her bottle of baby powder on me for calling her "Reubenesque". Plaster fallout: I've been hooked on unclothed gals in full-body casts ever since.

2) I am obsessed with collecting applications for my iPhone.

It wouldn't be fair to the one or two non-geeks inadvertently stumbling across this post, for me to inflict a narrative of EVERY application (or "app" for us hipsters) that I have (so far). So allow me to share just two for now.

"Earthquakes": This app alerts me everytime an earthquake occurs somewhere in the world. Which apparently is every 15-friggin' minutes. So bite me, Haiti, I thought you were unique. And just so you know, I've cancelled my plans to abduct, er, rescue your orphans and convert them to my new servitude-based religion.

"MoonPhase": As the name implies, this app tells me what phase the moon should currently be in. Then, when another app (I lied, and snuck in a 3rd app. So sue me. There's an app for that.) called "Planets" confirms that the moon should be visible, I scamper outside and compare phases. Everytime they do not match, I write an angry letter to my congresspersons, urging them to cut NASA's funding.

3) I don't think any golfer should be popular enough to have groupies.

This gives false hope to pseudo-athletes everywhere. Soon: bowlers, curlers, synchronized swimmers, Frisbee-golfers, bocce-ballers and cricket players everywhere will start desiring opposite-sex companionship. And that means increased competition for this Pug, Ben Rothlisberger - and even possibly Black Bart - at every Denny's, porn convention, strip club, Vegas casino and church parking lot.

4) I believe that Facebook and Twitter will ultimately make you boring even if you normally weren't.

My apologies to my readers with Facebook or Twitter accounts. I certainly didn't mean to imply that YOUR Facebook and/or Twitter accounts were boring! In fact, in particular I LOVE keeping tabs on expensive new purchases and when you leave the house. 

However, are those "tweets" about every bowel movement and how much you enjoy vanilla ice cream REALLY necessary? If you're going to tweet, at least use it to report on the neighbors': probable terrorist activities, excessive purchases the I.R.S. would be interested in, swinger parties or crack-dealing.

Ditto for Facebook. And while I'm on the subject of Facebook, WHO THE F**K are these people who comment that they "approve" of a new activity?! For those (in this case: fortunate) cave-dwellers who may be unfamiliar, here is an example (citing a fictional Facebooker named "Doris") of a typical Facebook exchange:

- Doris commented on Suzette's trip to the Piggly Wiggly (grocery store).
- Jerry likes Doris' comment (shows a "thumbs up sign).
- Doris became a fan of Ravi Shankar's Muzak blog.
- Gunther approves.

(... etc., ad nauseum ...)

I just don't get it. Maybe you need friends to get it. However since in my case that isn't an option, perhaps the key is to "adapt" Facebook more to my liking. Here is an example:

- Bob commented on Gunther's Aryan Nation wall.
- Pete likes Bob's comment (shows a "Sieg Heil" sign).
- Puerileuwaite became a fan of Bob's and Pete's respective employers' HR sites.
- Puerileuwaite commented on Bob's and Pete's respective employers' HR sites.
- Bob became a fan of Denver Post's Now Hiring website.
- Pete became a fan of Miami Herald's New Job Opportunities website.
- Black Bart likes living in Bob's recently vacated house.
- Puerileuwaite approves.

5) I want there to be one global conspiracy that systematically eliminates all conspiracy theorists.

I had a lot more to say on this topic, however I was advised by certain unnamed moles in Google / Blogger management to keep it to one carefully worded sentence.

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Friday, March 05, 2010

The Sweater


I loved that sweater.

Everything about it. Perfect shade of blue, hint of green. And how it smelled of her.

I recently read how the masculine animal is more attracted and aroused by the natural scent of a woman* (* dispense with the Al Pacino jokes, you heathens, and do your worst) than by contrived perfume manipulation.

And scent is the most unexpected and dominant characteristic of my memory of her.

Please forgive my rambling. Love tends to blind me to proper construction. And too often reason as well. Damn you, love. You strive to deny me both Pulitzer and happiness.

I could go on ad nauseum. For it is so easy to focus on the symbol rather than the woman. Symbols conveniently quantify all-consuming emotion into tolerable allotment. Symbols define as required, do not require compromise, nor do they force confrontation.

Symbols enable others to con us into things we do not need and can ill afford.

I miss her, my heart aches, and rarely does a day go by where I manage to escape unreminded.

It has been years gone by. I regret how that sweater - amongst her other possessions - had been left behind in long forgotten dresser in closed room and chapter.

And yet to cling to it would be to cling to a symbol, and not the breasts and the woman that it once contained.

