Killing the Mailman with Calm-Assertive Energy

(Ernie, Red and Dixie)

I get a knock on the door today. So I push thru the barking dogs and step onto the front porch. The screen door shuts behind me as I ask in my most put-on baritone, "Can I help you?" The man in question is a good foot shorter than me, but still has the nerve to say, "I'm from the Post Office. Your mother called yesterday about the mailbox. . ."

My mother? Bitch, you don't know me! I quickly corrected him. "My wife?" "Yes, sorry. She said there was a problem with the height of your mailbox?" "No, that's not what she said. The mailman thinks there is a problem with the height of our mailbox. We think the problem lies in the fact that he has vandalised it". "Well, I don't see any issue with the height. I'll have to talk with him". "Well, you can talk with him, I can talk with him or the police can talk to him. Either way I don't wanna have to worry about the mailman breaking my stuff".

I was feeling a bit frustrated after the encounter. And with Bekki at work today there was no one to yell at. So even though it's been raining all day (all week), I decided to take the pack on a walk. I just finished the Cesar Millan book Be the Pack Leader as well as almost finishing off the entire first season of the Dog Whisperer with Bekki (thank you, Netflix) so I figure I could try and put some of those lessons to practice. The smell of the rain and the trees was invigorating. It just reemphasizes my belief that it's easier to find god in the woods than in the church. If you don't believe me then, hey, just ask my dogs.

Morning Breath All Day Long

I've been obsessed with fresh breath recently. That doesn't even feel right to say. You should always be concerned with fresh breath I suppose. But with me this is mostly a new phenomenon. That's not to say that before this epiphany, this tidal wave of self-discovery that my breath was foul. But I did smell someone else's breath recently and was shocked. I can't remember who, so for the sake of a good story I'll say it was Ernie.

Ernie likes to eat things like vomit, feces and garbage. He's a dog and his breath is extremely foul, but recently it has started to smell like rancid roast beef. I suppose I should get his teeth cleaned. Ernie was a birthday present for my wife. He was her 25th birthday present to be exact. Not her last in a series of twenty five presents, but a present for her 25th year of life. I got him from the pound. I don't believe in breeders. They're nothing but practitioners of eugenics with less education. And if they are backyard breeders then they usually have no education. "How many people live at your residence?" "Just two. My wife and I". "Ok, she'll have to come down and meet the dog before you adopt him". "But it's a surprise. For her birthday". "I'm sorry, but she'll have to come down before we can release him". So I stopped by Lisa's house. She wasn't busy so I asked her if she could pretend to be Bekki for an hour. She found a ring in her jewelry box and squeezed it onto her ring finger.

Bekki was lying in bed when I walked through the door carrying Ernie. "What type of dog is he?", she asked. I told her he was a Fox Terrier. That's what the nice folks at the pound had told me. Come to find out Ernie is a Rat Terrier. The name is not nearly as impressive, but Teddy Roosevelt had a pack of 'em so I let it go. I carry a box of Altoids with me now for my breath. I don't know if they help. I give Ernie mint flavored dog treats and they sure as hell don't.

An Open Letter To A Big Red Girl

Dear Red,

I know you're scared tonight. Hell, I'm scared too. It's been snowing for an hour now. I coulda swore I saw a flake or two stick. It mighta been my cataracts. You're scared for different reasons, though. Going under the knife is pretty risky business. And not in the cool Tom Cruise jumping on couches way, either. I'm talking 'bout the hold your boots and shit your pants kinda risky business.

If I was the type to falsify statistics for dramatic effect, I'd say that I've got a 12% chance of sliding off the icy roads into a telephone poll tonight. You? I'd probably say you've got a one in four chance of sudden respiratory failure. That or a severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. But I'm not the type to make up bullshit like that, so cheer up. You'll be fine. I'm 85% sure of it.

Obama's inauguration is tomorrow. That's something to get optimistic about. I'm not sure how close you follow politics, but it's important. Some people don't think so. But it is. It affects everyone. Even you. The better the economy does, the more treats we can afford to buy you. Lord knows you love your doggy treats. A lot of churches around here are calling this the End of Days. Don't believe 'em. Even if Obama is the anti-Christ, it'll take him months to organize his army of demons. At worst, this is the End of Months- Years possibly.

Yo Momma's worried about you. She says she hates you, but she's worried. I'm not worried 'cause I know you'll do fine. Havin' a doctors cold steel tool slap against your wiffer can't be too different than Ernies wet fleshy tool. And hopefully the operation will decrease your fragrant girl smell. I'm pretty sure that's what causes Ernie to go so crazy for you. That and your sweet ass. Anyways, I'll see you tomorrow morning when I pick you up.

