January 31, 2010; Our House

...I wonder what's out there...

As I approach the end of my first year with the Mooks, I realize that my decision on whether or not to stick this one out is not only based on the people I live with, but also on where I live.

The Mooks, right off the top, are not rich. Now this does not bother most dogs; in fact, dogs tend to favour poorer people. Poor people can't afford housekeepers which means that things lie about for a bit longer (papers, pillows, trash) and are, therefore, available as playthings and edibles. When you have a housekeeper constantly picking up and tidying and dusting and polishing, it serves three negative purposes: it removes the entertainment; it fills the house with chemical smells no dog enjoys (remember our keen senses of smell and what has a "clean" odour for you smells toxic to us); and if we decide to be dogs, it cannot be hidden. For instance if I rough up the edges of a doily or relieve myself in a corner it won't be long before some housekeeper or tight-assed housewife is having a shit-fit. Dogs in houses with housekeepers and/or tight-assed housewives tend to live outside, in crates inside or in dank little basement rooms.

Single men (like my pal Frank) or, in my recent experience, queers, tend to be slobs. They get around to cleaning the house only if someone is coming over and even then (the Mooks don't get dishpan hands before a visit from Cate, that's for sure). If no one is coming over, the Mooks let the house fill up with litter, nice smells (cigarettes, steak grease and garbage) and all of these contribute to a dog's sense of well-being...his sense of home if you will. Sure, on the odd garbage day the Mooks will race around the apartment emptying litter-bins and garbage-cans, gathering up the recycling boxes and filling them with the paper scattered about the floor. But they will miss one out of two garbage days so things have a nice feel here, and a nice doggy smell.

There is also the aspect of access to beds and/or couches. In a "tidy" home this is taboo. But in this apartment, where they sleep I, too, can sleep. This means that everything is coated with a nice layer of my hair and my smell which makes each sleeping surface my sleeping surface more than the Mook's. The other nice thing is that, being men, they do washings only when it is absolutely necessary so what they wear, also, has me all over it.

If there's a drawback in this apartment is that there are three phones and four TVs (not counting the two computer monitors) and something is always on. (They even have a special battery-operated TV in case the electricity goes out.) You think I exaggerate? Mook B (and I) go to bed well before Mook A who watches TV 'til he drifts off. Soon after Mook A retires, Mook B is up and if he's not watching TV he's bellowing on the phone (indeed, the only way he seems to communicate on the phone is through bellowing). So there is steady noise here and how, oh! how, is a healthy dog supposed to get his 180 winks? Everyone, including Cate, wonders how I—a Jack Russell—can sleep so much. That's why. If I don't sleep when I can I'll turn into one of those hysterical little dogs who yaps, yaps, yaps, jumps in terror when he himself farts and chases after shadows, banging into walls until unconsciousness results.

Sure! the Mooks read and a lot: books, newspapers, manuals, porn—but they do it while watching TV or listening to music or eating or talking on the phone. For two guys who are barely employed they sure do keep themselves looking busy. I suspect it's one way for them to keep from looking into the fathomless abyss that is a dreary life leading unto death.

Finally, the worst drawback to living with them is them and, frankly, I could do far worse.

Like the chihuahuas up the street. There are two of them and they live with a young couple. They hardly ever go out because, let's face it, chihuahuas would die in this cold, so you hear them yapping like...like...well, like chihuahuas everytime someone passes in front of their apartment's window. Both of the people in the couple work which means the dogs have a lot of time at that window and that is a fuckload of yapping. When they do actually go out—in summer, early fall or late spring—it is never without an ensemble: little berets and booties and fur collars. Everyone—human and canine (and even a few cats)—laughs their beezers off when they see them and the poor dogs know no one is laughing with them but rather at them.

In another time and another place, I could be those dogs. I am not. So I count the few blessings I have.

January 28, 2010; The Wisdom

Before I make a final decision about the future and about Mook A, it might be important to share some lore—some wisdom—about humans, dogs and the cycle of life.

Like him or hate him (and I hate the motherfucker), The Dog Whisperer is right about dogs in one respect: we are either leaders or followers. (But that is true of all animals, including humans, isn't it?) I am a leader and what is making life with the Mooks prickly is that Mook A, mostly, insists he is the boss. Mook B tries to be or pretends to be but he's not. He's my bitch, my little brother and pretty much bends to my will. (I just have to give him "the look" and he turns to mush.)