Perhaps I need to get out more.

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Friday, February 19, 2010

Welcome Again to Puglypaloosa


Hi everybody!

As my esteemed colleague Black Bart so eloquently put it, hello and welcome to Puglypaloosa. I hope it turns out to be everything you've dreamed of, assuming for once you didn't ingest massive amounts of Taco Bell prior to turning in.

At this point you're probably wondering just what Puglypaloosa is all about, and if you took too much of a gamble in remaining so noncommittal in all other aspects of your hellishly anticipatory existence. Heck if I know.

However I would rather take a stab at justification of your sacrifice than curse (and possibly belittle) your darkness. So allow me to whip out my Bic, and hope there is little methane remaining in that dreary cave of yours.

Now as most of you well know, I'd originally intended to kick off this shindig last summer; as that is the preferred season for topless behavior. Especially for the ladies. You know who you are. And if you qualify (man-boobs do not).

But alas, forces conspired against me.

So now here we are, summer long gone and in the cruel grip of a brutal winter. Except for Australia, apparently, because "heaven forbid" you wankers conform with the civilized rest of the planet. Nonetheless I find my disposition strangely benevolent toward our kangaroo cousins; mostly traceable to my fondness for AC/DC, "Friday On My Mind", Crocodile Dundee, Nicole Kidman* (* especially "Dead Calm" and "Bewitched" vintage Nicole), our beloved Dianne, and - of course - because Australia has been unfairly disparaged as the "Alabama of the World".

No one accuses ANYONE of being Alabama and gets away with it. Not even Alabama should be victimized by such derision. Not on my watch, anyway. I am a champion of the underdog.

Anyhoo, it is indeed winter for most of us. Serena in particular has been getting hammered with snow (and Lord knows what else ... booze and men readily come to mind). And aside from Lamby, who probably believes it's just punishment for our debauchery, we probably all feel that we are long overdue for a respite.

And so - submitted for your mild amusement - I humbly submit the 1st Annual Puglypaloosa.

ALL are welcome, except for YOU, you recent blight of anonymous commenting sons of bitches* (* excluding my past "secret admirers" who albeit rarely :-(  do comment anonymously. Maybe you have good reason: fear of public scorn, risk of bowling league expulsion, threat to sham marriage, risk of Pug tracking down home number, or perhaps even the potentially jarring shift in sexual paradigm).

Here at Puglypaloosa, you have to be somebody, even if you're a nobody.

Hell, you could be anybody. But if generic praise is your game, then THIS Pug ain't a-buyin'. Unless it's after we've consummated our relationship. However, even then it would be nice if you were specific. "Dear Previous Occupant" is not only distant; it also deflatingly means that my deposit is non-refundable.

So what, pray tell, IS Puglypaloosa? Well that is for each of you to determine as it unfolds, envelopes, adheres and constricts. Some shall likely find it nurturing. Enlightening. Others: exhilarating. For many it may prove suffocating. A few will discover it to be nauseating.

In the end, all entrants tread their own unique path through Puglypaloosa in quest for truth and search for exit.

Enjoy the journey, my friends.

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Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Welcome to Puglypaloosa



Hello everybody,

Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Black Bart. Perhaps you have heard of me. Perhaps you have seen the Wanted posters, high-school abstinence instructional videos or even one of my ubiquitous Craigslist p4ww ads. If not, you lead a wretchedly sheltered life, and in that case it's a good thing I've come along.

As Chairman of the 1st Annual Puglypaloosa, I would like to welcome all of you to the festivities. I would, but let's not kid ourselves. I would take out restraining orders on certain ones (I'm sure you know who you are; if unsure, ask a coworker), if it were within my power to do so. So let's simply say that more than a slight majority* (* when factoring in first-time blog visitors) are welcome, and leave it at that.

Rest assured my cohort Puerileuwaite has been busy tending to all aspects in preparing the 1st Annual Puglypaloosa to - indeed - be the best damned Puglypaloosa ever. As you can imagine, this is no easy feat. It has required months of blog (and personal hygiene) neglect. Relationships with fictional role-based online virtual companions have suffered, as have his stud duties at the local puppy mill.

And please don't get him started on the loss of Ted Kennedy's vacant Senate seat to a Republican during his extended absence from the campaign trail. The regret is almost too much to bear, and he has many nightmares about beloved "Uncle Teddy" rolling over his Oldsmobile in his grave.

Fortunately Puerileuwaite accepted my humble offer of Chairmanship (and CFO) of Puglypaloosa, as this has eased the burden of cash and (immediate) responsibility, allowing him to focus his energies on the logistics.

