There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Not counting today, two to go.

The world of entermation has certainly been a-buzz this week, what with Michael Jackson becoming ill on his way to the "trial of the century" and everything. Ill? If I knew that I were going to go to jail and be ass raped daily by enormous, sweaty, infected Aryan men, I'd be vomiting too. I don't think it was "illness" that caused the pukage -- it was sheer, rank, unrepentant fear for his butt hole's continued health and safety. My favorite image from the coverage so far has to be this one:

Just think of colonial Africa and a pompous dictator and voila -- same picture, except that Michael isn't wearing a leopard skin hat like this one:

Poor fashion choice, Michael. Another one in a long, long list...

In other entermation news over here was the obsessive and excessive coverage of the engagement of Prince Charles and Camilla. The BBC interrupted regular programming to have long discussions about the implications and ramifications of this. I can't imagine why anyone at all would care, so the breaking news bulletins confused the hell out of me. I kept waiting for the important part, but it never came.

It has been so long since I've seen things that are icons of home that I'm actually looking forward to seeing the following things that I usually despise:

1. A pimped-out pickup truck with a holographic mylar rose in the back window which is flanked on each side by the gothic-lettered names Juan and Lupita.

2. A dooley, pimped or not.

3. A lowrider Chevy with 3 or 4 children wandering loose on the front seat as the car meanders slowly down the left lane of 281.

4. A dirty diaper left in the parking lot of HEB.

5. A tiny steering wheel made of welded-together chain links.

6. Neon street glow.

7. An entire Mexican family (anywhere from 12 to 32 people) wandering slowly down the aisles of HEB, blocking traffic with their cart and lots of unruly children as they stop to marvel at the amazing richness and variety that one finds in a capitalist society.

8. The dude who lives in my neighborhood and rides his racing bike (he's all tricked out in the black faggy bike pants and the brightly colored clingy shirt) up and down the street with his Visla (one of these:)

on a leash until the dog has to crap and then he lets it crap in the middle of the street and rides away, leaving a big steaming pile.

Home, sweet home...

4 comments so far

birth & death