There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Jewish Lightning

So, how did we all feel about this new-ish format for the Oscars? I mean the deal where the presenter enters the audience from the side and speaks to the camera from an aisle, then the winner walks over to the presenter to accept. It seemed cheesey to me (in a bad way) because when I win an Oscar, I'm going to go onstage to accept it no matter where the presenter stands, damn it. I won this fucking Oscar, I think you can give me a minute of stage time, you selfish bastards. Standing up and walking two feet to get it is very anticlimactic, although it probably cuts down on the tripping over the hem of your dress on national TV incidents, that’s not a good enough reason to make people look like they don’t really matter much. I will win my Oscar for best original screenplay, by the way.

However, the very best in worst at the pre-show extravaganza was the lovely and talented Miss Starr Jones interviewing people as they walked down the red carpet. Did you know that she is a lawyer? Because if you weren’t sure about it, she’ll tell you: “I am a lawyer.” Like that means you’re smart. OK, some lawyers are smart and some smart people aren’t lawyers, so shut the fuck up and find some new sponsors for your private life. Anyhoo, the point is that she is neither lovely nor talented. And no, I am not intimidated by a strong, confident African-American woman. Or maybe I would be, except she isn’t one, so that’s all hypothetical. She is arrogant and pointless. She was wearing this gold dress with a very fitted and formed bodice that left a good 2 and a half inches of undulating back fat rolling out of the dress for our viewing pleasure. And if that weren’t enough (which it really was), the camera angle also occasionally showed us just a slim peek at an areola. I scooped my eyes out of the sockets with a spork so I wouldn’t have to look at that anymore. It was easier than changing the channels, as my remote control was missing.

The kittens are being de-sexed tomorrow – that should teach them that incest is the forbidden dance (not the Lambada, as they have been insisting). No one screws his sister on my watch, buster.

We came up with a new nickname for Katy this weekend. As she is eternally busy (part beagle, part pit bull, part bee), she is now known as KDHD (you have to say it out loud). Buster, not wanting to be left out, insisted on a better nickname than Busty, so he is now aka Buster the Molester (he likes him some humpin’). Busty just sounds like a trite and clichéd stripper, and Buster is anything but trite and clichéd. He likes being naked, though.

I am now so technologically cursed that I have no Internet access at work or at home. If you ever want to cash in on an insurance policy, don’t hire an arsonist. Just invite me over. I’ll turn your home into a disaster area WITHOUT EVEN TRYING. Guaranteed, or your money back. I’m just all talented like that.

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