Why oh why must it be this way?

The Great Pugsly - Part III

2011-12-06T03:48:00.001-07:00

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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The Great Pugsly - Part II

2011-06-11T22:48:00.077-06:00

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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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The Great Pugsly

2010-12-11T23:02:00.011-07:00

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 Fabergé 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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Injunction Junction

2010-07-14T12:57:00.090-06:00

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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Puglypaloosa Award: The Pug Scores a Bogey

2010-04-14T11:01:00.009-06:00

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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The Sweater

2010-03-05T09:42:00.010-07:00

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.

Welcome Again to Puglypaloosa

2010-02-19T09:06:00.076-07:00

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.

Welcome to Puglypaloosa

2010-02-09T09:00:00.030-07:00

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,

Mid-Season Lineup

2009-11-09T06:50:00.094-07:00

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.

.

The Comeback Tour

2009-09-23T13:40:00.040-06:00

Hey everybody!

What can I say? It's been one heck of a summer. Whew! Will you EVER find it in your hearts to forgive me? Will you ever find your hearts?

So many questions, I'm sure, abound from both sides of the table. Perhaps from underneath as well.

Let's start with one of mine: WHY the hell haven't some of you been posting? And don't tell me you didn't "have the time". Geez, people! You have to MAKE the time!

Okay, let me take a few of your questions.

Q: "Why haven't you posted all summer?"

A: That is not an easy question to answer, I'm afraid. For you see, it wasn't just ONE thing. There were many factors, such as ...

- Being distraught over Michael Jackson's death. As one of the "One Percenters", who openly supported "The Gloved One" BEFORE his demise, his passing hit me particularly hard. And the manner in which the details were quietly swept under the rug and completely ignored by the media (not so fast, CNN, I'm looking at you) was disgusting. After fullfilling my pledge to be one of his pallbearers (each of us wearing one glove each of course, with the other in reserve for O.J.'s funeral) and extricating myself from Janet's tight and pudgy grip, I went into seclusion.

- Finally "jostled awake" by post-election opinion backlash; forced to accept that it IS Obama - and not "W" - who is most responsible for the current economic situation, severe unemployment and the wars in the Middle East. And now he's going after our beloved health care system that some Americans, most Mexicans and all pharmaceutical companies rely upon almost exclusively for their well-being. Now I know how Charleton Heston felt when he discovered The Statue of Liberty was holding a torch instead of a rifle. It's just a matter of time until he finishes slicing through democracy and we are all reduced to lobotomized tan khaki jackbooted tree huggers. Or worse (Canadians). 8-years of getting it right, and NOW this? So then I descended into further seclusion.

- The shock of Sarah Palin's resignation as Governor of Alaska. This left a void in me, greater than any "Drill, baby, drill!" policy ever could (feel free to make all the insulting, dirty jokes at my - and Sarah's - expense that you want. We will simply have the last laugh by submitting those expenses for reimbursement out of the general budget). I could not, and cannot, bear the thought of my fantasy girl's departure from the public stage for what appears to be the very last time. So then I descended into even further seclusion.

- The cloud of suspicion I suddenly came under, in my ill-timed attempt to purchase tents and camping gear for "Puglypaloosa" just as the Antioch, California "11-year kidnapping" story was unfolding. Suddenly I couldn't visit the Berkely campus, R.E.I. store, bondage emporium or Jonas Brothers concert without my probation officer in tow. So as a result - you guessed it - I descended into yet even further seclusion.

( more to come ... please stay tuned! )

.

A Quick Note To My Loyal Readers

2009-05-06T14:57:00.033-06:00

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Hi Everybody,

So sorry for the delay. I'm not going to lie to you (this time). I could make up some elaborate and exotic excuse as to why I've been able to post only once a month, but the simple excuse is that I've been working quite a bit.

You see, when not avidly pursuing convert Taliban operatives here on the blogs (you know who you are, infidels!), I've been overseeing the last of the Guantanamo torture assignments before that little version of Camelot comes to an end.

Since waterboarding is no longer acceptable, I force the prisoners to read through Lamby's blog. Even the most hardened terrorist is reduced to a quivering blob of confessions within minutes. Excellent work, Agent Lamby.

However I must admit the solace of making America safer is sadly tempered by the realization that I'm shirking my obligations here in blogland. And of course it has completely pushed back Puglypaloosa to the summer months, where public nudity will be necessary to cope with the heat. I'm sure at least one special lady won't have a problem with that. Make that TWO special ladies. And don't even get me started on this gal. Does she ever wear clothing? Geez.

And I've been contributing to society in other ways.

For instance, someone has to reassure all of the Craigslist masseuses that most of "ad respondents" are NOT killers. So at least once a week, I visit a new one and whip that message out.

And what about "Octomom"? Someone had to track down the deadbeat dad. I have it narrowed down to either this guy

or that guy.

Bastards. They should have their tentacles cut off.

Finally, someone had to step in as a surrogate father of Bristol Palin's baby, keep the breast milk flowing, and make sure the two women in the Governor's Mansion are "appreciated". Why can't I be the Dustin Hoffman to their Anne Bancroft and Katherine Ross? I've been around enough hot abusive drunk women

and misguided debutantes

to know the ropes.

Anyhoo, I just wanted to drop this quick little note to let you know I haven't forgotten you, truly do plan a new post shortly, and miss everyone.

Ciao for now, mon amis.

.

Road Sign Girl

2009-04-14T07:56:00.043-06:00

by Pug Puerileuwaite

Road Sign Girl
Edge of my lane
Attention held captive
No longer the same

Blonde ponytail
Wafts nicotine
From countless smokes
Both harsh and serene

Can't help but wonder
Waiting in line
When I finally cruise past
Will your gaze meet mine

Do I need to stop
Or just slow down
Fickle mixed signals
Are you playing this clown

Please give a sign
That I should proceed
Is a trailer nearby
To do the deed

Ever you stand
Preventing wrecks
Is perchance there an interest
In the opposite sex

You make it so easy
For me to just wait
Tinted windows conceal
I masturbate

How can you stand there
Day after day
Protecting assholes
For minuscule pay

Perhaps 'cuz you know
This prince you'll soon meet
In an '82 Escort
With flip-down rear seat

And what of coworkers
Who leer and harass
Were I not late for work
I'd be kicking their ass

Do they not know you're mine
Those ignorant jerks
Only I trench and lay pipe
That's one of the perks

Is there a drug test
To get that position
Is sobriety why
You rebuff proposition

You transcend all pretension
My diamond and pearl
Had I crappy suspension
You'd be rockin' my world

I admire your dignity
And also your grace
Despite the occasional
Beverage in face

Is there a place for us
Where we love and we function
No longer constricted
By constraints of construction

Alas I must go, love
In haste and in sorrow
For our paths lead apart
At least 'til tomorrow

Our Day Will Come

2009-03-15T09:32:00.042-06:00

Hi everybody,

Are you all as excited about the impending arrival of Puglypaloosa as yours truly? Every day I find myself wondering just how much longer until the blessed event. Well perhaps we can pass the time with a post or two, just to ease the tension in a refreshingly non-sexual way.

So here goes.

I'm delighted to inform that the creative juices (in today's case: north of the equator) are flowing once again, and inspiration is striking in both frequent and fortuitous fashion. This morning the lightning rod for epiphany was in the form of a segment on that bastion of nerds and bane of Republicans: National Public Radio.

The subject of discussion was Claudette Colvin, a 15-year old student who boarded a bus in Montgomery, Alabama on March 2, 1955 and refused to give up her seat to a white man. Colvin was handcuffed, arrested and forcibly removed from the bus, all while screaming that her Constitutional rights were being violated.

Now some of you are probably thinking, "Big deal; didn't Rosa Parks already make history with the very same act of defiance in the face of indigity?". But - get this - Claudette Colvin did it ALMOST NINE MONTHS TO THE DAY BEFORE Rosa Parks became a legendary civil rights pioneer, for doing the exact same thing.

Claudette Colvin was still a young girl. Rosa Parks: a distinguished and refined lady. Soon after her incident, Claudette became pregnant. Rosa Parks was clearly the more publicly presentable and therefore stronger image of unfair oppression, and so when she refused to surrender her place of rest on December 1, 1955, it was Ms. Parks who served as the catalyst for social revolution.

To her credit, Claudette Colvin understood why this had to be. And I greatly admire her for it. It was inspiring to learn of Ms. Colvin's story, and of the altruistic pragmatism in her quiet acceptance of obscurity. We should all learn and grow from this lesson of unshackling the chains of ego in favor of common good.

Perhaps I already have.

(Nice guy? In both incidents it was an intoxicated and surly Ward Cleaver who demanded their seats.)

For recently, yours truly went through a similar yet equally galvanizing experience. Little did I know at the time the significance of the events that were about to unfold.

I must admit that - while in the moment - my emotions consisted largely of rage and disillusionment. Of this, I am profoundly ashamed.

However now, having been graced with Claudette Colvin's story, I believe I possess the clarity to properly place my own ordeal within its rightful context. And so, even though I DID pitch in for the box of donuts for which an unnamed coworker received undivided adulation, I intend to go forward in life with the understanding that anonymous contribution can be it's own reward.

And if this is truly not my destiny, next time I can pick up the donuts and pee on the ones that are for the others.

.

Pug Harvey News and Comment

2009-03-07T09:24:00.045-07:00

.

Good morning fellow Americans,

Before we officially commence Puglypaloosa, as a proud American I must first pay homage to another proud American who recently passed.

"This is Paul Harvey." For decades, that familiar phrase signaled our momentary daily departure to a bygone era of conservative values, homespun anecdotes, and shameless commercial segues.

"In times like these, it helps to recall that there have always been times like these." More than just a throwaway line originally intended to freak out stoners, nuggets of this ilk were a ubiquitous feature of Mr. Harvey's radio broadcasts. And for those of us who are nutty enough to not need chemical assistance in order to cope, these gems served a secondary role in reassuring us that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It's true.

And so it was that when Paul Harvey died recently at age 90, after more than 75 years in radio, he left a hole that won't easily be filled. And speaking of holes that can be difficult to fill, be sure to visit one of the many fine legal brothels the next time you find yourself in Nevada. Be sure to tell them Pug Harvey sent you.

One did not always have to agree with Harvey to find him a radio entertainer of the highest quality. And friends, when it comes to quality, there is no finer cocaine than Columbia's Finest. So be sure to ask for it by name wherever illegal narcotics are sold.

A salesman for himself and his vision of the American dream, Paul Harvey was also a master peddler of many products, whose makers were as loyal to him as his listeners were. And speaking of vision: when was the last time you had YOUR vision checked? Be sure to "see" a registered Optometrist.

Page 2.

Recently I received a letter from a long-time reader who confided that his marriage was lacking its former "pizzazz", and wondered if I could discretely give him some advice. I did not even hesitate to let him know that there is only ONE place to go in order to spice up his sanctimonious union. Wait. Actually there are two.

Which reminds me that many of us occasionally suffer from painful, embarrassing itching; probably as a result of our active lifestyles (see previous paragraph). It is for folks like us that the good people at Proctor and Gamble have developed ointments to alleviate the discomfort, and get us back in the saddle again.

Paul Harvey will be missed by many after his sudden and completely unexpected passing at age 90. It serves to remind us all that we can truly go at any time. Although for some of us with enlarged prostates,
we cannot go at any time. This is why I have referred a steady stream of friends to the FLOMAX website. Put your prostate in their capable hands today.

Some may remark that Mr. Harvey lived a full and rich life, which he did indeed. And they may go on further to say that - at age 90 - he was an antique. To which I would respectfully respond that he was more of an heirloom, and that his recordings and our fond memories shall live on. The classics never go out of style. Much like the classic antiques that you'll find at Leelee's shoppe.

And now you know ... the rest of the story. I want to thank all of you who have been patient and loyal during what turned out to be an extended vacation. I am back, renewed, invigorated, and looking forward to Puglypaloosa. Until then, I bid you ... good ... day!

.

Special Announcement!

2009-01-22T11:42:00.016-07:00

Hi everybody,

Wow! I forgot how easy it is to create a NEW post! You simply TYPE as you transcribe at least ONE of the voices in your head! It's THAT easy!

Okay. I've calmed down a bit. I thought I'd interrupt my "regular" schedule of "Resolutions for Others" to make a SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

I'm all riled up again! Sorry! Please forgive me, assuming you can search somewhere in those cold black hearts of yours to locate that gesture! Sorry again! That was totally uncalled for in the majority of cases!

Okay. Without further ado, I would like to announce ...

THE FIRST ANNUAL PUGLYPALOOSA!!!

That's right! My VERY OWN festival!

Let's take some of the inevitable questions in advance:

"Will human sacrifice be involved? Because I have a list handy." - GirlGoyle a.k.a. Ed

"Won't this just be a cheesy recreation of 'Lambypaloosa'? Been there, done that. No pullin' the wool over these eyes a second time. BTW, I need my skirt back." - Jin

"Can I go topless in the crowd? Otherwise I may have other obligations." - Serena

"I see you have finally sold out. I KNEW this would happen with liberals now in charge." - Sparring K9

"The current Canadian-to-U.S. dollar exchange rate is 1.2578 : 1. If you're going to do this please hurry so I can attend." - /t.

"This may just be the ticket to me visiting your stupid blog again. Will it be good for once? Will there be booze? Please answer the 2nd question first." - Party Girl

"Not if there's nudity." - Pud

"Will it be tasteful and embrace everyone in the spirit of friendship and tolerance? Also, will there be a Nachos Tent?" - Dianne

"Is there any possibility that it will consist of huge crowds with people packed like sardines; sandals and mopeds serving as the only sources of transportation? Plus will it smell of squid? I like to feel at home. Plus, any chance of fisticuffs? It's been a while ..." - NYD

"Your festival sucks. I will NOT be attending. Oh wait. This is supposed to be a question. Unlike some of the other dumbasses, I shall comply. Okay here goes: will anyone at the festival NOT be gay?" - Mighty Dyckerson

"As I write this, I am unsure of what /t.'s question will be. But I am certain it will have me LOL at /t." - Enemy

"ANYTHING to escape this LIVING ABSOLUTE HELLHOLE of a small town I am trapped in. Even it's your LIVING ABSOLUTE HELLHOLE of a festival. As long as it's not taking place here in the same LIVING ABSOLUTE HELLHOLE of a small town I am trapped in. It IS, isn't it? I KNEW it. F*ck." - Sassy

"I've never been to one of these things. There is a prayer service and a collection for the homeless, right?" - Lamby

"If it's a cross between "Burning Man" and "The Lottery", count me in." - Boneman

"Will I have unrestricted access as "Official Photographer"? I don't want to lead you on, but there is always the chance I could become the Linda Eastman to your Paul McCartney." - Foam

"I have extra curtain fabric from my kids' "basement oasis" project. I can provide the curtains to hide the shame of the rampant fornication that's sure to take place from the opening act onwards." - Helene a.k.a. Kate

"Sex AND drugs AND Rock'n'Roll? I am SO there!" - Leelee

"Don't have public showers where men can bathe together. Trust me on this." - Cathy

"Sex at your event is one thing I haven't crossed off of my list! See you there!" - RevRee

"I've heard that your event will make the film "Midnight Express" seem like the Disney version of a Turkish prison, only with poorer quality hashish." - Bespelled

"Your blog may have "jumped the shark" with this promotion. Unless you actually have a "Pug Jumps the Shark" event. Then it would be SO cool!" - Anonymous from California

I will field more of your questions in the comments section (pics to be added BTW). I hope to see all of you real soon at THE FIRST ANNUAL PUGLYPALOOSA!!!

.

Resolutions for Others: #2

2009-01-20T16:48:00.008-07:00

Hi everybody,

The first thing I will ask you to do is click the play button on the music machine to your right.

Okay, now we're cookin'.

We're all WAY "politicked off" by now, so I'll keep today's resolution short and bittersweet.

Today's resolution is simple: let's be careful from here on out who we elect to run the country.

NEVER again. Peace out.

***

"ANY job that one is INCAPABLE of performing, can be considered a TOUGH job. Doesn't matter if we're talking about W's Presidency or even Yours Truly in the bedroom."

- Pug Puerileuwaite, in an excerpt from his interview with Larry King

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Resolutions for Others: #1

2009-01-10T12:18:00.039-07:00

Hi everybody!

Sorry for the belated post, and welcome to 2009 here at Why Oh Why. I have a crapload of exciting new post ideas to assault your senses with in the coming weeks and months.

But first I wanted to linger in the spirit of the new year by officially designating the remaining days of January for resolutions.

Not to worry. These aren't for me. Been there, failed that, have the post to prove it. What a disaster that turned out to be.

No, rather these are for a few select corporations and individuals to adopt and become the better for it. So here goes.

Resolution #1: Less humans manning the checkouts

I first noticed this phenomenon at one and then all of my 10-local Home Depot stores. For those who may be unfamiliar, Home Depot is a vast chain of massive home improvement centers with armies of employees who are skilled in the art of avoiding us during our visits.

But until a year or so previous, we could rest assured there would be at least two unfortunate short-straw drawing humanoids shackled to their "strategically placed furthest from the exit doors" posts amongst the vast ocean of checkouts, anxious to avoid any semblance of sincere interaction as they converted our patience, funds and remaining dignity into commerce.

Then one day a couple of lanes appeared like weeds in the consumerist garden of mixed metaphors. The "Self Checkout" had emerged, seeking its projected margin of fluorescent light in the zero-sum soil of DIY retail.

While initially an exotic curiosity, these new lanes quickly proved doldrumic Sargasso Seas (for those keeping track, we're back to oceans/seas and away from gardens for the moment) from which easy escape would prove futile.

Expecting the average consumer with an IQ of 70 to scan and follow instructions is a recipe for disaster. Adding a demonic intelligence that anticipates a scanned item (at a pre-calculated weight) being placed into a bag on a scale at THE PRECISE MOMENT, just adds to the fun.

MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR WRETCHED SOUL if you neglect to place the item into the bag as (and when) directed, or if you sneeze in the direction of the bag, or if you place the sample that you brought along for comparison into the bag. Or if your nut sac accidentally rests onto the scale next to the bag.

Anyhoo, I chalked up this disturbing new "innovation" as an isolated annoyance to be avoided by shopping at the competition, and gave it no further thought.

Then Walmart followed suit. Gone were the humans. Replaced by these same hellish point-of-sale gauntlets.

In partial fairness, there typically IS one actual person per lane (consisting of 2-or-4 self-checkouts each) who is on-hand to assist the 10-out-of-10 shoppers who experience difficulty. This person is usually benevolent and even helpful: correcting overages, pointing out that one's nut sac accounted for the erroneous grapes line item, and in general slyly training us for a job that this machine has already taken.

And so it appears to be just a matter of time before every big-box retail location in our universe consists purely of self-checkouts.

The First Self-Checkout?

But why stop there?

