Monday, March 7, 2011


If there's one thing that I've learned it's that going potty pays! And if there's two things I've learned, the more it pays the more I become one entitled b*tch. Which has become a problem with the current demise of our economy. As Westminster winner P. Krugman (first Schnauzer to win) recently penned, "Money is cheap. Milk Bones are expensive. It's too early to make a prediction for DWTS." He's right, milk bone prices have shot up ten cents in the last three years and money prices have tanked. But dude, you are dead wrong about DWTS! Kristie Alley will not just win, but dominate. There's nothing she wouldn't or couldn't do for a Klondike bar. And there's nothing I wouldn't do, better yet, there's nothing I haven't done for a milk bone. I won't go into detail (my grandmas read this), but what I do want to detail are the sacrifices that I have been forced to make because of Frannie Drescher (lesbian) and Freddie Prince Jr.'s (hottie) mortgage Fonzie (Hey!) scheme. I told McCain back in 2005 that it was getting too big. I was referring to his comb over though. Every time he got out of the shower he looked like the crypt keeper. He wouldn't listen though. And now we're in a recession. And just like Tyra Bank's receding hairline, such has become my milk bone intake. I remember the glory days (2007-2007) where the milk bones used to flow like something that really flows and every time I made a bowel movement I was reimbursed. Those days are gone. These are turbulent times we live in. Sacrifices must be made, but really mom and dad?! They're freaking milk bones!! I'm not a Wisconsin teacher, I'm a dog! And I deserve to be treated as such!!

Friday, January 21, 2011

Fear and Loathing in Wheaton

Hello 2011!

I'm back. Like a rash. Speaking of, I think I got one of those. Picked it up from one of my uncles (George or Bailey). Not like that. I mean they are creeps but not your prototypical "creepy uncle(s)." They're schizos. Is that contagious? Maybe I have that and the rash is part of it. It feels good to itch it though. Or is it scratch? I never got that. Anyway, they were crashing with us for two weeks. It was a wild ride! We sniffed the bejeezes out of one another. Stayed up late. Slept through the day. Used bookshelves, briefcases, and all the above as fire hydrants. Pounded bone after bone. George took it too far. He got pretty messed up on an old rawhide and put the ole bone goggles on and I'm not sure what he was seeing but I had a pretty good buzz going when I saw him wheel-barreling Bailey! WTFug! I know they're from Iowa but still...! They say it's a dominance issue or something. I wouldn't know. I dominate those two toadstools like Oprah at Krispy Kreme. Whatever though. I can't judge. Only condescend. Chris Matthews taught me that. The two weeks were good though. Sowed some oats for sure. Got all of my Fear and Loathing fantasies realized. I guess I can scratch those off my list. Or is it itch?!

Monday, August 30, 2010

Bringing Biting Back!

I recently discovered the power of biting. The power in biting. Into legs specifically. Human and cat alike. I don't discriminate. For so long I've been ashamed of my teeth. I got tarter problems. It wasn't until I bit somebody (sorry Gramps)(and Donny)(and Willow)(and George)(and Bailey) that I realized that my teeth wielded a power that if Saruman got a hold of, he'd be telling Sauron, "B&$Ch please!" Thankfully, that's fiction. But my canines are the TRUTH yo! And ya'll can't handle the Truth! Better yet, the TROOTH!! Holla! What! Unless you have tough skin. Walruses have tough skin I hear. But even then, the Trooth still hurts. Just ask Gramps. He's a cool dude and everything but you mess with the Trooth and you're gonna get bit.

Friday, May 21, 2010

McDonaldland - The End of an Era

I got a news tip that Ronald McDonald is being forced into retirement for promoting unhealthy eating habits. I sat down with Ronald recently at his estate in McDonaldland to discuss the matter.

