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.

December 28, 2009; Christmas Crap

Hundreds of dollars of gifts for each other and not a single one for me, the fucks!

Christmas has more or less come and gone. I say more or less because these two seem to make it go on and on and on by inviting people over after the day for gift exchanges, meals, snacks and whatnot.

On the day itself, though, it was as to be expected: Mook A got a Kindle from B, B got a ton of books and candy from A, and I sat there in heady anticipation and got sweet-fuck-all. Things were a little better when lunch rolled around and they took out this roasted turkey the size of a fat six-year-old. It was clear they weren't going to eat it at one sitting (though they did seem to be trying). It was then they managed to spread a bit of the Christmas spirit to little old me and I started to see nice, juicy clumps of fresh, hot turkey flying at me. They also made themselves sandwiches, from time to time the rest of the day, and if I was there I managed to get a little more turkey. So though my giftie-self wasn't satisfied, my stomach was. At one point things got even better. Mook B left the door of the bathroom open and before anyone had noticed I managed to grab myself a wonderful, largish and aromatic piece of soap. B suddenly saw me doing this and bellowed, "Drop it! Drop it!' and I did the only smart thing: I swallowed it whole.

Here's the thing with soap: it doesn't taste nearly as good as it smells and there was a rather unpleasant aftertaste and little burps and farts for the rest of the day which burnt both esophagus and arsehole.

On Boxing Day Sis and Bro came over with one of their kids and all I can say about that is that I didn't get any gifts—again!—and only a little turkey this time. But the next day Cate swung by and, finally, there were gifts for me! She opened with some cookies and then, when it was time for the afternoon walk, she brought out my big gift: a winter coat. It's warm, it's dry and I don't look too queer in it though it does hold my fur down so when I shake out to fluff up my coat I get no satisfaction. As we were walking that first time (me in the coat) we ran into Bengie and the two of us commiserated about our winter-wear. Mind, I didn't have the heart to tell him that he did look like a faggot in his blue, hand-knitted sweater and booties. I also ran into Ginger in her own little coat. She, however, had absolutely no Christmas spirit. She had just endured an eight hour car ride back from fuck-knows-where with the one-legged Ginger-lady and she was in a horrific mood. I wanted to play and she wanted to rip my dick off and would have damn near succeeded if her mistress hadn't intervened. "She's never liked overly-energetic dogs," Gingerlady said lamely to explain the little bitch's appalling behaviour. All I can say is that I'm going to think long and hard before I go snuffling that dog's cunt again.

Meanwhile, B has developed a cold and is hacking all over the house which means it is only a matter of time before A picks it up, it gathers steam in his poor, beaten body and he ends up in the hospital again with pneumonia or plague or some fucking thing only he is capable of catching. I mean, I don't wish it on him; it is nice to have the two of them here for walks and neither keeping track of who gave me a hunk of turkey when. It means that my life—despite the distinct lack of gifts—is one of eating, sleeping, walking, and eating and sleeping again.

I suppose, as Christmases go, it could be worse.

December 22, 2009; Men and Women

There is a general slowing down happening in La Maison Mook and this means that, mostly, Mooks A and B and I laze about in front of the TV. We're watching a lot of movies, many of them shit (like this thing called Surfer, Dude with Matthew McConaughey who apparently doesn't give a shit what he does with his career).

But some of the films are just baffling, like this thing Diary of a Shopaholic, where the silly gash who is the main character appears to be retarded. The Mooks hated the fucking movie more than I did and stopped it about 30 minutes in—thank Keer-ist!—but not before I started to wonder about women, men and men and women. You see, that film is what they call a chick-flick and that would suggest that it is aimed at all women and that would further suggest all women are retarded. However, my experience with broads suggests otherwise. I mean, take Cate and Sis—they seem like really solid, together people. Are they unusual in that respect? I don't know.