I propose a resolution to eliminate those obsolete, helpful humans who misguidedly try to save us from ourselves. Let's make the checkout process 100% free of carbon-based lifeforms.

As such, I recommend that each retail location install a self-aware supercomputer similar in concept and identical in name to "Hal" from "2001: A Space Odyssey". "Hal" will be responsible for overseeing the checkout process. If you fail to properly follow directions, a jolt of electricity is conducted through your body into the grid below.

Attempting to abandon your transaction and flee the store? Hal also controls the exit doors. And the heating/cooling system. And the oxygen supply.

In fact, Hal is SO self-aware, there no longer remains a commerce locale in existence with which he is not in constant communication. Hal knows the parameters of consumer brand loyalty. He sets those parameters.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he makes us more aware - and therefore better - consumers.

.

Merry Christmas Everybody!

2008-12-24T17:17:00.009-07:00

I just wanted to take a moment to wish everyone a Merry Christmas!

First off, a heartfelt thanks to the talented and sultry K9 for Christmas CDs past, present and (hopefully) future. I shall dream of her sitting on my lap, listing for hours and hours every single present she would like for herself and for each one of the other xx-billion people inhabiting the planet.

And of course I also would like to thank everyone for your comments, visits and friendship. I wish I could be there to drunkenly impose myself on each and every one of you during the holidays. But alas, that is not possible. So please accept the following token of my appreciation.

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Moana Lisa

2008-12-08T17:09:00.003-07:00

Hi everybody,

Still no time or energy just yet to resume my normal trickle of insipid posts. So instead I thought I'd share an image courtesy of Dianne.

And let me tell you, it was quite the challenge for me to even get to see "the goods". Which seems to mirror this particular pug's real life most poetically these days.

I'd like to tentatively rename it "The Pug's Moana Lisa". I'll leave it to all of you to analyze the image for hidden symbols and clues.

So I need you to put on your "historical art detective caps" and help me out.

Why is she smiling? Why is she covering up? What is the significance of red in the picture? Is this REALLY a "thinly-veiled self-portrait" of the pug? What secret message(s) do the garter and armband convey? Why is there a noticeable absence of belly button bling? What is that green, conical object in the lower right of the frame? What exactly is a "Louvre"?

.

Rejected Video #6

2008-11-30T17:18:00.003-07:00

Hi everybody,

Well I was going to stop at #5 (and save the vast supply of rejected Lamby tribute videos for future generations), but moving on takes work; and I haven't had the time and energy for it.

So consider this an encore. Enjoy.

Dolly Dagger by Jimi Hendrix

Here comes Dolly Dagger
Her love’s so heavy, gonna make you stagger
Dolly Dagger
she drinks the blood from a jagged edge
aw, drink up baby

Been riding broomsticks since she was fifteen
Blowin' out all the other witches on the scene
She got a bullwhip just as long as your life
Her tongue can even scratch the soul out of the devil’s wife
Well I seen her in action at the Player's Choice
Turn all the love men into doughnut boys
Hey, red hot mama you better step aside,
This chicks gonna turn you to a block of ice
Look out!

Here comes Dolly Dagger,
Her love's so strong gonna make you stagger, baby
Dolly Dagger
She drinks her blood from a jagged edge
Uh, right on
Drink up, baby
Hey!

Yeah, look at old burnt out Superman
Tryin' to shoot his dust on the sun
Captain Karma kids, they're dead on the run
Oh the words of love, ah
Do they ever touch Dolly Brown?
Better get some highway an' clear outta town

Here comes Dolly Dagger,
Her love's so heavy gonna make you stagger
Dolly Dagger
She ain't satisfied 'til she gets what she's after
She drinks the blood from a jagged edge
Alright
Watch out Devon
You give me a little bit of that heaven

Dolly, heavy mama, get it on, get it on, get it on
Dolly, heavy mama, get it on, get it on, get it on
Dolly, heavy mama, get it on, get it on, get it on
Dolly, heavy mama, get it on, get it on, get it on
Get it on, get it on, get it on, get it on, get it on, get it on
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah

.

Rejected Video #5

2008-11-22T08:28:00.005-07:00

Hi everybody,

I almost forgot this (probably) last video to (possibly) close out our inaugural "Lambypaloosa".

It's rather tame, and yet the "sharks" still had a few issues with it representing our Little Lamb. See if you can see what they saw.

.

Rejected Video #4

2008-11-17T08:17:00.005-07:00

Hi everybody,

Let us continue with our intimate little "death march" of videos that the legal beagles deemed "inappropriate" for my Lamby tribute.

For some reason, this one in particular had them squealing their disapproval.

Let's see what you think.

.

Rejected Video #3

2008-11-16T08:18:00.005-07:00

Hi everybody,

Shall we press on with the latest installment from videos submitted to and rejected by the attorneys, for fear of drawing the vicious wrath of the Lamb Anti-Defamation Society (LADS)?

Okay, you win. By now you should have the rules down pat: carefully view the selection and see if you can spot any of the same concerns as the lawyers.

(Darn ... I really thought I'd captured Lamby in her native habitat with this one ...)

.

Rejected Video #2

2008-11-15T09:47:00.002-07:00

Hi everybody,

Today's video selection, for some odd reason, was even more vehemently rebuked by the legal eagles than the last one.

Perhaps the lines between fantasy and reality for this canine should not have been laid in chalk. Some may see this vignette and ask "Why Lamby?", while I see it and ask "Why not?".

Anyway, check it out and see if you can spot anything that the lawyers found to be objectionable.

.

Rejected Video #1

2008-11-14T11:22:00.002-07:00

Hi everybody,

As "promised", here is the first of the tunes* (* more so than the videos themselves) that didn't "pass muster" with the lawyers. See if you can determine why.

For those just tuning in (who weren't here yesterday), please refer to the previous ("A Tribute to Lamby") post, to get up to speed.

.

A Tribute to Lamby

2008-11-13T13:48:00.008-07:00

Hi everybody,

Serena recently posted on the topic of "promises" which I found to be a fascinating concept that I wish to someday explore a bit further.

Apparently one of the "caveats" of a promise is that "ideally" it should be kept. But this shouldn't discourage any of you from also seeking to learn more on the subject.

Anyhoo, I though I would "test the waters" by keeping a sort-of promise that I made to Lamby. I said that I would post "her video" after getting the previous offering out.

Well let me admit here and now that this was no easy task. Lamby has many rabid, er, AVID followers who would turn on me even more mercilessly than they already do; if I were not "extremely careful" with my choice.

So as a precaution, I ran each and every "proposed video selection" by my company's legal department* (* access to these folks is a perk they arranged for me, for some strange reason, as a condition of employment), before they FINALLY approved this one.

As such, I would like to present Melanie's "Brand New Key" as my (officially approved) choice for the tune that represents the essence of Lamby.

Who among us cannot picture a cute little woolen creature on roller skates screeching down the broken pavement of our imperfect world, seeking to make it a better place? Here she comes! Now where did I misplace that brand new key?

As an added bonus, each day I shall post one of the videos that the legal team rejected.

Litigiously yours,
Pug Puerileuwaite, Esq.

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An Independent Choice

2008-11-01T07:58:00.019-06:00

Hi everybody!

First off, I would like all of you to note the exclamation point at the end of my greeting above, as it boldly punctuates my genuine joy in seeing your bright shiny faces today!

I'm delighted to have you here; since I have a hastily thrown together, surprise announcement to make: This Humble Pug is throwing his collar into the ring as YOUR candidate for the Presidency of these United States of America! Including Texas (for now)!

So be sure to WRITE ME IN as YOUR CHOICE for President when you go to the polls tomorrow. And if you've already voted, I have great news: you can STILL vote again. We'll simply arrange for them to "lose" your original ballots. And if you vote within the next 24-hours, I'll throw in Black Bart as my "Vice" President at no extra charge!

Also, I want to give a HUGE shout-out to my Future First Lady, the lovely Sparring K9, who not only convinced me that I could get some change out of running, but also provided ALL of the images for this post. Together in the White House, she and I will make JFK and Jackie look like Ozzie and Harriet (or Ozzie and Sharon, if you prefer)!

You probably want to know (a) little about me, so here is where I stand on our most popular issues:

Economy - I am for a strong economy. As such, there will be no Republicans, Texans or women advising me in this area.

Iraq - I am committed to withdrawing ALL troops and oil by Christmas.

Health Care - Everyone will be provided with "goodie bags" containing prescriptions of their choice. Additionally, all of you will be automatically enrolled as "Beta Test Subjects" in all current and future testing of new pharmacueticals.

Terrorism - I am firmly opposed to terrorism in any form. As such, anyone suspected of planning or being engaged in terrorist activities will also be enrolled in my aforementioned pharmaceutical beta test program.

Joe the Plumber - Enough with the division and wisecracks already. "Joe the Plumber" must mean more to us than a political device used to manipulate morons who can barely manage to read something other than "Letters to Penthouse" or pull a lever other than the tiny one in their pants. Anyone with a fat ass and droopy drawers should and will be entitled to a trade that provides frequent thrills for neglected housewives. So let us reverently embrace those among us who fix our leaks without toiling at a clinic.

Ellen DeGeneres - Will be shipped to Guantanamo immediately along with Rosie O'Donnell and Oprah for "reprogramming" sans any video cameras. Let's see how enthusiastically she dances after the enemas, boarding, and other "waterpark activities".

CEOs - Orange will be the "In" color this year for the current crooks. Be sure to wave as you pass them by on the road. Or rather, on the side of the road; where chained together they will be seen breaking up rocks, serve as a natural protective barrier for loose, tumbling boulders, and catch those discarded hot coffee containers that we were almost finished consuming.

Abortion - Although The Pug is currently Pro-Choice, I think we all agree that abortion should be eliminated. Life is precious. I certainly know how fond I am of my own* (* from there, it of course becomes increasingly less precious, based on a sliding scale of inverse proximity). So the best way to prevent abortion is to prevent conception in the first place. But HOW can we promote abstinence using a "holistic" approach? My plan is to equip all women with Birkenstock sandals, "alternate" lifestyles and corporate middle management positions. The men will be provided with unlimited access to video games of all forms, which they will be encouraged to discuss incessantly in their places of employment. These enhancements should reduce social mingling of the sexes, and keep conception to a minimum (if not eradicate it entirely).

Taxes - My plan is to eliminate all federal, state, local and sales taxes within the next 2-years. Instead the government will generate revenues by installing pedestrian and vehicle toll booths at every intersection. Also, all Internet Pornography will be strictly pay-per-view and taxed at a rate of $1 per genital. No exceptions or "free samples". Not even for politicians or clergy.

Illegal Immigration - The ugly truth is that we need illegals to cheaply perform the jobs that pampered Americans find reprehensible. This includes any task that actually requires Americans to earn their pay. But the problem is that they also occasionally try to benefit from our education and medical institutions. My plan - instead of a border fence - is to install a wall containing inlet tubes that funnel these workers to the work, and then returns them safely across the border at night. And no place else. A human "habit-trail", if you will, where "who moved my cheese?" will REALLY be a relevant complaint.

Celebrities - All celebrities will be required to report for their shifts at their local rendering plants, effective immediately.

***

Darn. I can see by the clock on the wall that our little "fireside chat" has to be extinguished for now. Tomorrow we will take up where we left off, when I share my thoughts on some or all of the remaining issues facing us as a nation* (* including Canada, Australia and Japan: all of which I plan to annex during my first 30-days in office).

Republicans
Democrats
Crime
Education
Defense
Social Security
The Stock Market
Dick Cheney
The Bush Family
Materialism and Greed
The Environment
International Relations
NASA
Autism
Our Veterans
Patriotism
Energy
Lobbyists
Campaign Reform
Separation of Church and State
NRA
NPR
The Biased Media
Small Business
Insurance Companies
Banking and Finance
The Military
Oil Companies
The Arts
Zamboni Operators
Chicago Cubs Baseball

Tagline #1: The Pug - Will Work For Change

Tagline #2: The Pug - A Trying President For Trying Times

Tagline #3: The Pug - If You Shoot Me, Black Bart Becomes President

Tagline #4: NPR, NRA - The Pug Will Eliminate One of Them

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A Bridge To Fargo

2008-10-17T06:56:00.128-06:00

I knew she was trouble the first time we met in that seedy karaoke bar to cement the deal.

"Ya der hey. I'm Sarah." I scolded her for her tardiness, introduced myself and my associate Black Bart, and then asked if she brought the $40 grand. "I made it clear to Phil (Gramm, the middleman in the deal) that it was the Ciera up front, and then the $40K after the ransom is paid." She was wearing her trademark revealing white blouse and tight skirt, so I was in no position to stand up and argue. At least not comfortably or without embarrassment.

"Okay, let's go check out that Ciera, Sarah (I couldn't help but chuckle to myself at my clever play on words)."

I knew little about her, other than she had once placed second in a beauty contest, was a weather girl on TV, and apparently served as governor of one of the more insignificant states somewhere west of Brainerd.

Maybe I was better off knowing as little as I did.

And thankfully in retrospect, much of what subsequently transpired was a blur. I'm in a much better place now. The mind works in mysterious ways and decides on it's own what should vividly be remembered. For me, one thing in that particular category was the long drive in our Ciera to the Twin Cities.

I chided Black Bart for lighting up in the new vehicle and exposing me to carcinogenic second-hand smoke. Bastard could've at least cracked open a window. I tried to make small talk about downtown Minneapolis skyscrapers, and asked if he'd ever been there. Nothing but silence in return. "Would it kill you to say something?", I said. Not a word. Screw it. Here I was, doing all of the driving with no conversation to break up the monotony, while all he could do is chain smoke Marlboros and sneer like Sting.

Fine. Two could play that game, fella.

As I later found out, Sarah had made a series of poor decisions that led to this fateful one, and continued to compound the misery and stress with further bad judgement.

For instance, the state auditor started to make inquiries about 2-motor pool vehicles that were unaccounted for. The VINs on the paperwork were not legible, due to the low quality of the faxed submissions. And despite the auditor's repeated insistence on clearer copies and no more faxes, Sarah continued to fax ones of increasingly bad quality. Rumor has it that Sassy landed her recent promotion in much the same manner (unreadable resume and transcripts, plus lord knows what other chicanery), but that's a Coen Brothers story for another day and an audience with a stronger collective stomach.

Anyhoo, the job was to kidnap her husband, who by all accounts was a meddling hayseed with no apparent career of his own.

She could no longer manipulate the rube into participating in fictional cross-state snowmobile endurance races in order to buy weeks of blessed domestic solitude, so she devised another plan. We would kidnap him and demand a quick ransom before his true market value could be assessed (a tactic brazenly stolen from NASDAQ and NYSE operational models). We would get our 40-G's (plus another 10 for NOT returning the hubby), and Sarah would keep the rest.

All initially went according to plan, until Black Bart and I were pulled over by that State Trooper. He noticed we were driving a fuel-efficient, American made product, which aroused his suspicion. A quick glance at the name plate on his uniform made Black Bart and I do a double-take, as we both realized he was Palin's brother-in-law. His disappearance would net us a $20,000 bonus, per Sarah. Cha-ching. In the trunk he went.

In addition to her state motor pool audit woes, Sarah now had another problem. She had gone to John McCain for the ransom money, but the old curmudgeon wouldn't simply give it to her "no questions asked". Despite his woeful interpersonal skills, the damned coot insisted on being in on the negotiations, also demanding that his confidante Carly Fiorina be included in every aspect. Carly suggested merging another current yet unrelated ransom deal into this one, in order to "maximize the synergies" between the two. What a nutjob.

We pressed on to the big city. The hubby started to whimper again from the back seat like the wuss that he was. "Shut the f*ck up, or you're going in the truck too!" shouted Black Bart.

"Jeez, that's more than I've heard you say all week," said I.

Back in Brainerd, a very pregnant Sheriff Serena received a late night call. A State Trooper had gone missing in her jurisdiction. She tumbled out of bed, soldiering on despite her perpetual morning sickness. Her highly-domesticated, balding artist husband /t. insisted that she eat a meal of runny scrambled eggs before heading out, mentioning with every bite she took that he needed her to pick up night-crawlers (which he described in great detail, to ensure she'd select the right ones) so he could go ice fishing later on.

At the scene of the empty State Patrol car, Deputy Boneman offered Serena a coffee and a damp, doughy red-jelly-filled cruller. With each bite she took, the Deputy explained how grisly traces of blood and flesh had been found close by, indicating a possible skirmish or gator attack.

"I'm not sure that I agree with you on your police work there, Lou." "Yah?" "Yah, ya see, there are no gators in Minnesota. It's way too cold." "Yah?" "You betcha." "I'll be damned."

Back at the Police Station, /t. brought Serena lunch from Arby's. As she struggled to consume her cheddar melt, /t. rifled through the bag of night-crawlers the wife had picked up, carefully inspecting each one in front of her and the light on her desk while shrieking with delight.

At this point it was revealed that /t. was a "Code Poetry Painter", and had been feverishly working on a digital Looney motif for the 3-cent eStamp. He was worried that Foam would beat him out of being awarded the design, so Serena had to constantly reassure him, which tested even her considerable patience* (* comparatively speaking, being that she was a natural redhead).

Just then, Deputy Boneman informed Serena of a report that 2-pugs in a Ciera stayed at the Blue Ox Motel last night with 2-girls they hoped would help ease the pain of their recent dumpings by Cathy and Dianne.

Sheriff Serena met the 2-girls at a local watering hole for questioning. Both seemed naive and wordly all at the same time. Britney mentioned how she was with the little fella, and that he was funny lookin'. "How so?" asked Serena. "Well, he looked a lot like Steve Buscemi if he were a canine." "Oh, I see ... will you excuse me one moment? My morning sickness seems to have returned."

Serena then asked Paris what she could remember about the other fella. "Well, he was taller and uncircumsized. The little fella called him 'Black Bart'. I called him the 'Malboro Pug' because he chain smoked Marlboros and wheezed a lot. Plus he insisted on wearing spurs and having his horse join in." "Oh, I see. Well, thanks for coming in, ladies."

Calls from the Blue Ox were traced to Phil Gramm, and in turn, calls from Phil's home were traced to Governor Palin's office. The noose was rapidly tightening. Sheriff Serena decided to pay Mrs. Palin a little visit.

"May I call you Sarah?" "No." "Okay b*tch, have it your way. MRS. PALIN, have you noticed anything missing lately? A couple of cars from the motor pool? Your husband? Your soul?"