"I was just doing my job," he says topping off his milkshake with Makers. Birdie, now Birdie McDonald, wraps a wing around her husband's shoulder. "Please don't," Ronald says.
"I haven't seen him drink like this since our tour in Singapore when the Hamburgler lost his left hand for stealing what he thought was a burger but ended up being a dung cake. Those heathens."
Ronald drinks to that. "It was worse in Saudi Arabia," he says. "Grimace had a fatwa put on him for groping the sheik's daughter. She was veiled head to toe in purple. How was he to know? With his untreated diabetes the dude's practically blind."
"What's he doing now?" I wonder aloud.
"Beat's the hell out of me. Last we heard he had lost four hundred pounds and had just gotten beaten out by Jared for Subway spokesman. He never talked to anyone after that."
"Wow. That's insane," I say.
"Maybe. You're a talking dog. I'd say that's pretty ****ing nuts."
"You got me there. So getting back to this retirement - Hey by the way, what happened to Hamburgler?"
Birdie looks at Ronald. "You want me to tell her?"
"I can't," Ronald says, standing up and walking into the kitchen. There's no more milkshake left.
"Hamburgler is a vegan."
"Yes. After he lost his hand in Singapore, he was never the same. He kept saying that he had a problem. That he needed help. We couldn't argue with that. The man was a klepto but then again, it was in his job description. I don't know, it didn't seem like that big of a deal. He could continue stealing kids' hamburgers with one hand. Which he did for awhile but he said it was too hard. He wasn't fast enough and the kids were too fast. Grimace began helping him. A soaked chloroform rag, sometimes a bat or an aluminum rod. It got to be too much. They got carried away and it wasn't about the hamburger anymore. At the height of his depression he was roaming around grocery stores actually considering purchasing food. That's when he discovered the Boca Burger. He stole one, ate one, and that's all there is to tell. There was no looking back for him."
"Again, insane."
"Yeah," Birdie says. "Yeah."
I hear commotion upstairs and then a dozen french fry bags with fries in them, come running down the stairs.
"Mom, Mom, Garreth won't share the computer," the french fries yell in unison.
"Hoooooly ****! I remember you guys. The French Fry Kids..." I say in complete disbelief of my forgetfulness.
"Yep. This is our family," Birdie says displaying her wings and cradling the French Fry Kids in. "One at a time now."
As they state their concern, I can't believe how golden these little fries are. Salt glistens off their body like morning dew on a rose. I'm not much for starch but these little buggers are looking delightful. Suddenly the clamor of banging cupboards and broken glass comes from the kitchen. Ronald appears at the doorway looking like IT. "What the hell is going on out here!"
This just got awkward.
"Daddy, Garreth is hogging the computer. We saw him on Burger King's website. He printed off a picture of the Burger King."
"Garreth! Get you're bag down here now! Birdie where the hell is the other bottle of Makers?!"
"I don't know honey."
"Don't lie to me."
Little Garreth waddles down the stairs, his fries held low. He looks at me pleading for me to help with his eyes. I look away. This is so uncomfortable.
"What's the problem Garreth?"
Garreth says nothing. He can't even muster the strength to put one of his fries up.
"I asked you a question son," Ronald says through his teeth. "Were you looking at pictures of the Burger King? Answer ME!!"
"Yes daddy."
"You did this to yourself. You know what's coming."
"No daddy."
"Please sweetie," Birdie says. "Don't. He won't do it again."
"No! The little blasphemer knows better!"
The other French Fry Kids cower under their mother's wing. There's a straggler. A bold one who stands next to me looking on. His crisp salty golden deliciousness wafts up through my nostrils like the introduction of a doberman's butt. My stomach growls and the little tyke jumps back. I play it cool and smile, reassuring him that it's okay. Ronald goes into the kitchen. I can hear the faucet turn on.
"No..." I found myself saying. Ronald walks into the living room with a full cup in his hand.
"This will teach you," Ronald says, pouring the water all over Garreth. "No one likes soggy fries Garreth. Not even bums."
I can't discern if Garreth is crying with all the water coming down on him. His fries fold in half. They're taking on a lot of water. They look as though they may break. I can't be a witness in this. The other French Fry Kids are crying. Birdie is squawking like a kamikaze bird. It's mass hysteria. The cup that Ronald's holding seems to be bottomless.
"Ronald I gotta go," I say. Ronald doesn't acknowledge me. The French Fry Kid at my side hears me though.
"Let me go with you."
"No. You mustn't. It's too dangerous. They'll eat you alive out there."
"I don't care."
"You don't?"
"No. I'm willing to take the risk."
"All right!! I mean, okay, whatever, that's cool," I say trying to contain my excitement and we leave.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