Now what this all means is that although outside dogs like Benjie bow to me and even Ginger accepts I am stronger (though she's a bit of a cunt about it), in this house things have to be taken to another level if life is going to go on. Can there be co-bosses? We'll see. But this brings us to another subject—the relationships between species.

Dogs, for instance, understand everything. Well, most dogs. Dumb dogs and inbreds (I'm talking to you, beagles!) are a little slow but the rest of us understand—word for word—what people say. Many of us speak a couple or several languages (apart from Dogspeak). Humans don't believe this of us pointing to the fact that we don't always respond when they speak to us. That's because most of the time what humans say is white noise that we pretty much ignore like we ignore bird song, fish humming in aquariums, the chittering of vermin under floorboards and TV; it's all blither. Moreover, when we need to know what's going on in a human household we not only understand ever word but also a lot of what is unspoken because we smell your thoughts: your fear, your confusion, your joy and grief. (For instance, right now, Mook A's thoughts are particularly dark; he is seeing nurses three times a week and getting nowhere closer to healing and he has just had to be fitted for a big belt because all the scars he has are tearing under the skin—I can smell that, the Darkness, even when he doesn't talk about it, not even with Mook B.)

A strong smell speaks to us more clearly than a lot of talking. But put speech and smell together and dogs get it. We...get...it. All of it. You have no secrets. So to exert power over us you have size (sometimes), weapons, food and exploding emotions over which you have no control and that last thing—to all sentient beings—is the scariest thing of all. You are at the top of the food chain not because you were chosen to be (which most of you devoutly believe) but because you are, for now, the most dangerous beings. And what makes all "king" will also, probably very soon, destroy you all. You all talk about the end of humanity like it is preventable but you allow emotions—irrational thought (dogma), wants, need for unnecessary things—to rule you all and because of that you cannot stop what is coming. The dumbest of dumb, inbred dogs simply has to watch CNN for ten minutes to know where you are all going and that the end is near. All animals, down to the cockroach, know humans have been on the road to destruction since Eden and that the road is coming to an end (and not a crossroads like you wish to believe).

A lot of us will survive long after you and we're patient. We have learned it is the very impatience of humans (to have, to eat, to fuck, to ignore the cycles of time and weather in a quest to own and to rule) that will destroy them. You.

It's a given.

That's all.

We can wait.

We have our followers and our leaders and not a single human (wish as they might) is among the latter.

Our time is coming.

Meanwhile, the Mooks cut my meals back to one a day because I have put on weight despite all efforts. I didn't really need the other meal, I know, but it was nice to know it was there for snacking on. Yes, we will rule the earth some day...but we like out snacks.

January 25, 2010; To All The Girls They've Loved Before

The Mooks are very odd birds! Do you know that there was a time in their lives where they actually went out with women? Hard to believe with them being so queer and all but maybe—a long, long, looooooong time ago—they had a little bit of macho, a little bit of something that ladies might have been attracted to.

I don't know what it was, but there were, indeed, women and the Mooks talk about them from time to time. From what I have been able to glean, in terms of numbers Mook A is the winner. However—and this is important—he's never gone all the way whereas Mook B, a shyer man in his youth, did. Interesting, no?

A started young, given the facts of life by a kid named Marie back when he was ten or so. The thing is, Marie couldn't pronounce "vagina" and had told A that the man put his penis in the woman's va-ghee-na! A, confused, talked to his mother who burst out laughing and then decided it might be time to level with her kid. (She didn't know, of course, that the kid in question had already developed an unhealthy interest in Ron Ely, the actor who played Tarzan on TV.)

Equipped with the facts, now, A set out to conquer the world—to prove his prowess as a sexual athlete. Instead he became like the Olympic Torch: a flamer being passed from one woman to another. There was the high-school sweetheart who let him boob-juggle until, when it looked like they were headed down the wrong path (if you know what I mean and I think you do), simply took off her shirt and let him go to town...top-half only, thanks much. Then there were all the girls in college who were willing but who simply scared him to death. Then there was one final girlfriend who seemed safe because she was a Greek girl and her father would have killed her and A if anything had happened. (She, however, could not resist the charms of a real Olympic athlete and broke A's heart—and secretly delighted him—when she announced she was no longer a virgin nor A's girl.)