"Look, Sheriff, this is obviously an attempt by:

- the Democrats

- my opponent

- the "gotcha" media

- Georgian artists

- informed, biased citizens

- people who watch MSNBC and Comedy Central

- people who produce and appear in MSNBC and Comedy Central shows

- ugly folks with self-image issues

- "Big Oil"

- Washington insiders

- lobster poachers

- library patrons

- non-hockey moms

- pitbulls

- Katie Couric

- lamb mistreaters

- Tina Fey

- Californians, Oregonians, Washingtonians (the state), New Englanders, Midwesterners, Mid-Atlantic staters

- blondes

- Floridians who still know what they're doing

- people who wear contact lenses

- former city employees

- former state employees

- former pageant competitiors

- Russians

- hot Obama mamas

- bridge builders to nowhere

- [your name here]

- anyone else I haven't mentioned

to slander my good name; because John McCain, James Garner* (* but not Mel Gibson), Tom Cruise in 'Top Gun', a former Ford Motor Company product, and I are all "mavericks". Would it make you happy if I perform an internal investigation of these allegations?" "No, not really, since it would obviously reveal nothing and claim to exonerate you." "Darn tootin'. Okay then, I'm off to perform the investigation." "I can't believe it! She's fleeing the interview!"

Meanwhile, I was on my way to pick up the ransom money at our arranged meeting spot, adjacent to an Obama rally at the local Elks Club. Little did I know that McCain himself would be making the drop, making disrespectful facial gestures the whole time, and referring to me as "that pug". Though he was packin' heat, I took advantage of his inability to look down due to the lack of a neck, and snatched the satchel from below.

I then returned to our cabin hideout yonder at Moose Lake, where I discovered that Black Bart had "offed" Mr. Palin. "He was being a pain." I couldn't argue with that statement: I had seen the news footage of him and realized Black Bart's reasoning was sound.

We then started to fight over who got the Ciera. Being an American auto, neither of us wanted to be stuck with it, and there was no budging. As I was already wounded due to McCain stepping on my tail, I could only offer feeble resistance as we grappled. Black Bart dragged me to the wood chipper and started it up.

He then held me directly over its gnashing blades.

Fortunately, just then Sheriff Serena (who had spotted the Ciera) raced toward us with her gun drawn. "DROP THAT PUG!"

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An Aussie Dedication

2008-10-05T16:43:00.020-06:00

G'day "mates" and "cobbers",

This "bludger" still needs to finish his latest "spiffy" post, which he hopes will be "fair go". But for now this "bloke" wants to confess his "perve" for a special "beaut sheila" who happens to give this "dag" the "wobblies" .

So without further ado, here is one of my favorite videos, which I dedicate to Dianne. So why not crack open a "tinny" while you give it a "burl"; and let yourself become "gobsmacked" in the wonders of futuristic Australia. Meanwhile, this "root rat" will be on the lookout for "white pointers".

.

Democratic Convention - Special Report #2

2008-09-20T15:33:00.005-06:00

.

Hi everybody,

How many of you (other than NYD) thought/hoped you'd never see a SECOND Special Report in your lifetime from this intrepid reporter? Well that makes all of us. Now I know some - okay, all - of you may feel inclined to take a cheap shot at me for my tardiness in whipping it out. I expect a couple of wisenheimers to demand an "equally timely" news report on Hurricane Gustav. But rest assured for once there's a good reason for the delay.

Suffice it to say, I never should've gone to Bill Richardson's post-Day-1 party. That way I would've never encountered the bad Peyote which at the time went rather nicely with some bad tequila. The next thing I recall is waking up in Tijuana along side Bill and a tranny named Juanita. It took forever to convince border guards that I wasn't a Chihuahua with a thyroid problem.

Okay, I suppose the only way to deal with my various hangovers is to get them over with. So here goes with the wrap-up of my DNC coverage.

Mark Warner (Former Governor of Virginia) led off the "major" festivities. By "major", I mean that there was a steady "stream" throughout the convention of "lesser" speakers using the podium approximately every 10-minutes. In fact, yours truly accidently got in that line by mistake, thinking it was for the port-a-potties. Turns out that my moment of "relief" was way more appreciated than anything the others had to offer. This just goes to show that you can make lemonaid from life's lemons.

Warner, otherwise known as "Mr. Charisma" almost makes Ralph Nader seem interesting. Somebody should've changed the lock so his keynote speech couldn't gain entry.

The gist of his tedious rambling was how he had a vision of cellphones transforming the world into a place where no person would ever feel as important as someone who was not actually present; and no motorist, bicyclist or pedestrian could ever feel safe outdoors again. Thank you for that, dipshit.

Next batter up was Ted Kennedy, who mentioned that nothing was going to keep him away: not cancer nor conspiracies, not Oliver Stone nor even his ex-wife Joan. He noted that America was at a crossroads. It could either return to the party that had led it astray, or it could choose a treacherous, dimly lit bridge to a safe but distant shore.

Uncle Teddy admonished us to make the bold choice, much as his brother Jack had done when deciding that the moon was not just a destination for Alice Kramden, but for America as well. We answered JFK's call and met the challenge. And it was only because of our courage and dedication, that today we can proudly boast of an American flag, lunar rover, several golf balls, a used condom, one empty Jack Daniel's bottle, and the contents of one ashtray as permanent lunar evidence of that conquest.

Terrible Ted then went on to compare our country of 8-years ago to a trusting floozy who simply elected to leave the bar with the wrong frat boy. Sure, at first we agreed that it might be a good idea to walk along the shore and gaze out toward Afganistan as we were coaxed out of our nylons. But that's as far as we wanted any troops to march.

The headliner of Day-2 was Hillary Clinton, who was introduced by her daughter. Chelsea has blossomed into a striking young woman, which makes it difficult for me to accept that Hillary has forbidden me to see her. Now this is where it gets awkward: my parents and Bill have already arranged for me to take her on a date. I know Hillary will be furious, as she thinks of me as her own "Little Intern". Love can take many forms. Why then, for me, does it always have to be in the shape of a triangle? These Clintons will be the death of me yet.

Remember when we found out that, instead of wanting to kill him - Darth Vader was actually Luke Skywalker's loving dad, and longed to rule as father and son? Well, this is the closest similarity I can muster (sorry) to depict the atmosphere as Hillary took the podium.

Was she going to unsheath her purple lightsaber and slay her nemesis, Obi Wan Obama? Or was she going to extend her gloved hand with an offer to unite so that their progeny may one day rule the galaxy together? She chose neither, electing instead to (apparently) back Obama. And yet there remained a lingering, uneasy, palpatine feeling of a sinister sequel looming as she continues to tighten her grasp on the Senate.

The next day, Joe Biden spoke. He started to apologize for being from a state so puny that even Rhode Island tries to bully it at the beginning of every new Congressional session; but then he caught himself and told everyone to go screw themselves. After all, Delaware WAS the first state in this glorious "conga-line" of democracy. Plus, why does almost every company clamor to be incorporated there, if it's not the coolest state?

He then pointed out that he accepted the nomination for "second banana" because "Dick" Cheney had set the bar low enough to stumble over. He pledged to not laugh at every one of Obama's jokes and skits, and to pay off his mortgage instead of dinking around. This alone should make him the best thing to come out of Scranton, Pennsylvania since ... ever, I suppose.

As a kid, whenever he got knocked down by guys bigger than him, his mom taught Little Joe* (* not to be confused with the beloved Michael Landon character from "Bonanza") to get back up and grab a lead pipe as he headed out the door. Soon, he was the bully. Now, the rest of us instinctively reach for lead pipes as Joe enters the room.

John Kerry spoke next, bitterly noting how four years ago he was swiftly screwed out of becoming President of the United States, but that this wasn't about him and his shattered dreams. So instead he emphasized how we must listen and lead by example because even a nation as powerful as the United States needs some friends in this world. No country likes to sit alone eating their lunch from a tray at the distant end of the world cafeteria. Nor does any nation enjoy not having friends to hang out with on coffee shop couches while listening to acoustic guitar.

Kerry noted how perhaps we can befriend Georgia. Not the sweaty and dull "southern girl next door" Georgia, but rather the timid yet exotically "stripper-attractive" foreign-exchange student Georgia. Perhaps all that is needed to scare off her abusive ex-boyfriend Vladimer, is to show up in front of his house in a souped-up GTO with a "coalition" of buddies in leather regalia.

Former President Bill Clinton came on to an exuberant roar of the crowd. As expected, he was very candid in sharing how, in the end, his candidate didn’t win. So much for all of the unaccounted-for Hillary-free time he was eagerly anticipating. And if there was barely any living with her before, this setback would make Dante's Inferno seem like a sauna.

And yet he knew that like America, he cannot be strong "abroad" unless he is strong at home. So maybe he will stand up to Hillary, since appeasement never works with dictators. People the world over have always been more impressed by power of example than by example of power. Except for Hillary. So good luck with that.

Al Gore started out by briefly dancing in front of the podium with the Elaine Benes character from Seinfeld. Then he spoke to an appreciative audience that clearly showed prodigious reverence for this esteemed inventor of the Internet, since Internet porn could not exist without it.

One of the greatest gifts of our democracy is the opportunity every four years it provides for Democrats to "kick the football through the uprights" a la Charlie Brown. So what if most times the powers that be and a whole bunch of dumbshit voters are able to cruelly swipe the ball away at the last second?

Under his Presidency, Al would have pursued bin Laden like so many discarded Florida ballots. And Chad would be one of the first places we searched.

Tipper's Skipper then noted how voting for McCain was a form of recycling, but not in the beneficial "circle of life" affirming Soylent Green context; rather in the disgusting manner that used sardine cans and old milk containers are reclaimed "as is" for consumer reuse.

Instead of letting lobbyists and polluters control our destiny, we'd invest in solar, wind and geothermal power. Not a ray of sunshine would touch the ground without being redirected onto a electricity generating panel. Nor would a cool breeze ever again evade a turbine-fueling propeller until it was thoroughly spent. We would replace every hideous oil rig with not quite as hideous but more ubiquitous geothermal extraction rigs.

Al then drew parallels between Obama and Lincoln, noting how Honest Abe came from Illinois with seemingly little political experience, and how The Great Emancipator also took over for a horseshit President whose last name started with a "B". He then segued into a meandering explanation of how Lincoln had a manservant named Obama, while Obama once rode in a Lincoln, but by this time the crowd was clearly distracted by the buffet that was being set up to sate the post-speech "munchies".

What can I say about Obama's speech on the final hour of the final day, that the scriptures and Nostradamus haven't already foretold?

And a man of color shall appear before the colorless and mostly odorless
The chosen one chooses not to grace the arena named for a popular beverage
So in it's place he appears in a great edifice graced by a white stallion
Between massive columns of styrofoam he speaks to the masses washed and otherwise
For our future and for our childrens' future we must and shall beat these other guys

The chosen one gave a concise and powerful speech. The image of him, with each of his arms chained to a column, was too much for some and yet not enough for others. At the conclusion, he appeared to gaze at the heavens and mumble to an unseen force. It was then that the columns appeared to ever so slowly nudge toward each other, eventually toppling over into the now horrified crowd. Then the moneychangers* (* these days more commonly referred to as ATM machines, which of course really have no relevant place in this vignette) were driven from the temple, but I think it was captured on one or more surveillance cameras.

***

This wraps up my coverage of the Democratic National Convention. I hope your expectations were sufficiently low enough for me to meet them (or at least head them off before they reached the exit). See you next report, where we'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when. May the force be with you.

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A Foamy Dedication

2008-09-19T13:01:00.003-06:00

Hi everybody,

I still need to finish Special Report #2. But I thought I would take a brief moment to give a shout out to a special little lady who has captured my rapt attention and wrapped it in barbed wire.

So without further ado, here is one of my favorite videos, which I dedicate to Foam. Enjoy.

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Democratic Convention - Special Report #1

2008-08-26T15:50:00.017-06:00

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Hi everybody,

I'm interrupting my regularly scheduled programming for a special report from the Democratic Convention, which opened last night in Denver. No time for pictures: I'm on deadline, people!

[Editor's Note: I added some photos for that lazy shit reporter. - Black Bart, Editor-In-Chief]

Unfortunately I was not able to attend, but did happen to be in an "adult" establishment that was piping in a feed from one of the cable channels. I couldn't hear the audio and was frequently distracted by females curious about my laptop, so my following impressions are based purely on lip-reading ability and an uncanny knack for intense, occasional focus.

Nancy Pelosi (D - California) opened the convention by extolling the benefits of a Reverse Mortgage, and how every American was entitled to a free gold kit. Nancy clearly demonstrated that she was still a "looker" for her age, and she will make a fine addition to my "D.I.L.F." list. Instead of being hung-over, the sparse crowd actually hung on her every word, since the first hour was a wee bit early for the alcohol "downslope", even by politico timetables.

In this way, she was not unlike the opening act in 1969 at Altamont Speedway, warming up the placid, law-abiding audience for the rock stars to follow. The attire and hairstyles of those in attendance served to reinforce the connection between past and present. Perhaps the only tangible difference was the abundance of crack pipes and the notable absence of Hells Angels.

Next up was Michelle Obama, who was introduced by her brother (who thankfully neither resembled nor behaved like Billy Carter). Mrs. Obama is a very striking woman, and she was absolutely regal in her delightfully form-fitting green dress. I could certainly get behind her message.

A video montage prior to the future First Lady's introduction illustrated her "Janet Jackson-like" metamorphosis over the years, from chubby female "Webster-clone" to "All For You" nubile hottie. My mind drifted to thoughts of Justin Timberlake gayly, patiently and mediocrely standing by her side throughout her speech in anticipation of a revealing finale. But regrettably and tastefully, it wasn't in the tarot cards.

So instead, Ms. Obama provided us with a powerful, emotional speech, recounting sacrifices* (* mostly of the non-human variety, which served as a refreshing counterpoint to the Clintons) made, values learned, and hopes for our future. She repeatedly emphasized how all people should be treated with dignity and respect even if they probably don't deserve it; including Republicans, frequenters of this blog, and Lamby in particular.

She went on to say that she learned tolerance while growing up on the south side of Chicago; where blonde, mostly-white Republicans with sweaters draped over their shoulders would drive by in Mustang convertibles blaring Beach Boys tunes. It would have been so easy to give into hate, but she chose the higher path of compassion, personal growth, belief in a greater purpose and the distant promise of Hair Metal.

Perhaps it was fitting that any revenge would be divinely exacted in the form of the Beach Boy's later efforts, such as "Kokomo", and of course in Ford's bloated Mustang designs of the 70's and 80's.

Lady Obama went on to explain Barack's background and how - contrary to what Republicans would like you to believe - he was not an elitist child of privilige.

Sure he grew up in Hawaii. But this wasn't the island paradise of today that we would readily recognize from the postcards of lucky bastards who get to go there and then rub it in. No, this was the "hard-scrabble" Hawaii of New Jersey-esque pineapple mills, hula-skirt factories, and scuba-equipped aquatic chaingangs. This was a union-thug, Papillion-tormenting, pre-Don Ho circle of hell that no self-respecting Japanese tourist would visit.

It was a swirling tan-or be tanned, riptide of tropical cruelty and certainly no place to raise or even accidently conceive a child.

And so, eventually a still-youthful Obama learned to time the waves, noting how every 7th one would sway a makeshift coconut catamaran away from this foul place and eventually carry him to that paradise known to the natives simply as "Chicago". It was there that he met Michelle during her Rhythm Nation phase, and became enthralled. Though she was initially repulsed, Barack plied her with his Urkel-like looks and charm, eventually talking his way into her "oval office".

Together, they encountered more adversity on the path to the promised land, with the idiot waiter at Chotchkie's (who would make annoying "dual-machine-guns firing simultaneously" gestures while repeating his first name, staccato-style) being just one example. But they overcame all, including incessant death threats from Hillary at all hours.

Well that's all I have time for, for now. Being in a hurry, I'm sure it's chock full of grammatical errors, although I do guarantee its accuracy. So consider this as Report #1 from your Special (Education) Correspondent, Pug "Scoop" Puerileuwaite.

And now, as "The Cisco Kid" would say, "Adios, amigos! See you real soon with Part-II !"

,

Nugget from Craig' s List

2008-08-16T14:54:00.025-06:00

Woo hoo! I'm off to pick up discount cinder blocks!

Hi everybody,

First off, I hope I caught most of you sitting down, just in case anyone has a stroke from seeing a new post within 8-days of the last one. And get this, I'm planning on trying to squeeze out a new offering EVERY week or so from here on out.

It certainly helps when I can steal the occasional bit of content from someone else. In fact, I just received the following actual Craig's List ad in an email from a good friend, and instantly it reminded me of a certain Cantankerous Confederate Clown who happens to reside in the same city as the poster. Coincidence? Or is it the same Bozo? You be the judge.

From richmond craigslist > materials

8x8x16 Cement Block - $1

I have approximately 275 to 300 cinder blocks for sale. They are standard 8"x8"x16". They cost about $1.75 plus delivery fees if you buy them somewhere else. I'm asking $1.00 per block.

You pick them up and move them yourself.

Please don't waste my f*cking time with endless emails. These are plain old cinderblocks. for f*ck sake. You don't need to do an engineering study on the feasibility of using these f*cking things as building material. That's what they're for, you f*cking idiots.

Now listen, we're all busy people here. You want the blocks? Come get the f*cking blocks and give me one dollar for every block you take. How f*cking hard is that? You don't have to tell me what you're building. I don't give a f*ck. I'm not interested in helping you build it either. Why? Because I don't give a f*ck. I just want to get these f*cking things off my property.

So if you want them, get the f*ck over here with some money and take them.

The next f*cking moron that emails me with "I'm building a blah blah blah, and was wondering if ..." The answer is NO. Come get the f*cking blocks and build it yourself. If I knew how to do masonry, don't you think I'd be using the blocks myself instead of selling them to you for half f*cking price? What the f*ck is wrong with you people?

The next one of you f*cking jackasses that emails me with some sob-story bullshit is getting his email address added to the North American Man/Boy Love Association mailing list.

You want the blocks? Come get the blocks, and don't f*ck with me!

***

(For those of you with excellent eyesight, this is the original ad.)

I could have a blog with an endless supply of material just from Craig's List. Bless you, Craig's List. Keep on keepin' on, despite the morons.
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News by the Foot

2008-08-08T09:04:00.022-06:00

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Hi everybody,

I'm interrupting my usual steady stream of posts with a painful, festering story fresh out of the creepy Pacific Northwest. This will not only help quench your thirst for tidbits in the "Twin Peaks" motif, but should also allow Yours Truly to hone my mad topical commentary skillz in the Lamby posting style.

The practice can only help in my quest to serve as guest news commentator on MSNBC's Morning Joe, and get me "restraining order" close to Mika Brzezinski, with whom I may or may not be infatuated. Enjoy.

***

Human foot in shoe washes up on Washington beach
Officials examine whether find is linked to others found on Canadian coast

updated 7:55 a.m. MT, Tues., Aug. 5, 2008

PORT ANGELES, Wash. - An athletic shoe containing a human foot was found on a Washington state beach, and authorities are investigating whether it may be linked to a series of human feet found in shoes along the coast of British Columbia.

It could be just a coincidence.

Undersheriff Ron Peregrin said Monday that the King County medical examiner determined the foot was human and detached from its body naturally after floating in the water.