I'm scared of them. As I look at just the name, KIDS, it looks like an acronym for an STD. Definitely something lethal. But then again when you capitalize most monosyllabic words, they tend to look like STDs - CATS, CARS, ANTS, LIDS, AID. Weird. But KIDS (say it aloud - it sounds harsh doesn't it?) man... they act like they all got bit by the wrong squirrel. Like they got RABIES. And we're the ones getting the shots!? Every time I see those hob goblins, every time I hear that shrill glass-breaking laughter, my tail sinks faster than Rosie O'Donnell in a pool. And then they make their death march. It's always in slow motion for me but never slow enough. There aren't a whole lot of things one can do on a leash. I consider violence, but I had a good friend (Jenkins - pouring my whiskey out for you right now buddy) that got put down for that. The papers said he was possessed. Went into a fit of rage. He bit a little KID after she thought she'd use his tail as a jump rope. And that's really what I don't get. Really, I don't mind if you act like a lunatic within a safe distance of me but to act like a lunatic as you're crashing upon me - it's criminal. And we refer to these people as our future!? They all have to touch you as if they're all on ecstasy or something. And they don't pet you, they pat you as if they're playing Whack-A-Mole with their hand. And that's why I'm starting crack - I mean CRACK - Canines Rising(Up) Against Crazy KIDS. Please, we need your support (i.e. your Benjamins people). Canines everywhere cannot continue to take this abuse from KIDS. We need to bite back. We need to bite the good bite. I'm gonna go grab a bite, but please make your checks payable to my mother or father. And jump on the CRACK train!! And don't forget your spoon. There's gonna be tapioca.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Finding Myself....Oh There I Am...Brilliant.

Some of the world's greatest poets (author unknown), writers (Norman Bridwell), psychologists (Pavlov) and musicians (Baha Men) have had to spend some time finding themselves in order to be great. I thankfully, didn't have to spend anytime finding myself to be great. However, I did have to take some time to find myself in order to be brilliant. My last post was (hold on let me count my nails) 4 months ago. I know I've left some of you in despair. Unfortunately despair is a common state when I'm not filling you in on my life, but ya'll are too dependent on me for your happiness. I'm just a dog. I lick my butt. I like my privates. I sniff other dogs' butts. I roll around in rabbit poop. I used to do all these things greatly. Now I do them brilliantly. Because I've found myself. Some of you haters may say What do you mean? That sounds so cliche. Who ever really finds themselves? Who are you Sherlock Holmes? Shut up and get a job! Well I can tell you I'm sure as lock not Sherlock Holmes, homes (see what I did there?). That movie sucked. But no, I've taken these past 4 months off to find myself. And where did I do that? Where does everyone do it? College.