Love,
Yo Daddy

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part IV)

You’re supposed to socialize your puppy from a young age. To expose them to as many different people, places and animals as possible. Not humanly possible, because I’m a human and I hate society. No, just plain old socialization will be fine. I’d like to think that I was sitting on that bench with Red today for that reason, but I wasn’t. No, I was hoping to run into Gregory. He owns a restaurant on Main Street. I know him on a first name basis because his restaurant is named Gregory’s. I don’t pretend to like him. Actually I do. No one can sauce up some chicken wings like Gregory can. But when I’m by myself there is absolutely no pretension whatsoever. I promise. Because honestly, I can’t stand the guy. Right before the recent election he’s got McCain-Palin signs decked out in all his windows. Now, I’m all for someone having their own beliefs and expressing those beliefs. This is America after all. But in a place of business? And it doesn’t help that those beliefs are in opposition to mine.

So I wait. I wait outside of Gregory’s for a man named Gregory to walk out and smoke his afternoon cigar. I could have gone inside to talk to him, but I had a dog with me. Poor planning on my part.

The truth is I pussed out. I had a whole notebook of questions about the GOP, but I pussed out. A scared journalist is like a dead soldier. Neither knew what they were getting themselves into. No Austin. No big doughy titties. No Pill Lady. And no Gregory. Back to the drawing board. Back to the day job, too.

-FIN-

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part III)

“Hey, you got a reel purty dog there. What kind is it?” We were up on Main Street, now. Red slunk down behind my legs like a bashful five year old. She’ll chase cats to Hell and back, but I’m not sure if she knows what to think around strangers. Especially strange old men who wear too much Old Spice.

I looked down at her inquisitively. “I don’t know. I think she might be a cocker spaniel”.

He was crouching down, now. He gave her a few strokes across her brow and scratched her chin. “Boy, I don’t know about no cocker spaniel. Ain’t they normally got long, curly hair? To me she looks like she’s got pitbull in her”.

I regretted having not properly trained her to attack pompous old fats who call men boys. I looked at her and scrunched up my forehead. “I don’t know, mister. I’m pretty sure she’s full bred cocker spaniel. That’s what the papers say at least”.

He looked up at me with a turned up lip. His teeth were off white, but denture-straight. My blank expression left him with no other option than to believe me. Or at least believe that I thought my dog was a cocker spaniel. “Well, whatever she is, she sure is purty”. We said our parting words and continued. I coughed my way out of his Old Spice mushroom cloud and back onto Main Street’s sidewalk.

Whenever I walk down a sidewalk I picture everbody as Shel Silverstein characters. At six foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds I could have easily been a caricature of someone far more handsome. Like Benicio del Toro. Red was pretty goofy, too. She hadn’t grown into her legs, yet. They sprung out like bean stalks with white socks dangling from her toes.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part II)

Pitbulls are supposed to get a lot of exercise. I’m not saying Red’s a pitbull or anything, but if she were she would definatley need a lot of exercise. She acts like a bulldog on occasion. I’m not sure if it’s just her natural temperament or if it’s on account of all the red meat I feed her. That and the neglect. The point is that she loves walks. Walks are great exercise for dogs. So we turn off Cleghorn onto Hill Street. Hill Street goes up at a seventy degree angle. That’s the type of exercise that makes me regret a steady diet of Hot Pockets and Slim Jims. Hill empties out into the back parking lot of the 1st Baptist Church. Before we bought our house, my wife asked the realtor why they called it the 1st Baptist Church. Apparently the town has two Baptist churches and this one was the first one built. Did they call it something else before the 2nd Baptist Church was built? Or did they always envision the town having more than one? I would have come up with a more creative name, but I’m not in the church-naming business. Hell, I’m not even in the soul-saving business. I’m in the dog walking business.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part I)

The wind whips against my door like a slave driver. So I put Red on her leash and let her drag me out into the mud. A gust almost lifts me off the ground. She looks like a kid flying a kite at the beach. Or running down the street with a birthday balloon. I try to rein her in enough to where she can’t jump from the sidewalk to the street. I’m not sure how acute her fear of cars is yet, but I assume it’s minimal.

We took a left down Cleghorn. There’s a little Mexican boy that lives there. I call him Chunk. I call him that because he’s a fat little fucker. I haven’t seen him since the leaves began to fall. He never wore a shirt during the summer, so I assume he doesn’t got one. That would explain why he can’t be found in cold weather.

It’s not a Mexican neighborhood, though. I wish it was. Then I could get a decent chalupa. Austin’s family is across the street from Chunk. I think they might be Irish. I say this on account of Austin’s bright red hair. That and his sister’s big doughy titties. I’m not sure if Irish broads having big doughy titties is an actual stereotype or not, but I’d like to think so. I assume Red’s Irish as well. She doesn’t have tits, but her red coat makes her look like a Hell Hound.