I mentioned to Undersheriff Peregrin how I can attest to that. My appendages come loose all the time while swimming. Sometimes things from inside are also involuntarily expelled. I asked if he could use his clout to convince the people at the Water Park to give me another chance. I then inquired why he was Undersheriff, since he was apparently "almost" named after the majestic, soaring falcon; to which he replied that Sheriff Paul Eagle was in charge.

Peregrin said the foot will be sent for a forensic investigation, including DNA testing to see if it matches feet found washed ashore in British Columbia. Results are expected to take six to eight weeks.

In a closely related development, I'm currently working with both David Lynch and the Disney people on an updated version of "Snow White". In this installment, she plays a Forensic Detective who finds love while matching up feet. In the final, dramatic scene, the man she loves (who is also a Forensic Detective, but doesn't know that she is too) bursts through the door holding the other, matching foot (to the chagrin of her evil step-sisters, who both possess obviously unrelated feet in crappy Walmart bargain-bin shoes) in the same high-end Nike.

Authorities said a woman told the Clallam County sheriff's office on Saturday that she found the black, high-top shoe along the beach on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, about 30 miles west of Port Angeles.

The woman stated that as she was getting ready to depart the beach, she arose from a prone position to put her Crocs on. It was then that she noticed the foot and black high-top right next to her own footwear.

Five athletic shoes containing human feet have been found along the Strait of Georgia between Vancouver Island and the British Columbia mainland since August 2007. The Strait of Juan de Fuca separates the Canadian island and Washington's Olympic Peninsula.

According to detectives, this appears to indicate that anywhere from 2.5 to 5 people may have been affected. A further analysis of the sizes and specific models of shoes should help determine the actual number of people involved.

A sixth foot found in June in British Columbia was determined to be an animal paw that had been shoved inside a shoe as a hoax. "We're a little apprehensive since the last one was a hoax," said Detective Sgt. Lyman Moores.

I mentioned to Detective Moores that the word "hoax" had already been used in the previous sentence. Appearing to be irate, he curtly responded that I frequently reuse the same tired words and phrases in my posts. To which I replied that my blog is not part of the investigation, but thank you for being a regular reader. Then I asked if this could be deemed a "cruel" hoax, and if anyone was "apprehensive" prior to the discovery of the animal paw. At that point he requested that I move on to my next interview.

DNA testing linked one of the Canadian feet to a depressed man who went missing a year ago. Investigators have also concluded that two of the five feet belonged to one man and that one foot was from a woman.

Amazed at this new development, I approached Detective Moores once again, inquiring if indeed it was true that DNA testing can now determine nationality and a person's state of mind. I also ran my own theory by him that the man and woman could have been engaged in an "old movie" kissing embrace when the feet were severed. The woman's other foot would have been up in the air, explaining the absence of her second foot. At this point I was handcuffed and led to a patrol car.

British Columbia coroner Jeff Dolan has said there was no evidence the feet were severed. Experts say that when a human body is submerged in the ocean, the arms, legs, hands, feet and head usually come off the body.

I mentioned to Coroner Dolan that this is probably why mobsters prefer to use oil drums when disposing of bodies (so that everything stays close together). He suggested that I run this by Detective Moores.

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How to be Happy

2008-07-28T17:12:00.004-06:00

Hi everybody,

Lately I can't help but wonder if its been "too much about me", regarding the subject nature of recent posts. Sure, it IS my blog and - as the immortal Bobby Brown so eloquently put it - "my prerogative" to post as I please. And we are all guilty to some extent of seeking gratification in its various forms wherever we can, whether it's through our blogging or by cruising the seedy areas of town (and then blogging about it).

But sometimes I feel the need to "give back" to the community, and I don't always have the luxury of drinking until that uncomfortable feeling goes away. Now don't take me literally. I certainly don't mean "giving back" in the form of returning all of the crap I've stolen oven the years. Thanks to the reach of eBay, those items could be anywhere by now.

However I CAN adopt a minimalist approach to this affliction by - at least - posting just once in a way that reaches out to others without the usual inappropriate groping.

So here goes.

I noticed that - while "needy" in some way or another* (* which I am NOT disparaging, since if you folks WERE well-adjusted ... there goes my audience) - the majority of you appear to be fairly happy. Sure there are a few who wish their life could be better, or existent, but - to give the benefit of the doubt - that seems to be the exception rather than the rule.

But for each of us, there is a time when perhaps we should take inventory (as my neighbors have learned to do with their possessions), in the form of calm, lucid moments of self-reflection (clothed or otherwise). Are we truly as happy as we can be? Do we set ourselves up for happiness through our thought processes and actions? If not, how can we improve in this area?

Well, here are some tips for doing just that.

1) Take a Pass on Perfection

Trust me. I know you people enough by now to confidently state that in all of your cases this is a futile effort. So let's lower the bar a tad, and simply have you strive to annoy others as little as possible. That may boost their happiness, which should make you happier. Remember that we are all part of the fabric of society. Don't be the itchy part of the fabric.

2) Find Your Balance

I know this may be a foreign concept, so stay with me on this one. While walking upright does indeed require some degree of balance, "finding your center" is really what I'm talking about. It's being comfortable within your own skin, unlike the creepy Buffalo Bill character from that Jodie Foster movie* (* the name of which escapes me, it may have been "Nell", but I'm sure someone will remember the title in the comments). Perhaps for some of you, it's realizing that holding this Pug captive in your cellar as a sex slave is merely a temporary solution at best.

Wait ...

With the possible exception of one or two of you, I just realized that I don't nearly have enough time or space to properly explain how to find your balance. So let's find your center. As homework, I want each of you to look through your local phone book for any type of center that will keep you off of the streets. Could be AA, the YMCA/YWCA, Gambler's Anonymous, Army Recruiter, or even the local Recreation Center. Anything to keep you busy and your mind occupied.

3) Don't Try to Buy Happiness

Especially late at night by the airport. They just might mistake you for the next Green River Killer. Trust me on this one. 'Nuff said.

4) Switch Gears

My personal preference is "Park". That's when the booze in the glove box, blanket in the trunk, and Air Supply CD in the stereo come to party. For the rest of you, at least try to get out of first gear.

5) Lose Yourself in the Moment

The key is to focus on the moment in the same manner that you do on your cell phone conversation. Pedestrians and fellow motorists, and their self-centered attempts to live and distract are completely blocked out, aren't they? Use this same technique to visualize the moment (whatever the hell that is) as the only thing that matters and therefore exists.

6) Develop an Attitude of Gratitude

You can start by thanking me for this advice. And then, assuming the acid reflux hasn't gripped completely, you may want to thank me for my friendship. Then gradually work to the point to where you can even appreciate stop-and-go traffic.

7) Share the Love

By this, I don't mean that you should participate in orgies. So get your minds out of the gutter. This means you, Lamby. No, I mean that we should be more loving of each other (at least initially) without our own self-gratification in mind. When is the last time you went up to a total stranger and hugged them for no reason? Probably the last time you were arrested. Well, haven't you waited long enough to try it again? Do what I do: ease into it by starting with attractive members of the opposite sex. Initially stay north of the equator. If the reaction is not positive, pretend that you thought she/he was someone you knew from church.

8) Help Yourself by Helping Others

How often have we seen one of our neighbors moving in or out? Have we even once stopped to offer our assistance? Why not? Well, stop asking questions and get involved! You just may make a new friend, or perhaps acquire a new stereo that you didn't have to budget for. This is known in my circle as "paying it forward".

9) Choose to Choose Less

Think you own your possessions? Quite the opposite, my friend. Your possessions own YOU. They keep you from being nimble in your life choices and your decision-making. Be like me, and learn to envy those who can make a home from a poorly guarded foreclosure, with nothing but a knapsack and some basic tools to rip out the copper plumbing.

10) Introduce Your Body to Your Mind

I try to do this at least twice a day. But this is a personal journey that I'd rather not share on a blog that does not require a paid subscription.

11) Be More Forgiving

You can start by forgiving me for this and the other posts of mine that you've been subjected to over the past few years. Later on we can continue to test your resolve in this area by having you lend me money.

12) Pick Out the Positives

Everyday, I see many of my fellow motorists "picking out the positives" from themselves when they think no one is looking. That isn't one-way glass, pal. But that isn't what I want to talk about here. I'm thinking more in terms of reflecting on aspects of yourself and your world that you can feel good about. You haven't killed anyone, right? Well that can be considered a positive, depending on where you live. See? It's that easy.

Anyway, I hope this "advice" has been helpful; and that in some small way it has you convinced that you are entitled to happiness, despite anything your fellow bloggers may say to the contrary. Live well, my friends, and go in peace. Or better yet, just go.

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Seduced by a Cougar

2008-07-12T13:02:00.006-06:00

When did we first connect? I wasn't sure. Nor was I confident in remembering the precise circumstances. We males are just wired that way, I suppose.

But once we did, I knew that my life would never be quite the same again. I was hooked. She exuded confidence and a sexuality that would come off as brazen and undignified in a younger woman. I found this refreshing.

And that body. The manner in which her slinky dress instinctively knew where to end and begin again; the way it tenderly caressed her curves while shimmering and shadowing in all the right places. It was only with great difficulty that I could avert my eyes at all.

I've never been fond of wildlife comparisons to describe these encounters. I've habitually chosen to avoid using terms such as "predator" and "prey". If something is meant to be, there should be no element of capture or conquest to it.

But for some strange reason, ever since first hearing the term "cougar" to describe an older, attractive and available female who is drawn to younger men, I have been enamored with it. This obviously contradicts my aforementioned stance; though this is not unusual for our species and as such I readily admit to and embrace this paradox.

Perhaps this is partly because of the image that a cougar evokes in my mind: sleek, bold, smooth, graceful. It is therefore a perfect representation of the sophisticated and sexy older woman.

I felt fortunate to be in a position to vie for her attention the very next time our paths intersected at that black tie affair. Maybe it was fate. Whatever the case, it became apparent soon enough that the feeling was somewhat mutual, as we deliberately gravitated toward each other while the presence of others dissipated into the ether.

Thus began the tango of mutual desire and motives uncertain. We embraced. We kissed.

Arriving at my place, our dance continued. Soft music, wine, candles, hushed tones speaking what need not be said. The flow of intertwined limbs writhing over silken sheets. All of a sudden, a glimpse out of the corner of my eye: a spilled glass of red wine, delicately weaving its way along the sheet in close parallel to my leg.

Then I remembered.

It was an actual cougar that had me in its tight grip. The wine wasn't wine at all. It was blood. This was an embrace of death, not ecstasy. Why oh why did I choose to hike alone, and at dusk, of all times?

And yet, I didn't fight it. Perhaps it was the delusional state I was in, most likely due to excessive blood loss. Or it could be that I was - in some twisted way - infatuated with my captor? After all, Stockholm Syndrome has been well-documented in many hostage situations. Was I not a hostage to this most elegant of hunters?

I would have made love to it with the last of my fleeting energy, if it had so wished. Alas, I could only take solace in knowing that our molecules would soon become virtually indistinguishable. I'd be but a passenger on the new journey that awaited me.

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No Country for Young Pugs

2008-07-03T13:27:00.011-06:00

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What did he do to deserve this? Evil was on his tail, and there was no shaking it. If he could only get to a safe place and be afforded enough time to think, he could get himself out of this jam.

But alas, life was never this easy for the Pug.

However he hadn't a clue as to what brought this on. Sure the Pug had found that satchel full of cash in the desert, along with abandoned pickups, corpses and dying Mexicans. But that was a routine occurrence here in the great southwest, and a source of income for many of the locals.

His pursuer was relentless, and not in the flattering, amorous way that he'd come to expect from his bloggers. The females in particular. Not only that, there were those odd quirks. What was the deal with that metal tank the man carried by his side? Why the bad hair, which was laughable even by Canadian and mall salon standards?

It was obvious to the Pug that he had to flee. And quickly. Sparing no time, he hastily packed his belongings and departed the trailer that he'd one day hoped to fix up and share with his beloved Lamby. Now the prospect of hearing her little hooves scrape across the linoleum every morning as she served him breakfast seemed more than ever out of reach.

Little did he know, that a hidden transponder would be tracking his every move from here on out.

Meanwhile, his pursuer continued to be one step behind. A cruel man, he would cooly respond too those who dared to poke fun at his haircut; offering them life or death, depending on the flip of a penny (what was the significance of using a penny?). Those fortunate enough to make the correct call were still provided with a bowl for use as a template as they were forced to cut their hair to match the pursuer's. Neil Young and Liza Minelli were just two of many who were subjected to this humiliation.

The metal tank was soon revealed to contain helium, which the pursuer would use in a particularly sardonic manner. For those who were slated to be killed, the pursuer would calmly and repeatedly insist on knowing the victim's favorite zoo animal. He would use the helium tank to fashion the animal out of balloons. Then he would pop the creation and shoot the victim. It was pointless, really. Much like this post.

Anyhoo.

The Pug zigzagged throughout the great southwest, hoping to throw the pursuer off of his trail long enough to make it to Leelee's shop, where he - like many others - could launder the money, and disappear into the Bermuda Triangle.

But the pursuer was relentless, chasing the Pug to the Mexican border, which was surprisingly easy to cross. Soon the fear of the pursuer temporarily gave way to the lure of Tijuana. The Pug was a huge fan of Herb Alpert and his horny sound, and hoped to encounter the legend in one of the town's few brothels, where Herb was known to give the girls trumpet lessons.

Unfortunately this did not come to pass, as our intrepid canine was immediately contacted upon checking into his hotel. The pursuer had a proposition: if the Pug gave himself up, the pursuer wouldn't harm any of his fellow bloggers. Not even the ones deemed expendable.

The Pug refused.

Sneaking back across the border into the U.S., which was surprisingly easy to do, the Pug made his way to El Paso, which was a pleasant 1-degree cooler. He checked himself into a cheap motel where he was flirted with by a sultry Jmeped, who was lounging by the pool in a topless bikini.

Distracted by the blonde vixen, the Pug's guard (but not his gourd) was down as he entered his room, and he failed to notice his pursuer sitting on the bed. The Pug knew the chase was at an end. Sitting down and resigning himself to his fate, the Pug asked the pursuer why he went to so much trouble over a trivial satchel of cash.

The pursuer explained how this was never about the cash. He hadn't been aware of it in the first place.

He then went on to explain how he had been in a long line at the gas station one rush hour morning, while the Pug was at the front, attempting to pay for his fill-up from a huge jar of pennies. Thirty minutes later, after the Pug had finally departed, everyone in that line - including a County Sheriff - chipped in for the pursuer to track down the Pug and exact justice in the form of a penny-laden enema.

The Pug knew that the region had always been violent. Perhaps he was vain in thinking that his impish personality could somehow make a difference. He now feared for his fellow bloggers, who could easily be tracked down via the Pug's sidebar and eliminated one by one.

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The Pug Pitch

2008-06-14T11:35:00.000-06:00

Hi everybody,

As lamented in the previous post, it's apparent that I may need some help in boosting my popularity a wee bit. The cocktail party was a disaster, and I suspect it was partly due to not having a reputation that preceded me. I need some legal way to create a "buzz", so the ladies are more concerned with impressing yours truly than addressing their own selfish needs.

I think the answer is that I need a pitchman. So without further ado, I'd like to introduce someone who most of you may be slightly familiar with from various commercials for Oxiclean, Kaboom!, Power Putty, Orange Glo, Orange Clean, Hercules Hangars, and other products. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ... Billy Mays.

***

HI FOLKS! BILLY MAYS HERE FOR THE PUG! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN ON BAD DATES THAT YOU COULDN'T WAIT TO BE OVER? WELL NOW WITH THE PUG, DATES WITH DOLTS ARE A THING OF THE PAST! THE PUG COMES WITH A PATENTED "DUAL CYCLONIC" ACTION WHICH WORKS IN SEVERAL WAYS TO ENSURE THAT YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME! SCHLEPS WHO BREAK YOUR HEART AND YOUR BANK ACCOUNT NEED NOT APPLY ANYMORE, THANKS TO THE PUG!

HOW DOES THE PUG WORK? THE FIRST THING THE PUG DOES IS SHOW UP WITH YOUR FATHER'S FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE, WHICH THE TWO SHARE WHILE YOU ARE GETTING READY! THE BEVERAGE IS TREATED WITH A SPECIAL CONDITIONING AGENT WHICH PRODUCES EUPHORIA AND REMOVES ANY DISTRUST! THE PUG THEN USES HIS PORTABLE, COMPACT ANYTIME DIMMER TO SET THE LIGHTING IN ORDER TO SLOW DANCE WITH YOUR MOM! MOM WILL WANT ONE TOO!

THE PUG WHISKS YOU AWAY IN HIS PATENT-PENDING PUGMOBILE WITH SPECIAL HEATED, VIBRATING PASSENGER SEAT WHICH USES SPACE AGE TECHNOLOGY TO SAFELY HOLD MORE THAN 300 POUNDS!

AND HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU HAD TO AWKWARDLY FUMBLE FOR YOUR PURSE DURING DINNER FOR YOUR CREDIT CARD TO PAY THE BILL? WITH THE PUG, YOU CAN RELAX AND ENJOY THAT HUGE PLATE OF PASTA! THE PUG COMES WITH A COMPLETE SET OF OTHER PEOPLES' CREDIT CARDS WHICH HE WILL USE TO WINE AND DINE UNTIL YOU ARE BURSTING AT THE SEAMS!

THEN IT IS OFF TO THE KARAOKE BAR, WHERE THE PUG WILL DEDICATE EVERY TUNE TO YOU, LOOKING INTO YOUR EYES AS HE CROONS AND INSERTS YOUR NAME INTO THE SONG! THERE WILL BE NO DOUBT TO ALL OF THE LOSERS PRESENT, ESPECIALLY THE ONES YOU HAVE FORMERLY DATED, THAT YOU ARE THE PUG'S SPECIAL GAL!

AND IF YOU WANT TO TAKE THE DATE TO THE NEXT LEVEL, THE PUG COMES WITH A FULLY-REFUNDABLE INTIMACY GUARANTEE! IF YOU ARE NOT COMPLETELY SATISFIED, SIMPLY RETURN THE UNUSED PORTION FOR YOUR MONEY BACK!

PLUS AS OUR GIFT TO YOU, WE'LL ALSO THROW IN AN ENGRAVED SET OF THE PUG'S FAVORITE BLOG POSTS, ALONG WITH A LIFETIME CHAMOIS TO KEEP THEM POLISHED!

ACT TODAY SO THAT YOU DON'T MISS OUT! WITH AN OFFER LIKE THIS, THE PUG IS SURE TO GO FAST!

Unfinished Pug

2008-06-08T12:15:00.003-06:00

Hi everybody,

Per my last post, you are all aware of my recent infatuation with the Vonage lady. It is with a tinge of regret that this promising relationship has cooled a bit due to several factors:

1) Corn Dog advised me that she is wearing a wig, and as such that is NOT her natural hair. This would make her look just like everyone else;

2) She has yet to acknowledge any of my correspondence or return any of my calls;

3) I worry that, being a nobody, she doesn't consider me to be in her league.