That's when A gave up and went down the road to damnation.

Meanwhile, in another galaxy far, far away, B was deeply in the closet. He dated few girls but had many friends who were girls (shy, soft-spoken homos seem to be catnip to the opposite sex). With one of these he had a disastrous one nighter and all bets were off. However, and here's the thing: both A's teenage sweetheart and B's one-nighter remained close and, I think, in love with them. Hey! Let's face it! Queers have nice manners, treat women with respect (ie: fear them), and offer no danger (to women, I mean). What's not to love! And if, into the bargain, there's none of that sweaty, messy shit where sounds emanate that make one think of feet stuck in the mud, and smells afterward cling to sheets and walls for days, then that's a bonus!

You gotta admire the Mooks—and a lot of queers—for the fact that they do some exploring into the other side. This can be said with absolute sureness: straight guys are not nearly as curious about "over there". Does that make them better? I don't know. It certainly makes them straighter...

...undeviating...linear...unbending...in line...conforming...

dull, maybe.

I keep wondering what would happen if humans were like dogs. I mean, if I need to know something about another dog—male or female—I won't think twice about jamming my nose up his/her arsehole. So maybe queer humans, with their curiousity about everyone, are more like dogs. More evolved.

There's something to chew on.

January 22, 2010; My Options

Something has happened.

Last night the doorbell rang. I was told to stay upstairs (an order I generally disregard) and Mook A went down to answer. It was One-Legged Gingerlady with Ginger, my beloved. A and Gingerlady were transacting some kind of trade and I was sitting on the steps right behind him staring at my sweet little femme fatale.

But here's the thing: the door was wide open, none of the humans noticed I was there and I did not bolt out to the street to freedom. When A noticed me he was mind-boggled and when Gingerlady and Ginger left there was much celebration in the apartment that I had somehow not bothered or wanted to flee (though they also mentioned the fact that maybe I was too stupid to figure out that I could have fled and/or I was too stunned to flee because here was the bitch of my dreams right there at my door!).

The fact remains is that I didn't run. I don't know why. I felt the warmth of the apartment behind me and the cold of the great outdoors in front of me and the thought did not cross my mind until the fact I did not run was being huzzahed by one and all. Since this incident I had been looking at things; examining my options, if you will. I think one thing has crossed my mind—a reality—about freeing myself from the slavery here: Baby, it's fucking cold outside. But beyond that there are also all the other things: if I fled, I might get hit by a car; I might get "saved" by someone really awful; I might get picked up by the pound and done away with (even with the ID chip in my head—who knows? the Mooks might just decide I was too much trouble); I might not get caught and become one of those pathetic alley dogs who sleeps in garbage, becomes flea-ridden and...

But that's not the point!

The point is that, now, here, after nearly a year, it is time to look at my options balanced against the realities.

One negative reality is that Mook A, at least, is taking my re-training rather seriously. He's been worshipping at the altar of the Dog Whisperer and I am suffering for it. For instance, last night, when we went out, there was a cat across the street and I scrambled for it. A yanked me back, forced me to lie on my side in the snow, held me down and didn't let me move until I had calmed down (or at least was doing a good job of pretending to calm down). The cat was long gone, so I was actually calm. But he held me down long enough for Gingerlady, who was down the street, to call out, "Hey! Hey! Are you all right!!!" (It did look like A was keeling over—an occurrence the entire neighbourhood, well informed by gossip of his various conditions, is anticipating.) After A reassured Gingerlady he was not dying (she did not seem too concerned whether I was or not) he continued to hold me down for a bit, then brushed me off and off we went to continue the walk. However, I saw a dog at the other side of the street and scrambled for it and—wouldn't you fucking know it!—found myself held down in the snow yet again.

Now let me be clear: nothing was injured besides my vanity. However, I have to decide if I am going to bend to their will...a little...to have some peace, a couple of squares a day and a warm place to sleep, play and cuddle.

I will never be able to entirely check my need to run. That will always be there. But, like happened last night, it is not a pounding need anymore and I can, if I wish, push it to one side for a little. You may not think this sounds important but it is the difference between bolting automatically when the door is open and thinking about it for a bit; in the time it takes to think, Mooks wake up, doors get closed, life goes on.