I believe the results will speak for themselves, both through the actual experience and eventually - plaintiff and defendant testimony.

It started as a dream. A vapor, perhaps. A festival of fun and enlightenment, devoid of commercial trappings, pandering to celebrity, and quest for profit. Then reality set in. "Pug, (I said) won't this type of festival attract free-loaders, deadbeats, ne'er-do-wells, and - at the risk of being redundant - non-Americans?"

He saw my point.

"Okay, I see your point. I'll place you in charge of turning a profit to cover expenses. You'll run concessions, concierge and medical services. Just make sure prices are fair, products and amusements are of good quality, and all services are non-exploitative of our patrons."

At least that's what I think he said. I get distracted after 3-consecutive sentences. The same thing happened in prison.

Throughout Puglypaloosa, I shall be checking in with tips and advice to maximize your experience, and make sure you are enjoying yourselves (even if no one else enjoys you).

Remember to visit one of our fine concession stands, concierge desks, or medical huts during your all-too-brief stay. We take paper or plastic.

Altruistically yours,

Monday, November 09, 2009

Mid-Season Lineup


Hi everybody,

First off, whew! What a comeback! That wore me out for well over a month! But as the immortal writer Jack Frost once, ahem, wrote: "I have many promises to go before I sleep around".

And one promise of mine was a continuation of my Comeback Tour post. So here goes, as promised.


When we last left off, this Pug was busy "copping a plea", er, sincerely explaining why I hadn't posted all summer. Please allow me to pick up where I left off.

However, not exactly where I left off.

You see, in retrospect I realize that my last post was chock full of what some of you may perceive as "negativity". Frankly, it seems strictly to be a list of downers which served as a catalyst for my summer seclusion. And while in some so far undiscovered circles this could garner me some "pity sex", rest assured that this was not my intention. Entirely.


Rather, perhaps on a semi-conscious level it was a "cleansing" of toxic vibes that must occur before creativity can once again blossom just in time for winter.

So in the guise of that spirit I dedicate this post to one of our most positive endeavors: creativity.

And as you shall see, my hiatus from blogging did not completely consist of scampering away from the bad, but also a reaffirmation of the good. For without it, this butterfly likely never would have emerged from his humble cocoon as a PROFESSIONAL writer.


It all started back in late April when some network suits discovered this blog and approached me about applying my skills to television. As you can imagine, I was highly insulted at the suggestion that I would readily lower my standards for a quick wad of cash. And also by their unwillingness to let me keep the briefcase along with the cash.

However I was intrigued by the offer. Perhaps they came to me not unlike the Three Wise Men following the UFO to Britney Spears' house. Was this a case of divine intervention? Lord knows, I've become so weary of the other forms.

Maybe it was indeed my calling to restore originality and fresh non-cocaine-fueled* (* not until I'm successful; it's a vow I've taken) thought to a cultural outlet which has sadly lacked any genuine cultural significance for quite some time. So I turned insult into challenge; poverty into promise. And in the process, yours truly has developed a few new show concepts that you just may enjoy come January as mid-season replacements. Such as ...


Small Medium At Large

A certain Pug (whom by now we should all be uncomfortably familiar with) discovers he has Extra-Sensory Perception. And rather than taking the obvious path of ensuring he is always present for female celebrity wardrobe malfuctions and lottery outcomes, he chooses instead to use his powers to help others. The Pug alerts what is left of the unbiased media to upcoming bribes of Republican congressmen, feeds information of impending stock upticks to worthy, underfunded charities (such as public education), and warns of planned Nora Ephron films, amongst other noble pursuits.

As you can imagine, this makes him a target for retribution from an array of villians, including Rush Limbaugh, Silvia Browne and even Miss Cleo. And so our intrepid do-gooder must always remain in the shadows and on the run.


Survivor: Kanye West, Meet Kenya East

Think you're a bad-ass mo-fo here stateside? Well then we are all sure you'll do just as well in the wilds of Kenya. Hopefully for your sake we won't have to remark on how the previous seasons' survivors did a better job of, um, surviving.


There's Something About Cheney

No longer is he supposed to be serving our country, so there is no better time to come out of hiding and into the limelight. However there are a few notable differences from the film of a plagiarizingly similar name and concept. For example:

- Cheney does not look as delicious in HIS micro-skirts and other outfits as Cameron Diaz
- The Tucker character is on crutches due to being shot by Cheney on a hunting trip
- I had to remove all references to charity work
- The bleeder was shot in the crotch by Dick Cheney during a hunting trip
- Had to combine the "Woogie" character into Cheney's in order to infuse personality and increase likability with test audiences


Intervention: The Town Hall Hecklers

Was this Pug the only one to notice that virtually EVERY Town Hall Meeting heckler was unhealthy in appearance? Here's a thought: maybe if most* (* except of course for those with true disabilities) of them gave up cheap beer, overflowing nacho platters and endless cartons of smokes; perhaps even - perish the thought - occasionally choosing to park more than 10-feet away from any given building entrance, you wouldn't constantly NEED the equally bloated health care system currently in place.