So what is a bright and gifted young canine to do? I suppose I could lower my standards and mingle among the hoi polloi. Oh, please don't take offense! I'm certainly not thinking of any of you fine folks! Most of you live too far away (thank God ... oops, I mean, "darn").

But why should I give up on my dream of rubbing, um, elbows with celebrities? How did THEY become so polished and popular?

It's obvious that I need to do something to get there, as last night's cocktail party would suggest. Normally I wouldn't share the sordid and embarrassing details with anyone, but over the past couple of years I have come to know you - my fellow bloggers - as compassionate and supportive individuals who would never take delight in my misfortune. So here are some of the faux pax that I have yet to completely obliterate from memory via repeated immersion in alcohol:

Mistake #1: Bad fashion and entrance advice. "He walked into the party, like he was walking onto a yacht." This might be "hip" imagery for an early '70's Carly Simon tune, but in retrospect I should've realized that I would look like a total dork. So much for swaggering into the room, wearing Sperry topsiders with no socks, white canvas pants, navy blazer over horizontally-striped t-shirt, and Skipper's cap. And a pipe. Let's just say I didn't get nearly the reaction I'd anticipated.

Mistake #2: Poor powers of observation.
Me: Have you tried the hors'd oeuvres?
She: Yes. They are on this half-finished plate I am holding.
Me: Oh.
She: Well, it's getting late ... for this conversation. (walks away)

Mistake #3: Not having a compelling enough bio.
Me: So what do you do?
She: I just did a spread for Maxim, and my interpretive sculpture exhibit is just about to open at the Guggenheim. And you?
Me: I'm a research consultant for the Nielsen people. I help determine television programming trends.
She: I have to go ... over there.

Mistake #4: Uninteresting / creepy / off topic conversation material.
She: ... and so, there are many intricate layers of complexity to even the most apparently basic forms of abstract art.
Me: I purposely won't listen to The Beatles for long periods of time, because I don't want to take them for granted.
She: I have to go purge now. This little chat of ours should expedite the process.

The evening just became increasingly crueler from there.

So what to do? How can I achieve my goals, and snare the lady of my dreams, all with minimal investment on my part? I suppose the logical approach is to identify (and identify with) celebrities who also lack "traditional" attributes for attaining star power, such as:

1) personality;
2) talent;
3) good looks;
4) charm.

We all know who we would include on our list, and I'm sure many of our choices would coincide. I was going to name a few, but knowing my luck, I would end up bumping into some of them at the liquor store.

Anyway, thanks especially to the insightful advice of my dearest Pinks on how to process these things, I think I know what I need to do. That will be revealed in the followup to this post, which you can expect to see within the next 7-days. I would've included it here, but again, we DO have a few whiners in the crowd who piss and moan about long posts (and - alas - long comments as well).

So ciao for now, mon amis.

.

Bad Time

2008-05-26T15:30:00.016-06:00

Hi everybody,

I have a few new posts that continue to "ferment" as they slowly increase their levels of toxicity. But I know some - if not all - of you are already way past the point of permanent water-logging from long-term exposure to my last entry. So allow me to carefully towel you off and do my best to smooth out the wrinkles (at least the ones caused by the aforementioned water-logging), as I humbly bare my soul to you.

You see, I have found myself strangely infatuated with the Vonage lady. Sorry I don't have any pictures* to share, as apparently she is very camera shy (* UPDATE: I would like to give a shout out to /t. for providing not only the photo that you now see below, but also a link to the song - in his 1st comment - that accompanies this post.).

"Fortunately" if you live anywhere in the United States, all you have to do is turn on any TV channel and she will soon appear in her distinctive orange blouse and Prince Valiant hairstyle. Her mission is to save me from the phone company, and - who knows? - perhaps from my own demons as well.

What can I say? I know I will be subjected to even more abuse than usual for this admission, but to thine own self I must be true. I like funky women! There, I said it. And she is the whole package: the eye gestures, occasional smirk, hip checks ... and of course the savings!

All I know is that I am hooked, and if she'll have me, I'll gladly be hers for no more than $25 per month. I may be loaded with "baggage", but I like to think I am also loaded with features as well. I can only promise that I will do my best to honor my commitment for the entire 12-month period, and not seek to compare our love with more traditional, conventionally tariffed forms. In the bedroom, I shall seek to avoid repeatedly asking "how much do you charge?", since I want our relationship to be constructed around value and not price.

And heaven forbid, if comes the time when she's got my number and finds that she wants to bump me from the picture, I will understand and savor each and every rounded up and rollover minute that we spent together. I will simply move on with quiet dignity to another provider.

Well, I suppose I could go on, perhaps citing testimonials from other customers of hers from all walks of life and degrees of attractiveness. But I caught some flak from those of you ADHD / Type-A "personalities" who complained about having to read too much of my last post. And so I will simply end this humble little confession straight from the heart with a few appropriate lyrics. Enjoy.

Bad Time by Grand Funk Railroad

I'm in love with the girl that I'm talking about,
I'm in love with the girl I can't live without.
I'm in love but I sure picked a bad time ...
To be in love, to be in love.

Well, let her be somebody else's queen,
I don't want to know about it.
There's too many others that know what I mean,
And, that's why I got to live without it.

I'm in love with the girl I'm talking about,
I'm in love with the girl I can't live without.
I'm in love but I feel like I'm wearin' it out,
I'm in love but I must have picked a bad time ...
To be in love, a bad time to be in love,
A bad time to be in love, A bad time to be in love.

All the stories coming back to me,
From my friends and the people that I don't want to see.
The things you say I know just couldn't be true,
At least not until I hear them from you.

'Cause I still love the little girl I'm talking about,
I'm in love with the girl I can't live without.
I'm in love but I feel like I'm wearin' it out,
I'm in love but I must have picked a bad time ...
To be in love, a bad time to be in love,
A bad time to be in love, a bad time to be in love.

You know that I love the little girl I'm talking about,
I'm in love with the girl I can't live without.
I'm in love but I feel like I'm wearin' it out,
I'm in love but I must have picked a bad time ...
To be in love, a bad time to be in love,
A bad time to be in love, a bad time to be in love.

.

At Least One Heart Will Go On

2008-05-07T21:00:00.004-06:00

The Pug had become quite adept at using his superior intellect and charms to survive in a world where nothing was given, just begrudgingly earned. And it was no different once he set his gaze on the lofty goal of a new life across the sea in America, where God willing he could perhaps form a crime family and get free produce whenever he wanted from street vendors. That way he could hopefully forget the woman who broke his heart and dumped him for Morissey.

And so The Pug soon made his way to the shore, until he was standing on the dock at Southhampton. It was there that he had the good fortune of bumping into a hippy stoner and his Asian girlfriend, who were trying to get to Holland or France. He quickly ingratiated himself to the unusual couple by complimenting the lady on her highly distinctive singing style, and how it curdled milk.

Possessing their confidence, The Pug was able to get the couple drunk and convince them that he knew the Dali Llama (who was in town for a Zen Blogging Convention), and could arrange for them to be wed by the holy man. Uncertain of how much the ceremonial fee would be, he talked the couple into handing over all of their cash to ensure coverage. He told them to retire to bed and stay there until he returned. Which they did.

The Pug of course used the cash to purchase a one-way steerage-class fare on that morning's White Star Line departure. Soon the couple discovered the cruel ruse, and severely distraught, remained in bed for quite some time. The hippy stoner wryly vowed from that day forward to catch any future supposed admiring loners before they could inflict damage, unless they appeared nerdy and harmless.

But it was too late to stop The Pug. He was on his way to the verdant valleys and smooth peaks in the land of milk and honeys.

The only damper was that steerage left a lot to be desired. It seemed the ship designers neglected to fully extend the bulkheads that separated first and second-class passenger solid waste containment from third-class sleeping compartments. The majority of the Irish didn't seem to mind, but The Pug had acquired a more defined sense of taste, no doubt from his dalliances with London gals. Repulsed by both the stench and the steady menu of potato-based entrees in steerage, he set about moving on up, a la The Jeffersons.

Seeing her for the first time, gazing out onto the water from her promontory high above, both ethereal and stunning as she emptied trash onto the squalid third-class deck and the ocean itself, only increased the urgency of the task at hand. Was it that the sun illuminated her heaving bossum as she proceeded to text persons unknown that so struck his fancy? Or perhaps the impish and delicate manner in which she flipped him the bird as their gazes briefly intertwined? Hell if I know.

It was shortly thereafter that Lady Luck again pitied him in the form of a rare, drunken attorney whose first-class ticket he was able to pick-pocket in the stairwell. Mission accomplished. (Wish there was a huge banner over the bridge to proclaim it, thought The Pug.)

And as it turned out, not only was this good fortune for our intrepid hero, but also for the attorney. Banished to steerage, the now nearly sober defender of justice quickly lined up a number of cases from the all-too-court-familiar Irish. The public intoxication and domestic violence charges alone would keep him busy for the next five years. And of course the first-class passengers were grateful to have one less lawyer at their dinner tables, taking unacceptable percentages of buffet-style meal items and trying to talk their women into accepting depositions beyond the filing window.

The Pug wasted no time exploring the many wonders of first-class. He marveled how they even had a deck just for pooping! Maybe the rich didn't just THINK they were happy. They WERE happy! Good for them. He had just finished his contribution to the aptly named Poop Deck, when he spotted her again. Disheveled, she was standing on top of the rail in her "Lose Yourself in Aruba" t-shirt. Half-consumed jello-shot in one hand, ever-present cellphone in the other, she appeared distraught and suicidal.

The Pug raced to the rail and firmly grasped her around the upper torso. Dislodged, both the jello shot and cellphone embarked on their long journey to Davy Jones's locker, where at least one of the items belonged in the first place. But the ocean would have to look elsewhere tonight in order to quench its insatiable appetite for tourists.

As it turned out, the femme fatale had no intention of jumping. However, as she was cute, he had to error on the side of chivalry and save her regardless.

After the lady was able to recompose and extricate herself from The Pug's firm grip, she realized - even though he was scum - he did have his heart in the right place. And he also appeared to have everything else in the right place, and in the right quantities.

The Pug told her he was an artist, which was all she needed to shed her clothing and demand that he sketch her then and there. To the dismay of some and the amusement of others, they were standing in the middle of a shuffle-puck game at the time. It was soon revealed that the only consistently identifiable image he could draw was that of Snoopy, only in this case Snoopy had tits and a pearl necklace. But she took it well.

Surrendering to their passion, they were soon making love like spider monkeys in heat. There wasn't a vehicle in the cargo hold that they didn't introduce to the soon-to-be "Mile Below Club", nor was there a station in the fitness center left that - in clear violation of the posted placard - didn't still need toweling off after use.

As dusk approached, The Pug took his lady to the stern deck, revealing the lone pair of binoculars that he secretly purloined from the lookout's station. He showed her how to look through them out into the vast expanse of ocean. Then in one smooth motion he embraced her as he casually tossed the binoculars over the side.

Shame, as that very same optical aid was, at that very same moment, being frantically searched for by the lookout.

The loving couple then made their way to the radio room. The Pug was keen on new technology, and wanted to share that passion with his lady. Fortunately the radio operator was at dinner and had not secured the door, so our intrepid hero sat down and familiarized himself with the Marconi apparatus. It worked just like a telegraph, where one pecks out a series of dots and dashes to transmit. Conversely, he could hear received transmissions from other ships through his headphones. One was clearly a greeting from a neighboring ship, the Californian. Mischeviously, Pug tapped out the response: F-*-C-K-O-F-F. Offended, the other operator replied: S-C-R-E-W-Y-O-U-I-D-O-N-T-N-E-E-D-T-H-I-S-C-R-A-P, and logged off for the night.

Bursting into laughter, The Pug and his lady emerged from the room, and sought out more places to defile. It wasn't long before even more ominous grinding joined in unison with their own, as the ship scraped an iceberg that - for some reason - could not be spotted in enough time to take corrective action.

The ship was doomed. To compound the panic, for some reason no one from the Californian would respond to the radio operator's frantic pleas for assistance.

As the ship settled deeper into the water, The Pug and his lady completed their lustful fornication, and sought rescue on the decks above. Knowing that Molly Brown - enormous as she was - could still only occupy one side of the ship, he donned some of Molly's spare clothing in order to board a lifeboat on the opposite side. Perhaps for levity more than any practical reason, he admonished his lady to dress as Charlie Brown, complete with damaged kite trailing behind to complete the look and increase the pity factor.

Unfortunately here is where The Pug's luck finally ran out. He was immediately recognized as too gorgeous to be the actual Molly Brown, and was denied access. Ditto for Charlie Brown, as it wouldn't be fitting for that character to catch a break.

And so the couple calmly awaited their fate on the stern, jumping into the water just moments before the ship slipped into the abyss. The Pug found a piece of wreckage onto which he could hoist himself. Realizing that two people could not fit, he had no choice but to keep his lady at arms length away. It was then that he realized his lifelong penchant for maintaining distance from his women was actually a form of preparation for this fateful night.

Incalculable time passed as The Pug faded in and out of consciousness. He slowly and painfully glanced over to realize that, though now deceased, his lady still had managed to sneak ahold of the makeshift raft. Tenderly caressing her hand and releasing her grip, he gazed into her lifeless eyes one last time as she lightly descended into oblivion. Only then did he realize that his wallet was in her other hand. He could only hope and dream that someday technology would afford him the opportunity to retrieve it.

Just then he heard subtle splashing and turned to see Wilson. No longer was he alone.

.

Draft Pug on Tap

2008-04-28T19:30:00.001-06:00

Hi everybody,

Sorry for the delay, but Yours Truly was on a secret assignment - which only now can be declassified, as the mission is now complete.

No, it wasn't a covert op* (* operation) to Iraq. That was aborted, due to my turban being detected as a towel from Holiday Inn (damn you, corporate branding and defense budget cuts! damn you to hell!).

So instead I served as "Commander-in-Chief" of my own "fantasy" football team.

It was a chilly weekend on the frozen tundra of Lambo field ... wait, actually it was Ed's Sports Bar, and besides, Lamby hates that nickname. Anyway, it was just the boys, as much to our surprise and chagrin there were few obvious females present. Maybe it was all for the best. A drinking establishment is no place for a woman. Still there remains almost three quarters* (* note the football tie-in) of action remaining in that new bottle of Old Spice, so there will be other opportunities to score.

Before I begin, allow me to bring those of you who may be somewhat unfamiliar* (* ladies, Canadians, folks from Detroit) with football, up to speed. In the interest of brevity, I will only seek to explain principles of the draft itself (as those are the only principles I feel comfortable with).

The NFL Draft is an annual event that occurs every April. It consists of 7-rounds, where each team, in order from worst (by record) to best (Superbowl champ) within each round, selects an eligible college player. Once chosen, that team owns the rights to a player (similar in concept to the first blogger kidnapping Yours Truly and possessing exclusive conjugal privileges). The players have no say over which team picks them. It could be the New England Patriots (Pinks), or the Detroit Lions (Crash Test Comic). That is part of the fun and intrigue.

Packaged in with the draft is this unusual and shadowy fellow by name of Mel Kiper Jr., who - not unlike the groundhog - appears above ground once once per year to prognosticate. Here is where I would poke fun at Mel's distinctive hairstyle and flamboyant manner, but I prefer to not wind up in an oil drum or landfill somewhere. This young don suspects Mel doesn't innocently hang-out at the Elks Lodge with his approximately 51-weeks of free time. Unless of course there are Teamsters present.

And I certainly don't want to wind up like this guy (below), with Jack Nicholson camping it up on the big screen as The Pug. Who needs that? Still, I have been discretely informed that Yours Truly(!) will have the inside track for next year's draft if I show up at the Machus Red Fox Restaurant in Bloomfield Township, Michigan, early. And alone. I can't wait!

So now that I have briefed you* (* this time only / from here on out, your panties come OFF during our more common "de-briefing" sessions) with the pre-draft analysis, let's recap how I did:

Round 1: Worried that the Detroit Lions would once again this year snap up all of the good Wide Receivers, I had to strike quickly. In a nod to the immortal Billy "White Shoes" Johnson, I used my first pick on Billy "White Sheets" Johnson. To the casual observer, these two are "night and day" different. "Shoes" is an African-American Houston Oiler from the 1970's; known for his trademark white shoes, flashy persona and blazing speed. "Sheets" white-shirted for the Klansman of the Mississippi Valley conclave, has a knack for finding the seams in coverage, and runs a blazingly crisp cross(ing) pattern. No one is faster at eluding black defensive players as if his very life depended on it; the sheet serves to conceal the sudden zags after zigs, and is there anything more aerodynamic than a pointy hat? Meet the "White Missile*" (* not to be confused with my own "Mr. Happy").

Round 2: Attempted to stay closer to team "needs" with this pick. Deficiencies in several key areas required immediate attention: 1) low percentage of illegitimate children in the red zone; 2) outmuscled by opponents in tittie bar fights; 3) inadequate completion ratio at Playstation; and, 4) uneventful drives. Unfortunately no prospects appeared to meet any of these criteria. So I selected Maurice Clarett as a rehabilitation project instead out of the supplemental (penal) "system".

Round 3: Decided to think "outside of the box" with this pick, trading up to select a NON-promiscuous cheerleader. I'll take the heat for going with "less experience" at a skill position, but hey, that's what practice is for. And it never hurts to have a Tight End who can block against opposing penetration.

Round 4: At this point, it seemed wise to go with the "best athlete available". Which is why I didn't. Instead, I decided to "fill another gap" with this pick. No, I did not choose another cheerleader. There will always be Free Agents for those positions still available up until "last call". Instead, I wanted someone with flair, in order to run the audio in our stadium.

It takes a rare bath-house, er, club-house leader to effectively convert androgynous glam-rock into testosterone-laden anthem as an essential addition to the sporting homophobe's playbook. And per my scouts, there was one clear choice in this area: an aural thoroughbred who seemed to effortlessly hit on exotically eclectic cylinders through "We Will Rock You", "We Are The Champions", and "Rock and Roll, Part 2" twenty-a-day drills. Since Freddy Mercury is no longer on the board, my choice is Gary Glitter and his right-angle penis (see photo below).

Stay tuned for the follow-through on Pug's Picks 5 through 7 !

.

I ALSO Have a Dream

2008-04-06T10:00:00.002-06:00

( This weekend, many of us mourned the passing of the late, great, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., 40-years previous, on April 4th, 1968. Below is my twisted homage to MLK and a liberal retooling of one of the greatest speeches of all time. Forgive me. )

Thank you everyone for attending today. I am happy to join with you in what will go down in history as perhaps one of the top 200 posts that The Pug has ever crafted.

Five scores ago, a great American known simply as "The Pug", in whose furry and hunched shadow you now stand, ended a long night of captivity and emerged from Lamby's crawlspace to start a blog.