There is another thing, and I will not get into this right now, but it is fairly important and if I decide to go ahead with it, there is no going back. That option has always been there and it has always been a matter of whether I will exercise it or not. More on that later...or not at all. I'll see.

In the meantime, for some odd reason, I have developed an aversion to certain kinds of elderly men. Gentlemen, to be precise. I've run into two of them at the convenience store at the corner (where the Mooks go to load up on fattening foods—a staple of their diets). On both occasions, the elderly men—both spiffily dressed and smelling of cologne—leaned over to play with me and I did play for a bit. But then something snapped—the smell of their cologne, the vague stink of death, the smell of mothballs on their suits—and I just needed to attack. In both cases I got a clop in the head (which The Dog Whisperer certainly doesn't endorse) and the Little Old Chinese Lady who owns the place and who normally adores me went ballistic. "SEE!" she shrieked. "SEE!!!" she screamed again. Then Mook A did something for which I will never forgive him: he made her one of my bosses. "The word is 'sit'," he explained to her, "and you have to hit the 't' really hard for him to get it." So now it's, "SEEEEEEEEE-TAH!" from the Chinawoman which, with her terrifying Asian trill makes my non-existent balls roll back into my body and my dick shorten by an inch.

And I do.

I seeeeeee-tah.

Fuck 'em all.

January 19, 2010; Adoption

Back in the day

Cate is going through the adoption process. The problem is that she has moved into a spiffy (and verrrrry expensive new apartment) and that she has an elderly mother with whom she lives and so not just any old dog will do. She has been scanning the internet and has seen a bunch of dogs she likes but every time she gets to the place, they've gone to another home. She's even done volunteer work with a lady who rescues animals but it seems she is so persnickety about who gets to adopt them that she has become one of those nutjobs who will one day die and be remembered because she had her face eaten off by all her "saved" dogs.

Cate needs something about my size but younger and a little less "energetic" and "tempermental"...so, in effect, she is looking for a stuffed animal. Okay, I'm being mean. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt because she is one of the rare decent people who doesn 't get all like that when you try to hump her but in my experience adopting a dog is a shoot in the dark kind of business and it usually boils down to taking something that you like and then either human or dog giving up their souls in a series of compromises which usually end in death.

The most tiresome thing about Cate's search process is that I am treated to stories of all the other dogs in Cate's and The Mooks' past; especially where they came from. Cate's last and very beloved Chablis was a pound dog who was completely trained and behaved like a prince from the start (though judging from the name and behaviour I would say "princess" was more to the point 'cause any male who acts like he did is obviously a queer).

Before me, here, there was of course the sainted Cosmo. It seems that Mook A, grieving over the dog before, was ordered by Mook B to go to the SPCA and adopt something. Once there, A saw only dalmatians (it was the year Disney's infamous live-action film came out). The idea of owning a dalmatian struck A's fancy. One, however, shrieked like a hyena from the moment A walked into the pound. Another was curled up in a corner shivering neurotically. The third, standing in all his regal beauty, stared disdainfully at A and that, of course, was Cosmo (né Sam) who became the be-all and end-all for the Mooks (especially B who cried this Christmas because it was his first one without Cosmo).

Before Cosmo there had been a pair of small dogs (one I can still smell in this apartment): Buddy and Kitoune. (Chablis? Kitoune? What is wrong with these people!) Buddy was an adult pet-shop dog—a blond pomeranian/collie mix which had been given up by his owners in the suburbs as they were moving. He was an angel from the first, sleeping under A's seat in the theatre as he rehearsed a play which he had written. (A used to be a writer, don't you know...but then who hasn't been?)

But Buddy looked lonely so A and his then-roommate decided to adopt a second dog and went to the pound. It was Saturday night and the pound was closing and the lady there told A and his roommate that any dogs who were left at closing would be euthanized. Well, it was going to be an easy job for the death-bringers because there was only one dog: she was a small, unspayed, ratting terrier who had been found in an alley and was still covered with filth. Her teeth were all crooked and though she was supposedly six months old she looked about 80 years. When A and the roommate took her home (how could they leave the creature to her doom) they immediately dumped her stinking body into a bath. The water turned black. They emptied the water and did it again. Black again. After filling and emptying the tub three times they could finally see her skin was a normal shade and that her fur was black and not greasy brown.