But here's the thing: if you look at the friends (not relatives) who surround the Mooks, almost every one of them is single and, at their ages, not likely to be changing that status in the near future. I've heard some of Cate's talk about men in her life, and when Straight Guy (SG) was here after the fire at his place, he not only talked about his love-life but also about the contorted lives of people he knows. The running theme of all these stories is that no sane person seems to be able to hook up with any other sane person. And it's not looks! I'd do Cate (and have tried to!). And I know the Mook A has more than a little penchant for SG. So what's the deal?

Here's my theory: I think that as humans age they get wiser and although this is a good thing in some ways, it is utterly useless in chosing a mate. Ask any 20-year-old! Fucking is where it has to start. It's basic. It's why dogs sniff each other's assholes and lick each others gonads. I mean, being friends is fine and dandy, and so is being intellectual equals, but I think older, wiser people have piled so much heavy meaning onto something (ie: porking) that they don't even do it anymore and, worse, don't realize how important it is because they aren't doing it!

A dog can sniff out a lot of info from another dog's bunghole or the smell and taste of another dog's piss. In the same way, how a person kisses can tell you so much about the other person as does the fact that they are willing (or not) to go downtown and, then, if they're any good when they're down there. That oh-so-smart guy you've got your eye on isn't quite so smart, is he?, if while he's down there he's licking all the wrong places; you know...spit sloshing down your leg, tongue flying everywhere, but the actual pleasure-button nowhere near the soaking action! And, vice versa, she may believe everything you believe (ie: vegetarianism, etc.), but if, when she kisses, her mouth is all dessicated and her cooter is almost crispy from dryness, then you have to know that her vegetarianism has driven her to despise all meat (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

Humans of a certain age have piled so much importance onto good old shtupping, that they don't realize it's the best way to find a mate while having fun. When the boning is good, you see it all: drama, tragedy and comedy in the form of moans, tears and laughter. The meaning of a person comes through because they are raw and naked and honest whereas Mr. or Ms Perfect can always cloak their faults in nice clothes, pretty talk and a handsome or pretty little smile (which is actually a smile of utter bafflement and stupidity but which all humans wish to see as a smile of intelligence and—ah, yes!—agreement).

So, bottom line, I think humans take sex way too seriously except when they're doing it when they don't take it nearly as seriously as they should.

Meanwhile, preparation for Christmas, here, goes on with the arrival of a Christmas tree. I don't get the Mooks. They buy a turkey the size of a horse and a tree the size of a chihuahua. And then they get pissed because I decide to snack on the fucking decorations.

Go figure.

December 19, 2009; Going Apeshit

Six days to go to Christmas and the Mooks are losing their fucking minds!

There's been lots of talking and whispering about gifts and I know what Mook A is getting for B and vice versa, but in all of this chatter I haven't heard so much as a murmur from either of them about anything for me. I suspect these two are like all those other "sane" people who see dogs as dogs and not much else; we're not members of the family or any other fucking thing like that so we don't merit birthdays or Christmases or anniversaries. Frank, my old owner, made a big thing out of the holidays. He refused all invitations out and made it about him and me. So there was lots of food, gifts, smoking, booze and porn. All day until we both fell asleep on the sofa from utter satiation.

The only thing I've heard about a gift for me has been from Cate and she hinted it might be clothes and she hinted it might go with my new Harley Davidson collar. So I suspect we're talking something leather. However, here's the thing about leather: there's a very thin line between looking like a Hell's Angel and looking like one of those guys at a gay pride parade who has the chaps and vest, yes, but also rings on his fingers, toes, nipples and dick and a buttplug already in place.

Meanwhile, the Christmas tree is coming tomorrow and I guess I'll deal with that when it gets here; some of those things are very intrusive—cutting your territory by about half so it becomes a requirement to mark it. Today they bought the turkey and it was so fucking honking I didn't know if I should eat it or fuck it. I sniffed its ass and realized there wasn't much pleasure to be had either way. I guess I'll wait to see what the stuffing is like (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

Strangely, in all the mad preparation and silliness, the realities go on. A Christmas with Frank was time-stopping—nothing that was real or vaguely harsh was allowed to intrude. Here, A still has to change his appliance every three or four days and the day after Christmas he has to haul his sorry arse to the clinic to see a nurse (and that was only after hard negotiation so that he wouldn't have to go in on Christmas day itself!). So the Mooks make their Christmas around these things—try to make the realities banal and, I guess, in time (and if they work hard at it), life's little miseries will take on a kind of banality...like brushing your teeth.

