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Monday, February 22, 2010

The Big Dick

The big dick himself - Dick Cheney - was admitted to the hospital with heart and chest pains. I was quite surprised... not that he was in the hospital but that he actually has a heart. Who would’ve guessed?

I’ve never heard of anyone ever mentioning he had a heart? It must be really tiny, shriveled, flaccid, fluttering infrequently in the dark of night when he’s sleeping in his coffin giving him enough blood flow for little spurts of life.

Maybe Sarah Palin will go visit and give him a sponge bath?

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Love, Love, Love

It’s Saint Valentine’s Day... the day created so the color red would have its own special day and not have to share it with the color green.

The day greeting card companies and florists and chocolate companies could reap profits by raping our wallets. But you know what they say... you can’t rape the willing.

Oh yes Saint Valentine’s Day. The day that love is truly in the air, in our breath, in our hearts, and in our loins.

Love, love, love. Oh I get giddy just thinking about it.

How many couples will become engaged today?

How many of those engagements will lead to the Bridal March? How many will lead to bitter divorce?

How many women will hate the size, the shape, or the quality of their engagement ring? How many will make the love of her life return it for a better one?

How many men will be yelled at and berated and humiliated by their special love for not making the day special enough?

How many unwanted pregnancies will there be because of Saint Valentine’s Day 2010?

Just wondering...

Monday, February 08, 2010

Rats

Yesterday I was at a Coffee Shop in Larchmont Village enjoying a cup of Java and a blueberry scone when I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the man and woman sitting behind my.

Because my friend had run off to the bathroom to heed the call of Mother Nature I wasn’t occupied with my own conversation and was able to maneuver myself on my chair for a prime listening position.

The man was complaining to the woman about the rats that have taken up residence in their house and how the owner of the house is not doing anything about it.

Before I go any further I must admit that rats fascinate me. I hate them. I think they’re disgusting creatures and carry the plague, but when Discovery or Animal Planet has a show about rats I bring out the ice-cream, wrap myself in my afghan, curl up on the couch, and watch with rapt attention.

Usually that night I have a recurring nightmare that my car breaks down on the streets of suburbia in the middle of the night and when I open the hood to check the engine I’m attacked by hundreds of rats. I run and I run and I run and when I’m too exhausted to run any more I collapse on the suburban pavement. Just as the rats leap all over me gnawing at my weakened body I wake up. I then have to sleep with the light on. And still I cannot not watch shows about rats.

When I’m out late at night and see a rat crawling in a dumpster or scurrying across the street looking for garbage I stop and watch, mesmerized. I guess you could call me a rat voyeur.

Okay, so this guy then talks about the rat he killed, whining about how he knows rats are disgusting but he now considers himself a murderer, a rat killer. After that he rambled on and on about how baby rats don’t know they’re disgusting and shouldn’t be punished and he feels terrible he might have killed their mother. He was dead serious and on the verge of tears. I was on the verge of laughter. The woman did her best to calm him down but he was too emotionally distraught.

I think that poor schmuck has watched “Ratatouille” way too many times.

I might be a rat voyeur but if one invaded my house, my personal space, I would kill it instantly without remorse.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Stepped Right In It

This morning as I was heading into Griffith Park for a hike and a scone I slid on something mushy. The traction of my new Nikes didn’t seem to work and I had to quickly twist and turn to maintain my erectness.

If I weren’t so damn in shape and agile I probably would’ve fallen and broken my coccyx or hip or my tibia or my fibula or crushed my testicles.

After catching my breath and surveying the area to make sure no one saw me, or was pointing at me laughing derisively, I looked down and there oozing on the side of my Nike was a pile of dog shit with leaves and pine needles attached. Not coyote shit (that would be considered good luck in The Book of Michael), but medium to large dog shit.

Perfumed shit it wasn’t.

Truth be told I’m a dog lover (I can do without cats), and the reason I don’t have a dog is because I don’t want to have to carry a supply of plastic bags every time I walk the dog so I can scoop up the shit. No matter how good you look, carrying a bag of dog shit in one hand and a leash in the other doesn’t invite social intercourse. I mean how do you shake hands hello?

What happens if as you scoop up the shit there’s a hole in the bag? Smelly fingers for the rest of the walk? I don’t think so.

I looked around at the various dogs in the area trying to determine which dog had the “I just shit and I feel good” grin on its face. I narrowed it down to a mongrel looking dog and a Saint Bernard. I squinted my eyes and growled at them. Their tails stopped wagging the shit wag. They got the message and quickly dragged their inconsiderate owners away.

Next time I won’t be so kind. I’ll follow them home and shit on their carpet.