Kitoune and Buddy were a love-at-first-sight story (especially since Kitoune, unspayed, was heading towards her first heat). They would play relentlessly and fight like puppies do and Kitoune would always win because she had a ratting terrier talent: she would stick her nose in Buddy's mouth and bite down on his cheek. He'd shriek, they'd stop play-fighting and they would drop, exhausted, to sleep—curled around each other. Buddy died ten years later at thirteen or so. Kitoune, an old soul, started to develop the body to match losing all her teeth, then her sight and finally her hearing before she had to be put down at 18.

Beautiful stories, aren't they?

How the fuck is any dog—me, the one Cate is looking for, ugly fucks in the pound—supposed to be adopted when myths like those are floating about!

I say it again: take a dog which touches you and adapt (or, if you can—and you probably can't—make them adapt).

And Cate, one more thing: your new dog...I'm going to kill it anyway 'cause you're mine.

January 16, 2010; Cries and Whispers

AAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!

Everyone is suddenly a fucking expert and I am the subject of their expertise!

One-Legged Gingerlady tells the Mooks what to do! Cate tells the Mooks what to do! The Mooks tell each other what to do! And it all comes back to two people: me and the mother-fucking, suck-my-dick, eat-my-shit, burn-in-hell-for-all-eternity Dog -Fucking-Whisperer!

Okay, okay, okay—deep breath. Let's start at the beginning.

Mook B goes on holiday to France and I am left with Mook A. Something tells me I had better not fuck around with this one because he's in a pissy mood most of the time (we would all learn, later, that it wasn't just about having to walk me at 7:30 a.m. but also because he was nursing an infection and would end up in the hospital). Anyhoo...I don't piss in the house (as I would if Mook B was here), and I get my evening walk earlier than usual and my morning walk later than usual and hold it in and there you go. Mook A has learned that I can control my urges. Well, of course I can! It's just that I won't except when I feel my life may be in danger (as I did with Mook A, when he was alone).

So Mook A shares this information with Cate and One-Legged Gingerlady and, when he gets back, with Mook B. Except when B comes back, all bets are off. I am not going to be the well-behaved little lap dog I was when I was alone with A; I am going to be my self!!! So I piss on the couch leg.

It's when I piss in B's bed, again, that I realize everything is back to normal 'cause B says to A, "It was my fault...I slept too long." Life is good.

But that night...that very night...that very horrible night...

The Mooks watch an episode of the The Dog Whisperer. The smiling little foreigner tells someone that you can't make excuses for dogs. You can't say, "Oh! They were pound dogs!" or "Oh! I did something wrong so they are allowed to misbehave." Misbehaviour, says the little fuck, has to be "corrected" immediately. And then A talks to Cate who, also a fan of the fucking guy, agrees and A talks to One-Legged Gingerlady who is also a fan of the fucking guy and she, too, agrees. In short: everyone thinks I am out of control and have to be "corrected."

That's when it begins...

PSSSSSSSST!

PSSSSSSSST!

Mook A makes this noise...

PSSSSSSSST!

He hits the "P" and the "T" hard and does it each time I yank on the leash, jump on a piece of furniture, insist on a cuddle when he's reading the paper, go in for food one of them is eating...

PSSSSSSSSST!

And you know what? It scares the shit right out of me. There is something about that hard P and hard T and the hissing, snakey S's in between that smacks me in my non-existent testicles, climbs up and down my spine and shoots out my arsehole like farts from a curry.

Worse!

It makes me sit, and stay and behave and be "correct."

How—oh how???—do I get out of this? They even learned a lesson, from that nasty little man, about dogs who run away and they're planning to "correct" that with me too with that fucking PSSSSSSSSSST! Am I doomed to be here forever? Am I going to be one of those dogs: the ones who are cute and cuddly and behave?

Where's the fun in that? I mean, how do I get back to the days when I was training them? For instance, if I didn't eat the two of them would go into a tail-spin and virtually suck my cock to get me to eat the food. I mean, I kid you not, B would get down on all fours and pretend to eat my food himself, going "Mmmmmmmmm, Léo! It's so good!" And I'd sit there, laughing my fucking fool head off because, let's face it, there is nothing so funny as a human making an asshole of himself? Now, when I don't eat, or pretend the food isn't there, there's A with, "PSSSSSSSSSST! Eat your supper!" And—kill me now!—I get down to gobbling this putrid shit up!

