Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I made a Dogbook account to link up to my Facebook account. I think I got a little carried away.
Life has not always been the easiness for me. My mother was a three-legged bitch who ate my poop.
My father, a Boston Terrier, was a musician, or at least that's what he called digging through people's garbage and howling at the moon. He was killed when he and his buddies got drunk after eating a bunch of juice boxes that had been left out in the sun behind a Wal-Mart. In a drunken stupor, he got the bright idea to try to scare the mailman. Him and his pals hid in what they thought was a mailbox, but it was really a trash compacter that happened to have an old envelope in it.
I guess he died how he lived.
Word around the kennels was that a six-toed cat pushed the button to start the compactor while my drunken cur of a father was passed out inside. To this day, I train day and night in the art of chasing cats until I find the felonious feline that compacted my father.
I remember the last time I saw him. He said to me, "Hey, kid, quit bein retahded and git outta heah . I'm trying to get my hump on with this golden retrievah. I heard she's a slut, bong!"
It's not the most inspiring last words, but hey, I'm a dog, I take what I can get.
To those who call me friend, know that all I truly care about is finding that cat. Until that day.
My Owners...ha. I live with a bunch of apes that go by the name of Lopez. They hardly ever feed me deliberately, but they are some sloppy bastards and I get to eat whatever falls after the floor unless one of those damn babies gets to it first.
Don't get me started on those kids. One of those humans needs to get it off its lazy ass and teach them the difference between "doggy" and "horsey" cause hey, I'm a 25 pound dog over here and those kids already outweigh me. Every time they jump on my back I know how Tom Arnold felt under Roseanne Barr. Whoa, you think that jokes old, try it when you measure life in dog years, am I right? It's 7-1, which coincidentally is also my endowment in a few other areas, you know what I mean? I'm talking about my red rocket over here, hey! Easy, I'm a dog; I don't know nothin about modesty. I see an ass, I sniff it, right?
The ancient Greeks called dogs "the shameless ones." Hey, you try telling if it's a boy or a girl under all that fur? You just get up on it and hope for the best, know what I mean? (Ah, you know what I'm talking about; I seen your Myspace friends. Yikes. I hadn't woofed so much since the Clifford Convention back in '06) And we're color-blind. And who are the Greeks to make fun of he-bitches, eh? I have it on good information that after inventing democracy they all headed to the saunas, and they came out quite a bit dirtier than when they went in, mind you. And it's still true to this day; I knew this Alopekis named Nibbles and you couldn't turn your back on him without him trying to slip you the ol' Organic Snausage. Yeah, he's the kinda dog that won't believe it's not bacon.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Television, in its early days of regularly scheduled programming, provide something of a common consciousness for the people.
Youtube provides something like a fractured revived brain with split personalities and horrible fusions of neurons that revive for a millisecond to flashbulb a nightmare image of their oxygen-starved hallucinations. Like Furries.
So instead of Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street, my twins will grow up with a hodgepodge of internet videos I find humorous, beautiful, or are accompanied by a song I like.
I hope it will serve them well if the future gets worse before it gets better.