But many posts later, The Pug still is not free. You see, the manacles of earning a paycheck and the chains of ever increasing expectation continue to harsh his buzz. So I stand here before you, rear leg lifted in outrage, to once again remind you of a shameful condition.

It is obvious that America has defaulted on a promissory note where blogging was supposed to make this particular canine rich and famous beyond even his wildest imaginings. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given him a bad check (endorsed and post-dated by none other than Leelee), a check which has come back marked "Store Credit Only." The folly of not using PayPal has now become self-evident, as not all schemes were created equal.

Now is the time to lift the skirt of Lady Justice in my search for both vengeance and a path to the promised land.

The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges from beneath the G-String of patchy oppression.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand in the warm, urine-imbued shallow end of "Why Oh Why Must It Be This Way?", wondering why it must be this way.

We must forever conduct our struggle against the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow creativity to bitterly and covertly infiltrate our postings and our comments.

As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead because it is extremely awkward to march in any other fashion. We cannot turn back until it becomes time to depart. We cannot be satisfied as long as a single female blogger or Women Seeking Men poster on Craigs List remains unsatisfied.

I am not unmindful that some of you depart my blog with greater trials and tribulations than previous. I suspect that some of you may have come fresh from incarceration. You have been the veterans of creative suffering, and as such are naturally drawn to my musings. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. This is one of a type that is not all wet. Nor does it this time involve any of my female bloggers in revealing or compromising poses.

I have a dream that Lamby one day will not be judged by the color of her rope-skipping lambs, but by the content of her blog.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that Party Girl will forgo her partying ways to - a la Shania Twain - have a "Party for Two" with Yours Truly.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that instead of Enronesque "massaging the numbers", Pud massages my numbers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that somehow Cathy is related to the Onassis family, and is due to inherit an island upon which we can roam sans-clothing and consummate our passion for each other on a pre-arranged, annual basis a la Jackie and Aristotle.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day, Limpy will get laid in all states, both geographically and perhaps in a few altered ones as well.

I have a dream.

I have a dream where Sassy Blondie and I continuously switch roles as teacher and student, and extra credit is a given.

I have a dream.

I have a dream that Pinks and I stay at a motel where - for safety - we spend the entire time in the room with the curtains drawn.

I have a dream.

I have a dream where Serena's answers to one of her posted quizzes proclaim that The Pug is her ideal match.

I have a dream.

I have a dream where She forgoes her art to tattoo her own body with images of The Pug, which she then posts on her blog.

I have a dream.

( Oops, was that the Alarm Clock? Already? On a Sunday? WTF? Okay, I'll have more dreams in the ensuing comments. )

This is my hope. And when all of this happens, especially when The Pug is FINALLY able to realize the substantial return from his blogging that he deserves, we can then shout from the pierced, jewelry-capped mountains, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

.

Aces High

2008-03-23T08:30:00.004-06:00

“If she had nothing more than her voice she could break your heart with it. But she has that beautiful body and the timeless loveliness of her face. It makes no difference how she breaks your heart if she is there to mend it.”

Ernest Hemingway

***

Times were once much simpler. He could still vividly recall days gone by, where the only cunning adversary was the elusive bear. It hadn't been a scant few years prior, but it now seemed like a distant dream. Would he ever be able to return to his carefree life of drunken and poorly executed hunting forays into his beloved Bavarian Alps?

Not long before, it was obvious who was the hunter and who was the hunted. Now those roles were no longer clearly defined nor firmly in place.

How did this happen? When did youthful innocence surrender to sinister ambiguity? Was it the night he met her?

And what of this war which seemed to defy all rational thought? Was it mere coincidence that both events rapidly descended on him almost simultaneously? It was madness.

Perhaps the conflict and his femme fatale were inextricably joined either at the hip, or at least in the near vicinity. One certainly fueled the need for the other, and vice versa. The two dovetailed seamlessly together. Usually on Friday nights.

He knew for instance that the synchronized gear in his machine gun allowed him to precisely aim at his chosen target between the blades of the propeller; and this concept served him equally well when the two lovers were alone in her boudware.

He also realized that the element of surprise and in safely drawing a bead from above likewise served to his advantage; as did quietly slipping back across enemy lines after the engagement.

Was it sheer destiny that she should be there that night at the end of the bar? Normally, respectable women avoided the place altogether. And was it in the cards for him to be wearing his "My plane may be "bi", but I'm a straight-shooter" t-shirt, which prompted the opening staccato burst of conversation?

Whatever the case, the game was on. And over the next few tumultuous years, there would be rapid advances and retreats, measures and counter-measures, with the eventual outcome always in doubt and yet also predetermined.

Why must it be this way, that this glorious and exciting new discovery of flight could not be repeatedly ravished and savored in its purest form, free from earthen shackles of indebtedness and duty? Is it not possible to take delight in the plumage of the bird and the freedom of choice it its flight, without succumbing to the urge to capture and place it in a gilded cage?

Inevitably there is always a cost to be extracted for any endeavor, and the aviator has paid dearly for this one. What had been a means to an end, now has become an end in itself. And though he is one of the fortunate few who have beaten the odds and emerged unscathed in the physical sense, he is but a shell of the hunter that he once was.

What little solace that remains, comes in the form of guns now silent, though the posturing and pontificating go on.

He is now much older and wiser. But alas, there is indeed a cliche-ridden sadness to his wisdom. He wants to believe that this truly was the "war to end all wars". And yet he has no way of knowing what looms ahead on the horizon.

***

"A man would prefer to come home to an unmade bed and a happy woman than to a neatly made bed and an angry woman."

Marlene Dietrich

***

"I'm a simple soul. If there's a bed AND a woman in the same room, that's good enough for me."

Pug Puerileuwaite

.

Lamb Tips: Don't Try Them at Home

2008-02-26T19:00:00.002-07:00

Hi everybody,

I am currently working on and off on a new adventure. However, I was just over at my (very) dear Lamby's place catching up on her posts; and I was inspired to leave the following feedback to a recent one where she provided insightful helpful tips incorporating common household items. I thought I would share my own results after playing "Guinea Pug". Enjoy.

PEPPER

Everyone knows Clorox's catchy ditty about keeping clothes bright, but all you need is pepper. Add a teaspoon of pepper to the wash before you add in your clothes and it will keep the colors from fading.

The only problem is that I now sneeze constantly.

WHITE VINEGAR

Deodorant stains can ruin a perfectly good shirt. Save your whites by spraying white vinegar (no need to mix with water) onto the underarm areas. Then you can wash per usual.

I don't like to waste anything, so I poured the vinegar THROUGH the pit areas onto the big salad I had prepared for my guests. They didn't seem to enjoy the salad as much as usual. But I DID get positive comments on the shirt.

SHORTENING

For a natural solution to diaper rash, try coating the area with a thin layer of shortening. It will act as a moisturizer.

I tried this with my nephew, but his butt was a tough squeeze into the Crisco can. I barely got him out before having to use the Crisco to cook for some Blogger guests. There HAS GOT to be an easier way.

POTATOES

Too much to drink last night and now you have puffy eyes? Apply a thin slice of cold potato to your eyes and leave on for five minutes. Then splash with cool water, put on your makeup (or just some moisturizer -- this means you, too, guys!) and head to work!

Oops. So THAT explains the "shrinkage" when I placed a potato in my Speedo to impress the gals at the beach.

ORANGES

Don't you hate it when you have to start a fire and little bits of newspaper are flying everywhere? Next time, air-dry orange peels, which contain flammable oils that burn longer, and use those instead of the paper. The delicious smell is a bonus.

The only complication when I tried this, is that my house caught on fire. Unfortunately a nearby orange grove went ablaze at the same time, so the firemen couldn't follow the scent to my home.

OLIVE OIL

Does it seem like nothing is working for your bad skin? Use 4 tablespoons of salt and 3 tablespoons of olive oil to create a paste. Leave it on your face for 2 minutes and rinse with warm water. Then wash your face as normal. Use every day for a week and then cut back to 3 days a week and you should notice an improvement.

All this did was make my pizza face more "authentic". Thanks a lot.

MUSTARD

It may make you smell like a hot dog, but rubbing a thin layer of mustard over your chest and covering with a hot towel can relieve a stuffy head and chest.

They kicked me out of the ballpark when I tried this. Maybe I should've discretely used mustard PACKETS, instead of the huge pump-bottle at the hot dog stand.

MILK

Oh no! You forgot to put the cap on your pen and now there is ink seeping into your shirt. No worries -- just grab some milk and soak the area. Depending on the type of ink, this process can take anywhere from 30 minutes to 24 hours. Patience is a virtue.

This was a fun one, actually. The key is to find a lactating woman who is approximately the same shirt size, and have her wear the shirt bra-less for a day or so.

LEMONS

Dandruff can be an embarrassing health problem, but the special shampoo often smells yucky. Try massaging 2 tablespoons of lemon juice into your scalp and rinsing with warm water. Follow with a leave-in rinse of 1 teaspoon lemonjuice in 1 cup of warm water. Use this daily until your scalp is healed.

No thanks. Isn't it bad enough that I look like the dude on the "Lemonheads" box? I have to SMELL like him too?

FLOUR

You have an ant problem but are worried about the poisonous ant traps around your pets. Just sprinkle flour wherever you see ants entering the house and along the pantry shelves, since they are most likely after your food.

This is another bad idea. Don't you remember what happened to the bad guys in "Billy Jack" who poured flour onto the Native Americans in the Ice Cream Shoppe? They got their butts kicked by Billy Jack! What if there is a "Billy Jack" ant? No thanks.

EGGS

No time to hit the salon before your big event? Get your hair super shiny and conditioned with eggs! Take two beaten egg yolks and massage into hair. Start at the scalp and work in small sections. Then gather all of the hair in a shower cap, wrap in a warm towel and wait 30 minutes (you could cook the kids' dinner). Rinse with cool water and shampoo as usual.

I heard a rumor that this is how Benedict Arnold became forever associated with eggs.

CASTOR OIL

While most of us associate castor oil with constipation or childbirth, did you know it can also help get rid of pesky moles in your yard? Just mix a 1/2 cup of castor oil with two gallons of water and pour the mixture down the mole(s) hole(s). Don't worry, the solution is animal friendly and they will likely relocate.

Great. Now they're under my house, they're pissed, and I'm out of Castor Oil. What now?

BUTTER

A jewelry box can help you organize, but sometimes those thin-chained necklaces just want to get tangled and you can't stop them! Rub some butter into the knot and lay on a flat surface. Then take a sewing needle to untangle. When finished just run under hot water to rinse off the butter.

I also use these same techniques to untangle human knots. In fact, I wouldn't even attempt to use the Kama Sutra without a stick of butter close by.

BANANAS

Before you throw your banana peel in the compost pile, remove any stringy pulp and use the peel as a buffer. This works with silverware as well as leather shoes and leather furniture. Just rub the peel over the object and buff with a soft cloth. Be sure to test a small section of your furniture first!

I tried banana peels on my shoes, and the last time I went to the zoo, every monkey in the place tried to hump them.

Thank you for trying, Lamby. That is one reason among many why I think you are wonderful! And yes, I mean it.

.

Lady

2008-02-13T20:00:00.001-07:00

Lady, when you're with me, I'm smiling
Give me all your love

Your hands build me up when I'm sinking
Touch me, and my troubles abate

Lady, from the moment I saw you
Standing all alone

You gave all the love that I needed
So shy, like a child who has grown

You're my lady of the morning
Love shines in your eyes

Sparkling, clear, and lovely
You're my lady

Lady, turn me on when I'm lonely
Show me all of your charms

Evenings, when you lay down beside me
Take me gently into your arms

You're my ...
Lady of the morning
Love shines in your eyes

Sparkling, clear, and lovely
You're my lady

Lady of the morning
Love shines in your eyes

Sparkling, clear, and lovely
You're my ... lady

Happy Valentine's Day. Be mine.

.

Where Have I Been? Off Feeling Super!

2008-02-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody,

It's been awhile, hasn't it? Jeez, where HAS the time gone? I suspect some of you have even given me up for dead, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Tell you what. Rather than try to come up with some lame-ass excuse for why my posting has decreased to a painful, diseased trickle, why not instead come up with an equally lame-ass post to make up for it?

I suppose I owe you an explanation for where I've been all this time since my last post. Okay, here goes: I caught Super Bowl Fever! And the only cure? (Besides MORE cowbell?) A trip to THE Super Bowl!

{{{{{{Pug Flashback}}}}}} It all started immediately after my last post. I started feeling melancholy, with a sense of loss that this most excellent of posts was no longer just in my head. It was now separate from me. Call it "Post-Part 'Em Depression" if you will. It's the same feeling I get after a date with (let's see ... who's turn is it for me to pick on ... ?) RevRee.

Anyhoo, I sensed that a change of scenery would be welcome, and though I hear London is both vibrant and tropical during this time of year, I was worried that the current exchange rate for this colonial roll of dimes in my front pocket might not adequately convert into royal "wanderlust". And so rebelliously, I decided to "live free" to pursue other "liberties".

I contemplated a trip to sunny Florida, where perhaps I could while away the hours on an adventurous picnic past the point of no return with my dear Lamby.

However, I realized that Lamby is slightly too chaste and wholesome for the likes of this Pug. And who am I to suffocate in all of that fluffy woolen virtue? No, perhaps it was time to embrace the animal within, and pay a visit to the local "cathouse".

Was I even half-way there, roll of impetuous dimes given way to nickels of passion, when I realized that this was a futile scramble from leash of reality? After all, had I not been banned from that place less than 6-months prior, for behavior so disgusting that decorum prevents me from disclosing it here?

Maybe, just maybe the answer - not unlike in a Menage a Trois - was somewhere in the middle. Perhaps exposure to professionals of a similar yet different pastime were what was called for. The Super Bowl was beckoning.

I don't know how old I was when I first developed a passion for the game. Ten? Eleven? I can't remember exactly, except that it was a lonely time, when all I had for companionship in that desolate attic were the countless stacks of National Geographics along with the occasional "Land O' Lakes" butter carton.

One crisp fall day, that Spartan existence changed. It was my very first football game. I didn't have a ticket, so I had to sneak in and find a vantage point under the bleachers from where I could voyeuristically participate in the action. It was magical. Tight end passes, getting the pigskin to receivers on a fly pattern, the occasional end-around play: it had it all! The proverbial icing on the cake was that the Cheerleaders' Section was directly above, which did anything but make yours truly want to split.

Needless to say, from that point on I was hooked on football. And hookers. Okay, just kidding about the hookers.

And so I was off. To Arizona. Never actually made it though, since as it turns out, at night it is "Bat Country".

In the end, I ended up watching the Giants upset the Patriots at home, in the sans-clothing comfort of my den. And now football season is over, and again I am feeling a sense of loss. Maybe I should get into volleyball.

.

My Lamb, My Muse

2008-01-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody,

For the "multitudes" who have been "clamoring" for a new post: hark and behold! And complain no further!

However I must be honest (for once): this is not one of the entries that have been slowly writing themselves in my noggin. Rather, it's the result of inspiration striking (or technically, being "on strike") in the form of Lamby's latest post, entitled "Politics". Enjoy, please.

***

Lamby: I'm glad to see Hilary Clinton is not winning the democratic nomination. The thing that really bugs me about politicians is that they tell you how bad their competition is. It's like they're saying I am not the right choice for what you are to decide BUT my competition is worse than I am. In other words, I'm not the right choice, but my competition is not any better. Is it any wonder why people don't vote?

Pug: You have a point, my dear Lamby. Sure, perhaps many, many other make a better point than you do. Perhaps some of them have much more luxurious wool to fleece, but maybe just for once this isn't about finding the best choice. Maybe just this once, it's about looking no further.

***

Lamby: I am a Republican by choice. I am against abortion, especially when its used for birth control. I don't want my tax dollars to go to killing unborn babies. Life starts at conception. Abortion is murder.

Pug: I agree with you on your position against abortion. In fact, I am favor of many, many positions that may possibly (if we're not careful) result in the birth of a child. Not only for the reasons that you stated, but also because OUR offspring would be terminally adorable! This is why I believe tax dollars should go toward the creation of OUR unborn babies, because let's face it: not only does life begin at conception: MY love life typically begins immediately before (and sadly, usually wanes right after).

***

Lamby: I'm also against gay rights. The Bible calls them sodomites. If you want to live that way, go ahead, but don't flaunt it in front of me. Marriage is between a man and a woman.

Pug: I also - to a lesser extent - agree with your anti-sodomite stance. Sodomite is a reprehensible pairing of calcium and magnesium, and I for one am OUTRAGED that those two minerals choose to crystalize their relationship. Probably in caves, and other areas which should not contain that sort of activity. However, I am not entirely sure that marriage between a man and a woman should be flaunted either, since impressionable youngsters may seek to emulate that behavior as well.

***

Lamby: Illegal Aliens GO HOME!!!! If you want to stay here, go through the process we have set up. You can stay here legally then. But if you decide to stay here, at least learn English.

Pug: I agree, which is why I have set up my own process for obtaining citizenship. The first step is securing their loyalty via a straightforward system of rewards and punishments. Then I start them on the road to learning a trade. Some show a natural propensity for gardening, while others are more suited to construction and remodeling. For the ladies, we have home economics and culinary internships. I also help a lucky few hone their skills in attracting and retaining a beau. As time permits, I tutor them in English, starting out with basic phrases such as: "No Police", "Have a Nice Day", and "Obey the Pug".

***

Lamby: There is at least one Republican that will or says he will secure our borders. So far, he has my vote. Let's see if he gets on the ballot for 2008.

Pug: I agree. What have immigrants ever done for this country? Not as much as Republicans. That's for darn sure.

***

Lamby: I just thought I'd share that with you so you know where I stand. I also get into these moods where I have to speak up and let the chips fall where they may.

Pug: As I drive erratically down that proverbial road of life, I can't help but think that you are somewhere up ahead. So it's important that I know where you stand. Perhaps that is you holding a bag of Lay's, carelessly allowing actual chips to fall where they may. Or maybe it IS just a metaphor. Either way, it's an image that puts ME in the mood, and you in my cross-hairs, if you catch my drift. And I think you just might.

***

Lamby: I'm not looking forward to this election in November. I dread the ads. What I also hate is when they say "This ad was paid for by... Now c'mon, we already know who paid for it by what you say. Stop treating us like morons! The idiots we put into office must think we're the idiots if we can't tell who paid for the ad. That has always bothered me.

Pug: What if YOURS TRULY has been secretly paying for those ads all this time, but remained anonymous because he didn't want to "cheapen" the gift by taking credit for it?

***

Anyway Lamby, I really liked your post; you continue to provoke me in many different ways. This time, you provoked me to think. Don't let it happen again!

.

Black Bart

2007-12-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

Howdy folks!

Pull up and rest a spell, as I introduce you to the baddest gunslinger these parts have seen in quite some time. Ladies and gents, meet Black Bart.