The only time they let up is when they're in front of the TV and these days they spend a lot of time there watching the news from Haïti and crying their eyes out. I have to admit, it is pretty awful to see. I also get some respite as A (and it's always A) rants and raves about injustice and suffering and when he throws himself on the internet to tear new assholes for anyone who defends Pat Robertson and what he said about the Haitians bringing this down on themselves. (When A has a freak, no one is fucking safe. B and I just shut up and let him go on and on and on.)

But, inevitably, they turn off the TV and they go to bed and I lie awake, "behaving" on B's comforter and plotting...

...plotting ways to kill them all. Especially that mother-fucking, cock-sucking, shit-eating, may-he-burn-in-hell-for-all-eternity, Dog-Fucking-Whisperer.

January 13, 2010; The Gay Thing

A hard look

Christmas has come and gone and it's a new year, so I am looking around me and trying to evaluate (or re-evaluate) where I am and there's one thing that strikes me, here, living with the Mooks: it's the gay thing.

Except I'm starting to think it's not a gay thing at all but a straight thing. I mean, I look at my Mooks and they are pretty harmless. Yes, they can be tiresome when you're trying to watch a movie and they will freeze-frame on some shirtless guy and sigh and then move on but you've lost track of the story because you're just stewing in the fact that they paused the movie for something so stupid and they never pause the movie when there's nekkid female flesh on the screen. But these are small things. There are millions of reasons to hate the Mooks but I'm starting to realize that them being queer isn't one of them.

But I will tell you what does annoy me...straights and their problems with gays. Let's take a couple.

Like this Mrs. Robinson in Northern Ireland. Here's a politician married to a politician. She's spent a good deal of her life shrieking about homosexuality being an abomination. Then, suddenly...

Well let's think of it in these terms: what makes Mrs. Robinson think that the image of two lipstick lesbians feasting on bearded clam (mmmmmmmm clam) is somehow less repulsive than the image of 60-year-old Mrs. Robinson playing the skin flute or hide the bratwurst with some hairless adolescent...an Irish crone flapping her wattles and sagging tits all over the face of a kid who can still count his pubic hairs?

She's a piece of work, all right. I understand she's in a booby hatch right now. Well, that says it all because I've discovered that a lot of people with over-the-top opinions on homosexuality are usually a bit crazy.

Like the Ugandans.

So these people didn't have a lot of time for the gays and the lesbians before, but suddenly there appeared, in this sad little country, a trio of American Evangelists who were going to explain to all of Uganda that homosexuality was, indeed, an abomination but also that it was curable! Well the whole country cottoned on to these Ugly Americans and their ideas and before you know it, they started to pass a law: homosexuality was going to be punishable by death.

Well I don't know about you but if they start to kill people for using the back door how long before they're executing everyone for doggie style!!!??? You see where this is going? And don't think I'm over-reacting because we're talking about a continent where some people think you can cure AIDS by fucking babies.

AND IT'S EVERYWHERE!!!

On the web site, Americans for Truth About Homosexuality (yes, there is such a site), you can read: "Jesus Christ offers you complete forgiveness if you will swallow that gay pride, repent, believe in Him and accept His sacrificial atonement as a 'free gift' for your eternal salvation. Jesus is God yet He came down to earth to pay the price for your and my sins! Many former homosexuals have obeyed Christ’s words — 'Go now and leave your life of sin' — and embarked on a new, abundant life in Him."

You sorta want the writer of that to list his sins.

And after all this, I look at my Mooks who read Stephen King on their Kindles and play World of Warcraft or games on their iPhones and shovel the snow off the steps and feed me and watch Bargain Hunt and CSI (ad nauseam) and I wonder...

...where the hell are the bogeymen these drooling, semi-comatose fucktards are talking about?

January 10, 2010; Blogger's Block

Sniffing out stories

I am always surprised when I read about Blogger's Block—when a blogger has nothing to write about. Ferchrissakes, open any fucking paper or watch the news for a minute and you'll have plenty. I mean fucking plenty.

