Democratic Convention - Special Report #2

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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

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

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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 !"


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Nugget from Craig' s List

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

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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.

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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

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

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

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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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