(And this Pug wouldn't need to chastise you with his trademark, horrendous run-on sentences.)

Just a thought. But what do I know? I'm only one of the many dumbasses who pay into a system that I never use, and cringe at the thought of using, for fear of the hellacious lines of overindulging self-absorbed 300-pounders, hypochondriacs and yes - illegal immigrants - ahead of me.


So here is my idea. Let's take these system-clogging forms of human cholesterol and make them contestants on MY version of one of the better reality shows already out there: "The Biggest Loser". Not only would this give us an endless stream of entertainingly whiney participants; it should also reduce our health care costs via either death or improved health.

Winner gets 3-lifetime prescriptions of their choice along with tax-free, rent-free relocation of their mobile home to a Republican district.


Jon and Kate Plus Hate

No one enjoys a good train wreck like yours truly. Along with 99% of the rest of us. So why not keep this show going? All it needs is a little fine-tuning in order to make it more "accessible" to older demographics. They already have the classic / traditional large family. So all we need to do is compensate for relatively Gen-Y aspects such as the interracial couple and Kates' hairstyle. We can accomplish this with "retro" introductions such as chronic alcoholism, verbal abuse, domestic violence and the Bupkis family pack of dogs next door. Perhaps even add a prize lamp in the window that gets smashed as part of a recurring South Park ("You Killed Kenny! You bastards!") style hook.


Jurassic Park IV: The Republicans

Admit it. How many of you thought this particular movie franchise had run its course? All of us, right? Well not so fast. We're not out of predatory dinosaurs just yet. Only this variety are trapped in their own yellowing skin instead of amber. Plus curiously and instinctively they leave the rich alone, preying only on the leaner "free-range" middle-class and poor. And adding to the paranoia, based on early focus group suggestions: they are capable of reproducing asexually.


So You Think You Can Polka?

I don't have to tell you just how popular those television reality dance shows are with the viewing public. Or how popular certain "folk dancing" establishments are for a certain intoxicated Pug on a business trip and expense account. Or how the fine art of Polka dancing has been blatently ignored as the mainstream entertainment juggernaut that it should be. Picture frosty steins of beer, large-breasted women in dirndls (Polka-ing with other large-breasted women in dirndls) and Polka-Polka-Polka! Why it would only be a matter of time until Polka bars and Polish cuisine* are all the rage.

(* which should also supply more contestants for my aforementioned "Intervention" show. This is known in the industry as "symbiosis". Cha-Ching!)


MTV Crypts

A film crew shows up to the home of a new annoying celebrity* every week. Under the promise of featuring them on "MTV Cribs", the crew steps through the ruse until it's time for a break over cocktails. It soon becomes apparent to the celebrity that his/her drink has been laced with Rohypnol. The second part of the show reveals the now fully conscious and horrified celebrity in a specially designed crypt which "echos" the decor of their crib.

(* assuming we can identify / locate any)


I Am Legend: The Last Ethical Businessman

This premise should be self-explanatory. The major concern here is managing to last an entire half-season.


Are You Smarter Than An OctoMom?

You already know the answer to this question: NO, we are not. For the rest of us are apparently too stupid to parlay socially reckless behavior into serious amounts of cold, hard cash and fame.

However I was tasked with development of the proper vehicle for that fame. So here goes ...

In a bastardization of "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?", the Einsteins of NASCAR face off against OctoMom and her octets for knowledge supremacy. Categories will include "Boring Sports - 1st Grade Level" and "Methods of Birth Control - 5th Grade Level".


Shim-Pak: Carpenter by Day, Rapper by Night

From nailing the wood to delivering the goods. Is this homie on the level, or simply framed for failure?


Finding The Next Kardashian

Discovering legendary cultural and entertainment talent a la the Barrymores - as Hollywood insiders will attest - is rarer than finding that hooker with a heart of gold. However just as in the case of the hooker, we should never stop trying. This reality show seeks to expedite that quest via a methodical approach based upon the most current, proven template.



***


I hope you enjoyed this little foray into the creative development process that we PROFESSIONAL writers go through in order to feed the public's insatiable appetite for quality placation.

Until next time, I bid you happy viewing.

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