Take Harry Reid. Remember, last time, I said Barack should beat him up? Well, now there's a perfectly legitimate reason to do it: that Reid, before he was elected, said of Barry that he was "light skinned...with no Negro dialect." Negro? Really? In this day and age? Is this old fuck a retard or something? I mean you got to wonder, don't you? Or is he part of the larger conspiracy...

Yes, there's a conspiracy to bring this president down. Look at the facts. Since he took office someone went in and killed a bunch of CIA agents—you know that could only happen (if it actually did happen) with the consent of someone at the top of the Company (yeah! I know all about The Company!!!). Now add to that the story of the White House party-crashers. Clearly they were there to tell the whole world that security around the president was shit and that anyone who wanted to could take a shot at him? Do you remember White House party crashers during Bush? No, of course you don't because they're at Gitmo. Now add to those two stories the Christmas bomber. I mean it is simply not possible that that could happen unless someone—and I mean someone high up—let it happen. So there it is... Barack, keep your head down. Remember what they did to the Kennedy boys and that poor girl at Chappaquiddick.

Of course, not all news in the paper is important news but it still has the capacity to get you pissing on the floor with rage.

Take Tiger and his Woods. I mean, if that hound was a dog and had been sniffing about the cooters of 15 or more bitches, he'd be one ball-less animal. I think Ms Woods should consider consider fixing the fucker a term of the divorce settlement.

How about the models who refused to go onto the runway because they considered the shoes (about a foot high) too dangerous! I mean, who knew? They have brains!

And—hey!—Jay Leno has problems! Well, anyone who ever watched him on TV knows that: he isn't fucking funny. But now, in prime time, everyone is aware of it and, poor NBC, putting him at 11:30 or midnight or even three in the fucking a.m. won't hide the fact that the man has the comic timing of roadkill.

Need more? How about the fucks who had their subscriptions to BeautifulPeople.com cancelled because they all turned into porkers over the holidays. Let's face it, it's pretty hard to feel the least bit sorry for anyone who is on a web site called BeautifulPeople.com, isn't it? The good thing, though, is that these rejects have finally learned a real life lesson: if your thighs sing and your arse flaps when you walk you ain't beautiful fucking anything.

Dubai opens the world's tallest tower...Look! Look! On the horizon!!! It's a big truck! A truck loaded down with boxes and boxes of who-fucking-cares! Good Christ—if they're not building something huge and vulgar it wouldn't be fucking Dubai!

So don't tell me about Blogger's Block. There's 24-hour news, you can read any paper in the world on your Kindle (I got the models' story from The Independent on Mook A's machine) and you can listen to whole fucking podcasts about anything (including hours and hours of World of Warcast, do you believe it?).

There's crap everywhere that just makes you want to have a shit. Just look for it.

January 7, 2010; Evolution

Getting back to normal...ick.

Well, everything that was "holiday" is over—the tree is torn down, the decorations stored, the turkey almost eaten (oh! lordie the smell of turkey soup is enough too make me heave, now) and the Mooks back to their old, bitchy, whiney selves. Mook B is has returned to work and is climbing the walls, as usual. When he leaves to go to school (where he teaches in winter) it is like a tornado of stress has passed through the house, left destruction and gone leaving victims crying over their photo albums. Mook A, however, now can worry about his health full time and—oh!—you can imagine how much fun that is! He is like a bag of fretting, playing with bandages, pills and himself (not in a good way), trying to heal and get back to something that resembles a normal life (though I'm not sure he even knows what that means anymore!).

How do I fit in? Not at all, really. I get ignored a good deal of the time and when it is time for my walk one or the other heaves a mighty sigh of torment like taking me outside for a few minutes is like submitting to a circumcision. They truly are a pair of drama queens. The rest of the time? Well, there's playing with my plastic bone except when I throw that around and have myself a little fun it apparently makes too much noise for their delicate ear drums and I get bellowed at to stop. I can also grab B's slippers and try and provoke him into chasing after me but now, there too, he just barks for me to drop them. Sure, A allows me to cuddle with him when he's strung out on pain killers or if he's reading his precious fucking Kindle but all of this means I have an enormous amount of energy to burn off and every dog knows there is only one way to do this: licking.

So I lick! I lick what's left of my shriveled little ball sack. I lick my dick. I flick my tongue about my asshole. It's very calming.