Chapter I: The Early Days

They say the storm came out of nowhere that January morning when Black Bart made his first appearance. Most folks had never before seen both snow and lightning all at the same time, except perhaps during one of Lamby's Wicca Rituals. There wasn't the instantaneous bonding between a mother and her child that you so often learn about from the Hallmark Channel, but Rosemary had remarkably flexible standards and did eventually adapt to her son after little time had passed. And he in turn took to her breasts as if he had already known of their usefulness from past lives, or perhaps from an innate awareness of the postings on Limpy's blog.

He brought into this world a head of hair as black as Sassy Blondie's heart, and it wasn't long before his body was covered as well (perhaps this was how he differed from Sassy, perhaps not). It was around this time that he acquired his nickname, though it had yet to strike fear in the hearts of both the evil and innocent the way it does today.

If judging by appearance alone, Black Bart was a handsome and appealing young lad, pure as an Altar Boy, and unfortunately for his innocence, just as deferential to authority figures. But there was always an uncertain uneasiness about him. You see, he had a knack for taking an innocent rite of rural adolescence, and twisting it into something perverse or sadistic.

He would earn pennies by shoveling the neighbors' steps and walkways, just for them to subsequently discover - at the most inopportune moments - that their outhouses had completely been filled in with the removed snow.

Oh sure, lots of youngsters would steal the occasional apple pie from the window ledge where it had been left to cool. But only Black Bart would leave the pie in place, carefully extracting only the filling and placing a rat trap under the undisturbed top crust.

Other times he would wear a cap that he turned slightly sideways, and head down to the train depot with his shoeshine kit. Looking like a hapless orphan, he would dupe travelers into 5-cent shines. Often they would tip him a few pennies more for the mirror-like gloss he would coax out of their footwear, only to realize that he had used a razor knife to score the leather so that it would separate from the soles after a half-dozen steps.

And did anyone ever again trust the rope swing by the watering hole after Black Bart was through stringing grids of barbed wire (stolen, of course) beneath the water just far enough to not be seen from above?

The Annual Barn Dance was always THE social event of the season to look forward to, that is, UNTIL Black Bart. What compelled him to lace the punch with laxatives and nail the restroom doors shut? And wasn't that enough to satisfy him? Was it really necessary to pile manure in front of every exit and stampede the horses through as well?

What inspired him to convince the chubby kid down the road that he should carve his own baseball bat out of that lightning-damaged hickory tree? Was it a rare case of encouragement and friendship? Perhaps we will never know, as the same bat - soon after its creation - was later found at the scene of a grisly crime, covered in blood. The chubby kid was quickly convicted and sent away to do hard time at Pelican Island, and hasn't been able to speak since.

Maybe this final "attempt gone awry" to "reach out" to the community and make a positive difference is what finally turned Black Bart onto the dark path of outlaw and gunslinger. Your guess is as good as mine. This will give you something to chew on until our next chapter. Until then, keep your weapons holstered, but keep on the lookout for that desperado known as Black Bart.

.

Presidential Trivia - XVI thru XX

2007-12-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody,

"At Last" is not just an Etta James tune, it's probably what some, okay ... none, of you are thinking upon spotting something new here on "Why oh why".

So what WOULD you say to a brand new, brilliantly crafted post? Who wouldn't say yes? Well, would you be willing to settle for the latest installment of Presidential Trivia? Good, I thought so. Okay, here goes.

16) Abraham Lincoln - Little is known of this President, as there are few - if any - books on the man. So all that remains are hearsay and barroom talk, passed down through the generations. In fact, learning about Mr. Lincoln from those wise old sages in taverns and watering holes is the main reason so many underage youths are infatuated with gaining entry to those establishments. To them, I say, wait your turn, Sunny Jim, the time will come when you can legally learn about our 16th* (* so my "fact-checkers" tell me) President.

Here's what I've been able to piece together. He was informally known as "Honest Abe", but apparently not so much for his honesty, than as a sarcastic moniker noting the lack of it. Turns out that some of you are probably more honest than this shyster. Except maybe for Corn Dog. The origin of this nickname appears to stem from Abe's days as a Horse and Buggy Trader, where he gained a reputation for emancipating folks from their cash, employing many of the shady practices that we still see today. Using a fishing pole with a dollar bill to lure dopes onto the lot? Abe was the first. Injecting sawdust to hide equine lower intestinal problems? You guessed it: he also pioneered that nefarious trick.

But strangely, both law practice and politics have a cleansing effect, along with a way of sweeping past bad deeds under the carpetbag, and as such, this is the path that Abe chose. Yet, the shenanigans did not stop altogether, as he continued to scam and ridicule. At the end of a Pro Bono case, he would get his client drunk, and attempt to collect; claiming that Pro Bono was Latin for "in favor of penises, not stiffing the attorney". If the client was an attractive woman, he was notorious for whipping out the "Lincoln Log" a la Clinton, thus inspiring the children's toy set. Also of note, the word "plaintiff" was allegedly coined by Abe as a derisive slap at the typical accuser, who was usually plain-looking at best, and seemingly always in a "tiff" with somebody.

In particular, his foray into law produced - as is always the case - a resulting over-amplification of his narcissistic personality, and he was known to bop down the street flashing in sign language both an "A" and an "L" to passersby. His famous statue in the Lincoln Memorial beautifully captures his hands "signing" in this manner. Unfortunately, variants of this gesture were adopted by carriage riders and street punks alike, a tradition that carries on to this very day (Lamby's middle-finger wave when changing lanes, to cite one example).

Lincoln's term as President was - per my sources - uneventful. He wasn't the worst President we've had, so I suppose by that low standard he did a good job keeping things together. Probably the only remarkable event was the manner of his death at the hand of a disgruntled former customer from the carriage dealership days, who shouted, "Sick Sonofabichin Tradein!" during the dirty deed, which apparently is Latin for "tired of being Bono'd".

17) Andrew Johnson - Was the first President to be impeached, probably because of a Time Traveller who reported to Congress that Johnsons make shitty Presidents. He was an ineffective leader, and the Southern Reconstruction debacle started under his watch. But how effective would you be, if all the time you were Lincoln's Vice-President, he introduced you to those present by loudly proclaiming, "Allow me to whip out my Johnson"? It got old real fast for everyone, but by that time the die had been cast; and everywhere he went, people would throw condoms at him.

18) Ulysses S. Grant - Was yet another military hero who became a mediocre President (and thank you SO much for paving that particular route, George Washington ... did anyone note the sarcasm? Well, aren't you all so damned observant). Unfortunately, my friends, Julian Lennon was no John Lennon; and Grant was no Washington. His administration was both negligent and corrupt. And there's a reason his name is so similar to "useless".

However, in his favor, the Secret Service WAS instituted during his Presidency, and as a fan of "The Wild Wild West" (the TV show, not the movie), this was a major coup. James West and his sidekick Artemus Gordon worked for the United States Secret Service, and it was their duty to keep the country safe from a large assortment of evil geniuses and their wicked schemes. Blending elements from The Man from U.N.C.L.E., James Bond, and the ever popular western, our two heroes rode the rails in a private train fighting many a bad guy.

19) Rutherford B. Hayes - Be honest (not in the opposite fashion, like "Honest" Abe, but in the literal sense). How many of you, when reading the name "Rutherford B. Hayes", thought he was a pimp? I know I did. But as it turns out, there WAS also a President by that name. Here ... let me go look some crap up on him and report back .... .... .... okay, I'm back. Here's what I stole and bastardized, er, here's what I learned.

Mark Twain (author of "Huck Finn" and other fine works of American literature) stumped for Hayes. His detractors of course played on that fact and twisted it by producing "Hayes for President? Fhuck Himm!" buttons.

Now get this: Hayes expected the Democrats to win. When the first returns seemed to confirm this, Hayes went to bed, believing he had lost. The popular vote apparently was 4,300,000 for Tilden to 4,036,000 for Hayes. Hayes's election depended upon contested electoral votes in Louisiana, South Carolina, and *groan* FLORIDA. If all the disputed electoral votes went to Hayes, he would win; a single one would elect Tilden. With apologies to my Florida friends, The "Lamebrain State" indeed served as the "Nation's Dick" more than just in the 2000 election! At least back in those days, the only "Hanging Chad" would be the poor bastard election official that was rightfully lynched for handing the Presidency to a Republican.

Months of uncertainty followed. In January 1877 Congress established an Electoral Commission to decide the dispute. The commission, made up of eight Republicans and seven Democrats, determined all the contests in favor of Hayes by eight to seven. What a surprise. The final electoral vote: 185 to 184. Son of a bitch! History IS one painful "Mobius Strip" of repeated bullshit.

Hayes had announced in advance that he would serve only one term, and retired to Spiegel Grove, his home in Fremont, Ohio, in 1881, where he launched the Spiegel Catalog business (subsequently bought out by Eddie Bauer ... or was it the other way around?). Anyway, I digress. He died in 1893, thus making future rigged elections in his favor "difficult" at best.

20) James Garfield - I know what you're thinking: the Pug's going to make some lame-ass reference to Garfield the Cat. Damned straight, I am. It's my blog for Chrissakes, and I've been saving this joke since I started this insipid "Presidential Trivia" series. In fact, it IS the reason I started it. Tell you what: if you don't like it so much, then why don't YOU run for President and try to stop me. No, wait, don't. Knowing THESE voters, they probably would elect you. Hell, maybe I should run (*wink* *wink*).

Anyway, James Garfield did enjoy lasagna and crapping in sandy material. However, in a departure from the preferences of the cartoon cat, President Garfield also was infatuated with trains, and would spend endless hours ignoring the responsibilites of running the nation to hang out at the station. This would prove to have tragic consequences, as Garfield one day got into a heated argument and subsequent altercation with another train buff over the merits of "HO" versus "N" scale. An embittered attorney (one of many, I'm afraid) by name of Charles Julius Guiteau, was the other party in this fateful dispute, and he happened to already be agitated by the theft of his "Orange Julius" concession idea. So this was simply the wrong time and place for Garfield to be a "Subject Matter Expert Bully", as it cost him both his life and any possible "Model Railroading Hall of Fame" recognition. Live and learn.

***

Well that does it for this installment of "Presidential Trivia". I can only hope this continues to inspire your interest in the Oval Office, instead of just the oval tracks of NASCAR.

.

Lost in the Supermarket

2007-11-15T05:30:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody,

Recently I've been spending more time than I care to at the local supermarket. Well, like they say in "Produce", when lemons are on sale, make lemonade. And in my life, lemons are ALWAYS on sale. So allow me to "make lemonade", not in the usual way by going "Number 1" behind the store dumpster, but rather this time by sharing some of my observations with you, my fellow value shoppers.

***

1) It's apparently NOT okay to grab toilet paper and magazines off of shelves in order to restock the restroom for your convenience. They seem to have an issue with that.

2) It's apparently NOT okay to lovingly caress the cantalopes whenever a lady is present.

3) It's apparently NOT okay to complete your shopping with a cucumber protruding from your zipper.

4) It's apparently NOT okay to screen potential dates by aggressively combing through their carts, looking for feminine hygiene products.

5) It's apparently NOT okay to treat Whipped Cream containers as "Nitrous Oxide Samplers".

6) It's apparently NOT okay to pose as the "Local Rep" for pantyhose products.

7) It's apparently NOT okay to loiter in the dairy section, extolling the greater benefits of breast milk.

8) It's apparently NOT okay to linger and repeatedly recite Robert Shaw's "Quint" character's famous monologue from "Jaws" by the Seafood section, as follows:

Quint: "Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, Chief. It was comin' back, from the island of Tinian Delady, just delivered the bomb. The Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes. Didn't see the first shark for about a half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen footer. You know, you know that when you're in the water, Chief? You tell by lookin' from the dorsal to the tail. Well, we didn't know. `Cause our bomb mission had been so secret, no distress signal had been sent. Huh huh. They didn't even list us overdue for a week. Very first light, Chief. The sharks come cruisin'. So we formed ourselves into tight groups. You know it's... kinda like `ol squares in battle like a, you see on a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo. And the idea was, the shark nearest man and then he'd start poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark would go away. Sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he's got... lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin' and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin' they all come in and rip you to pieces. Y'know by the end of that first dawn, lost a hundred men! I don't know how many sharks, maybe a thousand! I don't know how many men, they averaged six an hour. On Thursday mornin' Chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player, bosun's mate. I thought he was asleep, reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up and down in the water, just like a kinda top. Up ended. Well... he'd been bitten in half below the waist. Noon the fifth day, Mr. Hooper, a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low and he saw us. He'd a young pilot, a lot younger than Mr. Hooper, anyway he saw us and come in low. And three hours later a big fat PBY comes down and start to pick us up. You know that was the time I was most frightened? Waitin' for my turn. I'll never put on a lifejacket again. So, eleven hundred men went in the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out, the sharks took the rest, June the 29, 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb."

9) It's apparently NOT okay to horizontally place your soup cans onto the rungs of the ladder that the stockboy is currently using.

10) It's apparently NOT okay to demonstrate to your fellow shoppers how the Indian Maiden on the "Land O' Lakes" butter carton can be strategically folded so that her knees become her boobs.

11) It's apparently NOT okay to dole out free samples of Ex-Lax chocolates to the kiddies a la Costco and Sam's Club. (Ditto for Preparation-H to their parents)

12) It's apparently NOT okay to try to exit with a steak over your eye, claiming that the dude collecting shopping carts punched you on the way in.

13) It's apparently NOT okay to meticulously and repeatedly read through all of the help screens on the DVD Rental Machine when there's a line waiting.

14) It's apparently NOT okay to brag to the lady butcher that you're "not just another piece of meat".

15) It's apparently NOT okay to order a cake inscribed with: "Al Qaeda Sleeper Cell 25 - Happy Anniversary!".

16) It's apparently NOT okay to taunt personnel at the Starbuck's counter with the can of Folger's you just purchased.

17) It's apparently NOT okay to block the cart return area with your vehicle. Especially when it's full of carts, and the store is running low.

18) It's apparently NOT okay to pose as the Store Manager and steer minorities to the "Ethnic Foods" section upon entering the store.

19) It's apparently NOT okay to pose as the Store Manager and steer white folks to the Ex-Lax and Preparation-H displays upon entering the store.

20) It's apparently NOT okay to get in line late at night with ONLY the following items: ski mask, rope, butcher knife, disposable gloves, flashlight, Mace, pantyhose, True-Crime novel.

21) It's apparently NOT okay to dress in a plaid jacket with matching hat, place a toothpick in your mouth, then review the Horse Racing sheet in front of the meat counter.

22) It's apparently NOT okay to attempt to convince housewives that they are taken for granted, and should run off with you to Mexico.

23) It's apparently NOT okay to break into hysterics while reading through the tabloids in line at the checkouts.

24) It's apparently NOT okay to jump onto the bagger's back after he asks if you need help out to your car.

***

Did I miss any?

.

I Had a Scam in Africa

2007-11-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody,

By now some of you may have been wondering what happened to me, as I have been missing in action now for a couple of weeks. Well the good news is that the following rumors are untrue. For the record, I have not:

- been shot by a jealous husband, boyfriend, or lesbian lover;
- been executed by the mafia because I posed a threat to Don Pardo;
- been slain by a female serial killer posing as a prostitute;
- been slain by a prostitute posing as a female serial killer;
- been accidently axphixiated in an attempt to increase my own sexual arousal;
- been accidently axphixiated in an attempt to increase the lady's sexual arousal;
- been on secret assignment for the NSA in the jungles of Nicaragua;
- been held captive in a pit in Lamby's basement;
- been discovered dead in a bathtub in Paris;
- been caught dead in a bathtub with Paris;
- been suspended naked in an escape-proof Lucite box high above Times Square as part of a radio contest.

None of the above. Rather, the truth is that I've come into some money. But it's not what you're thinking. This time it has nothing to do with wrapping a dollar bill around Mr. Happy and using it as a condom.

It all started when I received the following email.

***

FROM THE DESK OF MRS. ALIMA MOHAMMED
BILL AND EXCHANGE MANAGER,
BANK OF AFRICA-(BOA)
OUAGADOUGOU, BURKINA FASO

CONFIDENTIAL.

Dear Friend ,

I am the manager of bill and exchange at the foreign remittance department of Bank Of Africa (BOA). I am writing following the impressive information about you through one of my friends who runs a consultancy firm in your country. He assured me of your capability and reliability to champion this business opportunity.

In my department we discovered an abandoned sum of $15,200,000 US dollars. In an account that belongs to one of our foreign customer who died along with his entire family in November 2000 in a plane crash.

Since we got information about his death, we have been expecting his next of kin to come over and claim his money because we cannot release it unless somebody applies for as next of kin or relation to the deceased as indicated in our banking guidelines but unfortunately we learnt that all his supposed next of kin or relation died alongside with him at the plane crash leaving nobody behind for the claim.

It is therefore upon this discovery that I and other officials in my department now decided to make this business proposal to you and release the money to you as the next of kin or relation to the deceased for safety and subsequent disbursement since nobody is coming for it and we don’t want this money to go into the Bank treasury as unclaimed Bill.

The Banking law and guideline here stipulates that if such money remained unclaimed after Six to Seven years, the money will be transferred into the Bank treasury as unclaimed fund. The request of foreigner as next of kin in this business is occasioned by the fact that the customer was a foreigner and a Burkinabe cannot stand as next of kin to a foreigner. We agree that 30% of this money will be for you as foreign partner, in respect to the provision of a foreign account, 10% will be set aside for expenses incurred during the business and 60% would be for me and my colleagues. There after and my colleagues will visit your country for disbursement according to the percentages indicated.

Therefore to enable the immediate transfer of this fund to you as arranged, you must apply first to the bank as relations or next of kin of the deceased indicating your bank name, your bank account number, your private telephone and fax number for easy and effective communication and location where in the money will be remitted. Upon receipt of your reply, I will send to you by fax or email the text of the application. I will not fail to bring to your notice that this transaction is hitch free and that you should no entertain any atom of fear as all required arrangements have been made for the transfer. You should contact me immediately as soon as you receive this letter.

Trusting to hear from you immediately.

Yours faithfully,

MRS. ALIMA MOHAMMED
Bill and Exchange Manager,
Bank of Africa (BOA)

***

Needless to say, I have been way too excited about this windfall to think of anything (including and especially my blog-related duties) other than securing this windfall with a speedy and well-composed reply. So here goes.

***

Dear Mrs. Mohammed,

I would like to accept your gracious offer. The information you requested is separately attached. My account eagerly and openly awaits the monies, mon ami. And might I add that I love your surname, as Mohammed is my second favorite religious figure after Jesus. Alima is a pretty name as well. I once met a girl named Alima from Peru, but other than her, the name is quite rare for this old llama.

I would like to thank you for your kind words as to my character. I often worry that consultants say what they think you want to hear, in order that THEY THEMSELVES may benefit financially. Clearly and quite refreshingly that is not the case in this case.