Further up the street there lives the Pill Lady. She looks just like a sweet old lady. You walk by her house and she’ll be standing there on her porch waving and smiling. She’ll say something sweet like “Hey, what a pretty dog you got”. And then when you’re all comforted by this grandmotherly figure, she asks if you’re holding any pain killers. So, yeah, I was kinda looking forward to turning her down for the umpteenth time, but she wasn’t there. Either I’m the only one stupid enough in this town to walk against this wind or Pill Lady and Chunk are out shopping - for shirts and pills respectively.

Three Dogs Walk Into My Living Room. . .

The nails on my left hand are black right now. No, I didn't paint them black in a self-conscious attempt at becoming "emo" or "emo-like". And, no, I didn't accidentally crush my fingers with a hammer. Although, that wouldn't hurt to solidify my masculine persona. No, the cause of this androgynous stunt is purely coincidental. It seems one of my beloved pooches decided to steal a pen from the coffee table and disembowel it. I suppose a small amount of regret was felt, because the animal in question then decided that the pen deserved a proper burial- especially considering the horrific death it endured. The grave? Between the cushion of my favorite chair.

So I pull my hand up to see it covered in black ink. Then I pull the cushion up to see that it, too, is covered in black ink. The culprit, I concluded, might also be covered in black ink. My conclusions were right. I give each dog a solid inspection. Dixie? Clean. Ernie? Also clean. Red? Caught, well, red handed.

Update

Red, the american pit bull terrier (mix?), is adjusting to life in our house (kennel) with ease. She seems extremely smart. Bekki taught her sit and lay down on command in about ten minutes. That's pretty smart for an energetic little puppy. I've been thinking about starting her real training soon. I've already got the tread mill and the raw meat to feed her. I figure if I slap her around a little bit she might lose her trust in humans and turn vicious. We leave the tv on for the dogs when we go to work (I know, right?). Bekki has been leaving it on MSNBC who are apparently having a "Lock Down: Life Behind Bars" marathon. What better way for Red to get vicious than by forcing her to watch 8 hours of brutal killers and child rapists?

My first live radio show will be Monday December 29th from 12am-4am EST (So I suppose it's technically Tuesday morning, not Monday night). If anyone is interested you can listen to the station from your PC by going to their website WNCW.org and clicking on the Listen Live button in the top left hand corner of the page. I'm listening to the station right now and it sounds crystal clear. So if anyone is curious to hear my infamous lisp/stutter, tune in Monday night (especially you guys on the West coast. With the time delay, you've got no excuse!).

Be good, Bitches!

Our Little Irish Rose

I finally got our pictures of Red developed. Red was found late one cold night wandering on the highway. She has adapted pretty well and seems like a very intelligent dog. The only problem is her size. She's about 14 weeks old and is already 21 pounds. Ernie, our largest dog, is only 15 pounds and even he's a tad overweight. We're not sure exactly how large Red will get, because we aren't exactly sure what breed or breeds she is. You, the reader, can be the judge of that.

This is Red sitting with Ernie, our Rat Terrier. This is a pretty rare moment considering all he wants to do is mount her or avoid her. Dogs are so human-like.


This, on the other hand, is a pretty common occurrence. Dixie, our Chihuahua/Dachshund mix, and Red act like life-long friends. I just hope Red doesn't turn on Dixie when she hits puberty. Teenage girls can be so cruel.

The Terrier Song

I've been singing this for days. Thanks to the Kids in the Hall for this gem.

Update

Did you hear about that guy that got the anti-pit bull legislation passed? Yeah, he got mauled to death by a pit bull. In other news, I got a dog. Or should I say a dog got me. I was driving home from work Sunday night and I almost make mashed potatoes out of this stray dog. So I pull over to see if everything's alright and it basically jumps into my car. So now we've got 3 dogs and 3 cats. Bekki says that we're officially insane, now. I think I'm inclined to believe her.

The dog is less than 4 months because she's got all her baby teeth still. She also hasn't been fixed because I can't see any scar on her belly AND because Ernie, my male Rat Terrier, won't stop trying to knock boots with her. Bekki thinks she's a pit bull mix. The vet said she's a red bone coon hound mix. I don't know what the hell she is. I'll have pictures soon, though, so you the viewer can decide.

I now have one full hour of live radio under my belt (I had to remove the balled up socks to make room). So when my first "show" happens, I'll let all of my adoring fans out in cyberspace know. The station, WNCW, has a way for you to listen live from their website. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.

Friday Dogfight

This dog knows what he wants and takes action quickly. I like that in a dog. It shows character. Now if I could only get MY cats to stay that still.

Friday Dogfight

My grandfather always said that when he died he wanted to come back as a stud horse. I wouldn't mind coming back as this Rat Terrier.