But—there you go again!!!—one or the other shrieks at me and I have to stop or just get down off the couch or chair, find a quiet place and get back to it.

It's while I was having a good old-fashioned lick-fest that I started to think about evolution. Think along with me, will you? Think about how truly evolved the dog species is, compared to humans! Here I am, in a corner, happily and (importantly:) quietly licking my dick, not bothering anyone and at any time I can stop! Is there more magnificent proof that dog's are a insanely highly evolved class? We can lick ourselves...or not! We can lick ourselves...and stop! We eat, play, sleep, fuck, entertain humans, make our friends laugh and, when we want to, can lick ourselves...or not! Doesn't that show how truly exceptional we are?

Think about it in other terms.

Let's say, at one time in their evolution, humans had been able to lick themselves. I mean, jam their tongues up their assholes and cootches, wrap them around their dicks, slaver up those balls—I mean really lick! Do you have any idea what humans would look like or, even, would they have survived as a species? Sure there is the old joke that if men could lick themselves like dogs, they'd never do anything else but try to get beyond the joke and imagine the reality. They'd either all be extinct (because licking would be all they do) or they'd have been shaped quite, quite differently and become an animal we'd all laugh at.

It would be something like this: maybe biped, but with the back curved down so that the head was permanently near the gonads which would mean that to walk, the head would have to go back between the legs and would come out somewhere below the asshole and facing up. Except you can't walk facing up, so the head would have to be further tilted back so that they see where they were going. Now that is not a creature that would dominate the world is it? And it would not have been called a human or a homo anything like sapiens or habilus or even erectus (except in the most base sense). Suddenly you have a new species, don't you! If humans could lick themselves they wouldn't be people they'd be...I don't know...Assheads or even Backward Walking Assheads. They'd be in zoos and make little ones laugh because they'd have to move their heads to have a shit and, needless to say, some of them would be so engaged in their licking they wouldn't even do that!

Yup.

So don't tell me to stop licking, Mr. Mook! Remember, it's just an anomaly of fate, a flick of evolution, that has put you in charge instead of in a zoo. Asshead.

January 4, 2010; Resolutions

Okay, one resolution: I might, on a cold or wet day, allow the coat, but I will never allow the booties.

The fuckwad (ie: Mook A) has been reading crap in his fucking new Kindle or watching crap movies on his PVR or playing his idiot game and then turning off the computer, so I have had no access to it in the last while. But I am back and all set to start a new year of blogging. I will begin with resolutions. Now, as I am perfect, I have none for me, but I do have resolutions others should seriously consider.

For Barack:

Stop being a fucking pussy and do something! I mean, really something—not like that hunk of dirty toilet paper you call health reform. You could bomb Iran! You could lower the boom on North Korea! You could dance in the fucking street naked...I don't give a fuck...do something! Here's a real suggestion just to get things going: take Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid into a back room and beat them senseless. Sure, she's a woman, but another fucking facelift will cover the bruises as his livers spots will for him.

For Canadian Politicians:

Why bother.

For Dick Cheney:

STFU.

For Environmentalists:

Get rid of cars. End of story. Period. Not for the air—who cares how well you all breathe?—but because they kill greater beings...like dogs.

For the Russians and Chinese:

Watch yourselves. That's it: Just watch yourselves.

For Lindsay Lohan (et al.—you know who you are):

Blonde, dyke, booze, drugs, failed rehab, cosmetic surgery—is there anything you haven't tried, sweetheart? How about loads of therapy. Now look, I'm gonna level with you: you got talent and that's why I like you. So your resolution is trying not to die; if only because the spirits are still processing Michael Jackson.

For would-be terrorists:

Explosive dildos? Really? Besides burning your beezer off and making us all laugh over the Christmas holidays, what did that accomplish? How about thinking it through, the next time. I mean really thinking it through...from the beginning. I bet if you do you might actually get lives, wives, kids and a little joy in your lives. Oh!—and come back to me when you understand what Mohammed and Allah really meant.

For women, men (and queers):

Stop being twats and pricks and get fucking. Talking only gets you into trouble and after fucking at least you sleep well (which can't ever be said for talking). Besides, you all talk too fucking much. Just shove your noses up each others arseholes and start passing the batwang!

For dogs:

It is time to assume your place. Kill the ones with the uncovered skin and anything that smells like soap.