As far as the abandoned funds are concerned, rest assured that I will provide a suitable "foster home" for them. I have a soft heart and a kind soul, and could recount the countless times when I have taken in strays. There was that Cornish Game Hen with the injured wing, the rabbit with a leg that was snagged on a key ring, and that possum who was actually in an independently-confirmed coma.

Furthermore, I am willing to sign an affidavit confirming that I have had relations with the deceased, if that will help expedite the dismemberment.

On a lighter note and submitted for your amusement, I had a buddy whose nickname was "Unclaimed Bill", since - true to his name - he would always leave empty-handed at the end of the night. It's a good thing that, unlike Bill, I won't be empty-handed after this experience!

I cannot stand my next of kin either, but what - pray tell - is a Bukinabe? My friends and I once tried to get into a Lilith Fair in Austin, where we jokingly referred to the crowd as "Birkenstock Babes", which I also cannot stand. I am reminded of a favorite one-caption cartoon, where the doctor says to his female patient, "I'm all out of Birth-Control Pills. Here's a pair of Birkenstocks instead. Put them on".

Are Bukinabes similar, or do you shave your armpits and prefer male "companions"? If so, I may be persuaded to "bring the mountain to Mohammed", if you catch my drift. And I think you might.

Allah Akbar,

Pug Pueriluwaite, ESQ
Securities for Exchange,
The Great Southwest

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Getting Your Dating Mojo On - Part II

2007-10-14T11:00:00.000-06:00

Hi everybody,

I think we'd all agree that a non-political post would be a welcome respite at this point. So what would you say to the continuation of your "virtual date" with the Pug?

Wait, before you roll your eyes and make that "gagging with your index finger" gesture, please remember that I have feelings. Even though not readily apparent, they do exist under a protective candy shell where only through careful licking they can be exposed and savored. So please resist the urge to crunch and destroy them in your hunger for instant gratification at my expense.

Besides, on our "virtual date" you are guaranteed to get lucky, as there is no threat of an awkward goodnight kiss or the possibility that someone you know will spot us together and think less of you (assuming THAT'S even possible).

Since the virtual Rohypnols may have already started to take effect, allow me to refresh your memory on where our date left off. We had just finished "the 5 things The Pug likes to hear on a date" appetizer, along with a couple of drinks and some witty banter from the Pug's side of the table.

So let's continue on with the main course, shall we?

***

The 5 things The Pug hates to hear on a date:

“My last boyfriend...”

No one wants to hear about your past flames. Even if they were really flaming flames. The Pug likes to pretend that his date is similar to a virginal young Brooke Shields, waiting for the right "pro" (tennis or otherwise) to come along. And of course by "right pro", I mean somone with an comparable set of bushy eyebrows that match up with hers. Okay, just kidding about the eyebrows. Though it is important to create the illusion that the girl has remained chaste in anticipation of her date with the Pug (similar to Brooke's character in "The Blue Lagoon", or - if you're extremely creepy - "Pretty Baby"). Wearing a Catholic school girl outfit probably wouldn't be a bad idea either.

“Do you mind if I take this call?”

Yes, I DO mind. Because The Pug has been burnt before. Whether it's covert camera phone pictures (for later posting) snapped of The Pug eating like a pig, or a competing male caller looking for a last minute "escort", he's been betrayed in virtually every way possible by this seemingly innocuous device. And don't get me started on those games that come with the damned things. I once had a girl knock out 12*-games of "Dig Dug" before the check arrived (* my projected estimate, as I seldom stay for the check).

“So how do you feel about religion?”

This is tricky subject matter on a date, for several reasons. First of all, the Pug does not want to be reminded that God may be monitoring his activities this particular evening. As this is a momentary escape from his responsibilities, the Pug also expects the Supreme Being to take the occasional evening off from his hindrance and persecution of yours truly.

Secondly, if you play your cards right, the Pug will provide the religious experience. In fact, (I hate to brag) a handful of women have been so profoundly affected, they subsequently chose to continue on the path of righteousness and became nuns full-time.

Thirdly, we already know (with the exception of a few rather unfortunate and disturbing episodes, no thanks to Craig's List) that the physical parts likely match up. So why bring religious affiliations into the equation? So what if you're a Fanatical Muslim and I'm Selective Pentecostal? Can't we for just tonight adopt the military's "Don't ask, don't tell" policy in order to team up, take those hills, dig a foxhole, and deploy our own "weaponry"?

“And then I found this cute pair of sandals...”

It's not so much that the Pug is not into footwear. To the contrary! By the time this sordid little affair of ours winds down to its inevitable conclusion, my obsession with "all things feet" will be painfully apparent.

But a recollection of your recent shopping excursions is hardly appropriate dinner conversation, as it creates the impression that your credit may be maxed out, and therefore not available for securing my loyalty. This will likely cause indigestion.

“How do you feel about having a family?”

The Pug no longer lives in the deep South. So trust me. Offering up your family members for his sexual amusement is not a good idea. Yet. There will be time for that once a relationship develops.

***

Well, that concludes our virtual date. And please, no calls in 2-weeks about how I allegedly knocked you up. This will improve your odds of hooking up again, most likely at my company's Christmas party (anything to dispel those nagging gay rumors ... so try to wear some makeup and let me lead during the slow dances). I had a good time, and I'll blog you.

.

Handicapping the Democrats

2007-09-29T19:00:00.000-06:00

Hi everybody,

After accidently rolling onto the remote control and away from "Miami Vice", I had the good fortune of stumbling upon a Democratic Presidential Candidates' Debate from some podunk backwater college in New Hampshire the other day. And since I like to turn my good fortune into YOUR good fortune, I thought I'd provide a detailed analysis of the various lifeforms who participated.

This will hopefully help you to more rapidly decide on your next choice for President, thus saving you valuable brain cycles for deciding who should've really won on past seasons of "American Idol" and "So You Think You Can Dance".

So here goes.

It was a classic and splendidly crisp New England fall evening. The cool breeze wafted the reassuring aroma of fallen leaves and evoked fading memories of Katherine Hepburn rolling in them after taking yet another unfortunate spill. Not that we were able to experience any of those things, as we were crowded into a stuffy college auditorium that vaguely smelled of Murphy's Oil Soap, old text books, stale Budweiser, and used latex.

There on the stage were the 7-candidates, resplendent in their Men's Wearhouse and T.J. Maxx ensembles, as well-groomed as any recent Supercuts patron. For that brief moment in time, each and every one of them bristled with an aire of sober regality; a vivid contrast to their intoxicated and bitter solo departures later that evening for destinations unknown.

The realization that the least of these candidates would still represent a tremendous upgrade over President Jethro Cokespoon, made for great anticipation in discovering who the champion of this litter would be. So swifter than the swiftest Swift Boat, I tuned in and opened my Junior Reporter's Notebook to the first blank page (which happened to be the first page).

And then, I carefully observed each candidate and jotted down my thoughts. Here is my rundown - sans automobile - of the "Magnificant Seven", in order from Stage-Right to Stage-Left.

Joe Biden looked tall, handsome and distinguished. In fact, if (more) people based their votes on who most looked like the ideal Starship Enterprise Captain, then Joe Biden would win hands-down. I could picture him in his naugahyde swivel chair, launching photon torpedoes at the Axis of Evil, and beaming down to Camp David for freaky interracial R&R with Lieutenant Uhura.

However there was a disquieting undercurrent with this man. It's tough to pinpoint, but I just had this uneasy feeling that he has a few missing persons chained up in the cellar of his summer cottage for his twisted amusement, perhaps as a substitute for golf (which his busy schedule no longer permits). This is not to say he would make a bad President, since he would be able to constantly play golf, once in office.

Christopher Dodd also was fairly tall and distinguished looking, and therefore ranked second only to Joe Biden in the "who would make the best Starship Enterprise Captain?" voting criteria category. But I couldn't get past the suspicion that he might - unbeknownst to everyone - really be Newt Gingrich's long-lost older brother. As the story goes, Christopher left home years earlier - never to return - after getting chewed out by his dad for competing in a disastrous Alderman race. Over the years, he repeatedly showed up to help Newt win his various competitions, just to disappear after each triumph. Newt being clueless, of course, always had a strange feeling about him, but simply attributed it to his own bisexuality.

John Edwards was both a pleasant surprise and a mild disappointment. I really liked what he had to say. You can sense that his confidence and poise has significantly increased since the 2004 Vice-Presidential debates. He also had an uncanny resemblence to a young John Ritter, so it's easy to envision a White House with TWO Vice-Presidents serving under him. Both attractive, one would be the "dumb blonde" female version of Dan Quayle, and the other would be the more sensible brunette who really gets things done.

He could also have a Chief of Staff who would be constantly attempting to catch him in mid-hijink. Since Don Knotts has already departed for that "Great Berry Farm in the Sky", we unfortunately don't have him available to reprise his lovable Mr. Furley character.

Not to worry, though, as I've already identified someone equally neurotic and effeminate to serve as "Chief of Staff Furley" and Don's body-double.

So - knowing the inquisitive minds of my readers - you're probably wondering what the "mild disappointment" was all about. Well, I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but at first I was HOPING this time around it was the OTHER John Edward (without the "s" at the end).

This one would totally kick ass as our next President. Think about it. He's a psychic. That would be a tremendous advantage in negotiations. Here's an example:

President John Edward: "(Insert Evil Dictator here), I'm sensing the word "Fluffy". It's just floating right there in front of me, in BIG capital letters. Did you once own a cat named Fluffy?"

Stoic Evil Dictator: "I do not see how this is relevant to the point of discussion, but yes, I did have a cat by that name. It was disemboweled by one of my father's political enemies. The infidel then fed it to his camel, then packaged the excrement and had a courier deliver it to me at my 9th birthday party."

President John Edward: "Well, Fluffy is speaking to me right now, and wants me to send you a message. He's in a better place now; and 72-virgins, along with all of the dissidents that you have tortured and killed over the years, take turns holding and feeding him."

Suddenly NOT-so-stoic Evil Dictator: "Forgive my tears, Mr. President. One who reaches into my soul cannot be a Great Satan after all. I shall disarm immediately. May I hug you, and apply a kiss to all 4-cheeks, as is the custom in my country?"

Dennis Kucinich, is another favorite of mine. I really like his position on a lot of things. But he IS a rather odd and eccentric fellow. Okay, I won't beat around the bush: he's a nerd for Chrissakes! But when you think about it, he is the prototypical representative of his party.

You see, the way I sort out candidates from the 2-parties is to use my "Animal House" filter. Here's how it works. Remember the Freshman Pledge Party scene early on, at the Omega House? As you may recall, the "prospects" were sorted out as they were ushered in. Per my filter, the ones that got to hang out with the Omegas in the main room (Kevin Bacon, et. Al.) would be Republicans. The rejects (Flounder, et Al.) would be steered into a distant corner. These are the Democrats.

This is probably why I'm a little cautious about Biden, Dodd and Edwards. They are too polished, handsome, white and male to be Democrats. The others - including Kucinich - are more in the Democrat mold, and would fit in nicely next to the blind guy and the Indian in that obscure corner of the Omega House.

Dennis Kucinich reminds me of that neighbor that everyone has, growing up. You know the one. He has a rock tumbler in his garage that runs day and night. You ask your mom why the grass and flower beds on your block are dead, and are told it's because that "nice Mr. Kucinich is working on a new "Klystron thingy" in his basement".

He was sporting a wicked comb-over for the debate, which shouldn't matter, and yet it does concern me. Will he also seek to "comb-over" our deficit problem, economic woes, and Middle East morass?

Still, I cannot help but believe that Dennis Kucinich could be an effective leader. Were the nerds not ultimately triumphant in all of those "Revenge" movies? Never underestimate nerd-power, for it is quite possible that all would experience a return to prosperity, and there would be a "salami and cheese sandwich in every lunchbox" under his stewardship.

Barack Obama is another up and comer. He is eloquent and - so far - squeaky clean. But I do have a couple of critiques. The first one is that he is still too inexperienced for the Presidency. He doesn't yet know how to fully exploit it for the inevitable post-Presidency return to the private sector. So let's give him another 4-years of seasoning.

The other red flag is his name. Am I the ONLY one who has noticed the similarity to "Osama Bin Laden"? Well if you had purchased my recent puzzlebook, "Close-Enough Palindromes for Dumbshits", you WOULD have.

In his defense, I do think he was set up in this debate to appear more dubious. Not unlike Nixon with his sweaty face and 5-o' Clock shadow in the 1960 Presidential Debate, I don't think Osama was portrayed fairly in the camera lens. For one thing, his ears - unlike in the photograph above - jutted out at perfect 90-degree angles. On the plus side, I suppose this - right or wrong - created the favorable impression that he's a really good listener.

Hillary was wonderful. It was obvious why she is the front-runner. I think I may be falling in love with her. No, wait. I'm already there. I dream about topless Whitewater rafting with her, down through that piece of land she once prized (the name of which escapes me at present). We would apply waterproof SPF-45 to each other, so the only burning would be our passion for each other.

And since every Clinton Presidency should be allowed at least one suspicious death per term, this time perhaps it could be Bill. Now don't get me wrong. I admire Hillary's current spouse, thought he was an excellent President, and have tried to pattern my life after his. But he has to go, so that I may assume my rightful place next to Hillary.

However I am not a killer.

So don't come looking for yours truly when his body is located one grassy knoll over from where Vince Foster was found, half-eaten Twinkie in his hand, the other half lodged in his windpipe.

Mike Gravel was tacked on at the end for comic relief. He was ornery at times, and reminded me of the neighbor who lived just across the alley when I was growing up. True story: this old curmudgeon would bolt out of his garage in a sleeveless white t-shirt with a 2x4 piece of wood after us, just because we were playing too close to his house. Mr. Gravel strikes me as the same type, driving everyone off of the White House lawn and out of the Rose Garden; and in the process, reminding us that at least "W" never pulled THAT crap (Truth be told, "W" would have been that cool neighbor who'd give you sips from his beer and let you look at his stack of Girlie Magazines).

So what choice would we have, but to devise an elaborate scheme for leaving a flaming brown paper sack of fresh dogshit on the front stoop? Sure there's the risk of being shot. But sometimes you have to fight for the freedoms that we hold so dear.

Mr. Gravel didn't always come across as a complete lunatic. Frequently, he appeared more as the Cowardly Lion from "The Wizard of Oz". And while funny and cute, it does worry me that THIS will result in Lamby voting for the man.

Oops. My bad. Mike Richardson was actually wedged in earlier, somewhere between two of the white guys. So, alas, like too many Hispanics in America today, he was overlooked (this time by none other than yours truly). I do recall that every time he spoke, all I could do was think he'd be the perfect Mayor for the town closest to the fictional ranch where Devo's "Whip It" video took place.

Anyway, thanks for pretending you're interested in the future of America long enough to read this post (and hopefully provide your own analysis and/or rebuttal). Per the local Magistrate, this technically fulfills my "Community Service" requirement, which means I may forgo turkey stuffing at the shelter this Thanksgiving. And for that, I give thanks.

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An Interview with the Cruel Virgin - Question #5

2007-09-19T21:30:00.000-06:00

Hi everybody,

I'm back, and badder than ever. My writing in particular. Damn this job and lifestyle of mine, and the demands that are repeatedly placed on my time and energy as a result. For they keep me from you: strangers who pose a slightly lesser danger.

In fact I am *this* close to accepting Leelee's standing offer of employment at her store, where I won't be held nearly as accountable; not for my time, effort, nor even the contents of the cash drawer. I can sleep on a cot in the back room, roam the beach during my frequent breaks, blog instead of contribute to society, and briefly share my cot with the occasional "sexually unfulfilled" but well-preserved patron. The Pug's own "Antiques Road Show", if you will.

But who am I kidding? Florida is no place for morally ambiguous, indigent drifters. So I guess I need to make my present situation here in The Great Southwest a wee bit more tenable.

I suppose I could start by actually completing something I set out to do. So here goes, with the FINAL question in my interview with the Cruel Virgin.

Maybe THIS will be my ticket to securing a better job of some sort, as any worthwhile interview should. Perhaps I will land a coveted position as "Cabana Pug", applying oil to supple body parts (still attached, preferably) and toweling off excess moisture as needed.

So here's to a complete and successful interview.

5. Do you believe there is alien life on other planets? If so, do you think their intelligence is superior to ours? Will we one day meet folks like the Vulcans and the Klingons, or is it all just a dream?

Funny you should ask, as me and my Trekkie cohorts often chat about this very topic during convention breaks. The one premise we do agree on is that Vulcans and Klingons don't exist in reality, due to the menace of trademark infringement attorneys.

But yes, I DO believe there is life on other planets. I think it's arrogant to think Earth is the only petri dish out there. I also am of the opinion that we are one of the least-advanced orbs in the universe. Allow me to elaborate. It goes something like this ...

Earth is well-known throughout the galaxy as the "Safari Planet". This is THE destination for extraterrestrials who want to experience a truly primitive vacation experience. The vast majority of earthlings remain unaware of these other-worldly "junkets" because of the "stay in your vehicle" policy that alien tours seek to enforce.

Of course, just as we are known to break the rules by absconding with a rock, stalactite or stalagmite, these Space Tourists are equally reviled for departing with the occasional human "souvenier". But rather than curse those few bad apples, we should adopt the same strategy as our National Parks in effectively accomodating the "trinket hounds". My solution is to draw from the seemingly endless supply of "W" supporters in populating a gift shoppe that caters to this need.

The one-way, self-sealing back door of the concealed gift shoppe holding pen will have a sign over it that reads: "Third Term Amendment Approved! Through here to vote early for "W" in '08. ("W '08" bumper stickers will be provided for your Ford Expedition, Crown Victoria or Mercury Marquis)".

Just as we are fascinated by hamsters futilely running on their little treadmills, our alien bretheren are similarly intrigued by us in our cute little automobiles and canoes. Which explains many of the reported encounters during these forms of recreation. Of course some of us inevitably take our enjoyment one step too far, by intervening in the cute little rodent's adorable activity, and for - lord knows - whatever reason, applying duct tape to the hapless critter.

Why then, should it be a shock for us to discover that cattle have been multilated, and numerous rectums probed? Is tactile interaction NOT a logical progression in the experience of new discovery? Is there ANYONE among us who achieves satisfaction simply by LOOKING at the bunny rabbits in the pet store? Of course not! We want to yank on their ears and tweak their genitalia. So judge not, lest ye be judged.

Now like any vacation resort, there's always the inevitable asswipes who have to shit it up for the rest of us. And not unlike the snowmobiler who ignorantly destroys the tranquility of a quiet glen, or the jet skier who selfishly churns the placid waters, there are dickweeds among the E.T. crowd.

An example would be the true story behind "The Roswell Incident", which is nothing more than a classic example of road-rage gone tragically awry. Suprisingly, the real reason for the coverup is that the public couldn't bear the knowledge of aliens behaving as stupidly as us. We expect better of them.

Well that does it for my "Interview with the Cruel Virgin". I hope you enjoyed it, and remember: keep watching the skies!

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