The approaching festivities mean one little misery for me: that I are now dealing with real winter—gargantuan piles of snow, -20 cold and ice, gravel and salt. The Mooks don't like walking me in this crap at all, but they nevertheless keep pretending that the fresh air is good for them (even though they both chain-smoke during the entire outing). This must be said for both of them: they notice when I start hobbling from the salt or ice or gravel and they deal with immediately and in a relatively gentle way and, when we get back in and are cuddling, they take my feet in their hands and warm up my poor, pink and abused little pads.

However, they do not deal with another problem of winter: the beads of frozen piss which stay stuck in my cock hair after a walk. You want to know cold? Have hard little ball-bearings of iced urine bedecking your pecker.

December 16, 2009; Christmas is coming

Christmas is coming!

The nerves are getting raw!

Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!

Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!

If you haven't got a fifty, then a twenty just might do;

If you haven't got a twenty—well then—hey! Fuck you!

Yesterday the Mooks woke up from their post-travel, post-hospital stupours and noticed it was ten days before Christmas and they had done nothing to prepare.

Immediately there was panic and consternation and no shortage of nattering. Mook B ended up with the task of preparing the Christmas card which in this household, as it turns out, always features the dog. As I am the dog, I was set up for a modeling session. This wasn't to hard because the "inspired artistes" who were doing the shoot had absolutely nothing original up there sleeves so I just had to lie on my back and stare at the lens. Sort of like for porn.

However, after the pictures were taken there was the not-so-small task of actually doing the cards and the task was conferred upon B, again. As you may have read, when it comes to technology B's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree and after some weeping about pixels and centimeters and inches, A had to stick his nose in and then the fur really started to fly.

"EVERY FUCKING YEAR, YEAR IN, YEAR OUT, IT'S THE SAME FUCKING THING WITH THE CHRISTMAS CARD. YOU NEVER WRITE DOWN THE PROCESS SO THAT WE CAN JUST GET IT OVER WITH AND GET ON WITH OUR FUCKING LIVES. WHY DON'T WE JUST BUY SOME UNICEF CARDS...OR THE ONES FROM THOSE PEOPLE WHO PAINT WITH THEIR FEET! WHY—EVERY YEAR!—DO WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS SAME DRAMA!"

After the diatribe, A slammed out of the house to begin the Christmas groceries which will include a turkey the size of an Irish Setter, and all the fixings. The house became positively peaceful when he left and B and I just hummed along in the bliss of silence. The card got done, but as it is not yet two days before Christmas it has not been sent to anyone.

Meanwhile, Mook A does have a few reasons to be in a pissy mood. He's on mega-antibiotics for that thing on his hand and he wakes up every morning feeling like he's been out drinking hard the night before. This morning he had two different medical appointments at two different places both before ten o'clockn and left here for them feeling wretched and retchy. If things don't get better by next week, then he will have to continue his thrice-weekly visits to the clinic during the holidays. Considering the moaning he does each time he has to go to the clinic, we won't be getting too many fucking Silent Nights around here.

The house does not smell like ginger and vanilla, yet; but for me, it's never been that way. First with Frank and now with the Mooks, come Christmas, Easter or The Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the house has always smelled like cigarettes and dog.

Mmmmmmmmmm.

Oh! TV night!

They're showing a Peanuts Special

And then there's the thing where the deer's nose is red

Long are the hours of 'toons and wretched movies

The ones with Bing make we wish I was dead.

And then there's bed and dreams of turkey dark meat

And up we get to see the bird's still cold!

Fall on your knees!

Proceed now with the blowjob!

No food! No tube!

You might as well just use the lube!

No food! No tube!

Thank God we bought so-o-o-o-o-me lube!