I went to college. I took classes. I read textbooks. I bought a North Face fleece. I wore Uggs. I gotta fake ID. I went to themed parties. Bad Xmas Sweater, CEOs and Secretary Hos, Pirates, 80s, 70s, 60s, 1840s. If it was themed, I was there. I threw up in public. I was put on academic probation. I got an internship. I used different variations of Bro as a salutation - Broseph, Brougham, JerBronomo, Brosky, Broski, Bro Ho, BaROque, Brogue and Bra. I had overdraft fees. I hit my parents up for more money. I drank 21 shots on the birthday on my fake ID. I gotta number. I never called it. I was in a relationship on Facebook. I had 6023 friends. I hit up people for cigarettes. I read On the Road. I considered myself liberal. I protested. I wore a shirt of George W. Bush with a Hitler mustache. I grew dreadlocks. I saw Old School. At bars, I shouted, "You're my boy Blue." People laughed. Other people had nervous breakdowns. They had never heard a dog talk before or be so funny. I saw The Big Lebowski and all of Wes Anderson's films. I tailgated. I passed out before the game. I skipped class. I went on spring break to Mexico. I opted for the cheaper flight to Oaxaca. I didn't know it wasn't all like Cancun. I got diarrhea. I drank a Coke. I got determined. I used the phrase "Turning over a new leaf." I was going to get on the Dean's List. I went to the library. I checked people out. I started a study group. It became a drinking group. I thought a 2.9 was good enough. I ate Easy Mac. I gained fifteen pounds. I slept on a couch. I took a philosophy class. I quoted David Hume. I watched The Hills series finale. I cried. I wanted to go home. I crammed for finals. I passed. I came away with a sense of Now what? I moved home with my parents. I wrote this blog. I found myself. I find myself writing this blog. I find myself licking myself. I find myself licking the keyboard. I think Dad was eating Cheetos and typing at the same time. I am now brilliant.

Go find yourself. Or live vicariously through me. It may be your only hope for brilliance.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Guess Who's Back?...It's about time!

By process of elimination, it's ME! Thank you all of my faithful followers for your faithfulness. It's seen me through recent tough times of traveling, socializing, and stomach pumps. I think it was Tolstoy that said in the event that you have masticated rat poison, be sure to take a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide and throw it up. Unfortunately, I have yet to get into the Russians. I'm still reading Travels With Charley. Then I have to read Marley and Me which I've been told is a hoot! I love Owen Wilson! So I think I've mentioned before on this blog that I'm a bit of a culinary daredevil. Living up to the hype, I ate rat poison two weeks ago. I was in Peoria of all places. A place where such things are expected. Anyway, it was good (the rat poison). Sweet, not to rich, good texture - it was kinda like Fruity Pebbles. I've always preferred the Cocoa ones but I'm not supposed to have chocolate. Going stealth, I followed Dad down into the basement and as ole Toucan Sam says, Follow your nose. True to form, it found the gold. It had turned green though. But I couldn't tell - I'm colorblind. Dad caught me patting the sides of my mouth with a napkin and low and behold there beneath me was an empty dish of rat poison. What? I retorted. He answered with his fingers at the bottom of my esophagus. I can hold my liquor and my rat poison so despite his cute attempts and concern I wasn't bringing that back up for anybody, I thought. We took a trip through Peoria, which if you've ever read Dante's Inferno, is reminiscent of Circle 2. It's not that bad. Mom's crying though. She's upset with Dad for trying to spoil my snack. She gets me. Dad, in his guilt for shoving his fingers down my throat, is giving me one hell of a back scratch. One of the more memorable ones. We come to this place - everyone's wearing a white coat, I'm thinking finally, we're committing Dad. A long time coming. Instead I go for a ride. They inject me with something. I'm thinking, you know I quit this stuff awhile ago back in Oregon, but one more time can't hurt. It was bogus stuff though because all I did was throw everything up. Rat poison and all. I'd been bested! Usually throwing my stuff up is just what I call seconds but this time it wasn't going back down. To make a long story short, I'm unfazed. Still in fighting form. I'm a survivor! I'm a little more weary of Dad, but hell, what else is new? During my recovery I spent some time dominating a couple punk uncles of mine - George and Bailey. Talk about Omegas. These guys would make Benji feel like a Great Dane. Right now, I'm getting back into the habit of blogging. Still waiting for some sponsors...I think the name of that rat poison was Myrtle's or something, if you guys are interested. Works on dogs too! Think about it. I'm looking forward to the royal spoiling I'm about to get from Papa and Nana coming out in a few days. Getting myself ready for that. Sleeping a lot. The celebrity thing tanked. I was at a benefit for Perez Hilton's forehead reduction surgery and met most of them and actually really hit it off with the community. VH1's recruiting me for the next season of The Surreal Life. I'm weighing it. Michael Vick's gonna be on it though. But like I've said, I'm a fightgrrrr......!!!!!