Buzz

Buzz, a beautiful golden retriever, had been with the family for years. My brother-in-law, Steve, was his original owner. Every time he traveled up from Florida he'd bring Buzz along. Buzz was great with all three of Steve's children. He was just a wonderful dog. Steve more or less fell on hard times so the dog came up to North Carolina to live with Amy, my sister-in-law. Every time Bekki and I would go to visit her sister, there was Buzz.

Buzz was found in the ditch in front of Amy's house the other day with a gunshot wound to his hind leg. The vet said the .22 probably didn't kill him but made him incapable of crawling out of the wet, icy ditch where he more than likely froze to death. Some people out there think it's ok to shoot an animal for no good reason. Sadly, more people think this than you would think.

Friday Dogfight

This is neither funny nor scandalous. It's just a Rat Terrier and a Pit Bull Terrier playing. If you like dogs, here's a 3 minute waste of your time.

Milo and Otis

Bekki and I just bought a new DVD player. Our cat, Clementine, broke the old one (she has her moods). Well, we were carousing our local Wal-Mart the other day and decided to pickup a copy of the children's classic The Adventures of Milo and Otis. I'd seen it as a child, loved it and rightly assumed that its charm would not be lost to time. But what I saw shocked and horrified me. Honestly.

The film shows Milo the cat jumping (being thrown) off a cliff into the ocean, fighting a black bear and many other dangerous and harrowing stunts. But the sickest thing occurs later in the film. The director tries to construct a 'love story' out of this blatant 'buddy film' and it falls short in so many ways. Milo totally ditches Otis for a hot piece of cat tail. Then Otis finds some poon as well. Neither one of them gets married, mind you. But I let this slide. Until. . .

. . . Until they show closeups of the cat and the dog giving birth! Not fake Hollywood stuff, but real birth. The cat eats off the sack from the kittens and everything! All of you Republican men who dream of sucking the retarded afterbirth from Sarah Palin's pussy lips need to see this movie. It might turn you queer.

When the credits start rolling, I see all these Asian names. I know of Prince Gomolvilas , so that accounts for one Asian in California, but who the hell are all these other people? So I Wikipedia the film and find that it's a Tokyo release, which would explain all the weird shit.

I, for one, agree with the racist statements of John McCain and denounce this film as well as anything else done by those "squint-eyed sons of bitches"! I also support McCain's right to call his wife a cunt . I'm not afraid to say it. Don't believe me? Then, here: John McCain's wife is a cunt.

Sarah Palin? I'd rather fuck a pig.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Rainy Day Rescue #2 and 13

#2 "Hello? Yes I have your dog. She was wandering around the highway today. She was about to get hit by a semi when I snatched her up. She gets out pretty frequently, huh? You leave the gate open so she can return? You're not sure why she went to the busy streets today instead of the neighborhood streets?" -Bekki on the phone with (un)concerned pet-owner

Maybe that's because dogs lack the reasoning skills that (some) people have!

I met Bekki in the yard this morning to see her cradling a very scared little pooch that was covered in feces. We bathed her (twice) to get the poop from her neck and face. I washed her collar which was covered in poop and wiped the rabies tag clean so we could find a number to call. Bekki soon found out the dog's name (Sadie Mae) and the location of her home (2 blocks from the highway). Sadie Mae soon found a budding friendship with another Southern belle as Dixie made her feel more than welcome to play in the backyard. Ernie, who had to be locked in the computer room, was less welcoming.

Her spotted skin was very apparent, especially when we bathed her. This, coupled with her coloring and face, led us to believe that she is a Jack Russel mix. Her body screams either Dauschund or Basset Hound. A weird combination, I know. After the cat I had to bury a few weeks ago and the German Shepard that ran into the woods off of Highway 70, it was nice to be able to have a successful rescue.

#13 The wife and I finally got to see There Will Be Blood last night. I've been itching to see it for a while and wasn't disappointed. Daniel Day-Lewis was just as phenomenal as he always is. The guy that played Eli was pretty stunning, too. This film brought us back to a conversation we had about another movie we recently saw, Shutter. Joshua Jackson is by no means anywhere close to Daniel Day-Lewis (in the wedding scene he has stubble! who doesn't shave on their wedding day?), but the difference that was the most interesting was the length to which each director went to explain their plot. At the end of Shutter, the director gives you a five minute recap to explain the "twist" as if you're a complete idiot. There Will Be Blood, on the other hand, left us scratching our heads at various occurrences. This leads me to my point. The brilliance of any film (or any other artwork for that matter) is not in any one performance, but in how intelligent the director perceives the audience to be.

The title of this blog is a Bob Dylan reference, just in case that was lost to anyone.

The Best Kind of Staff Infection Never Truly Leaves You

Staffordshire Bull Terrier


This is a link to a short article I wrote. Enjoy!