There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


If it were Heather Locklear, then you've got something.

I need to figure out how to record the sound of my dogs making out because it's the stupidest sound ever -- even dumber than when Britney and Cletus speak. "We is goin' to have us a critter."

The day before yesterday I went to Old Navy to buy new underpants because it's easier than doing laundry. I got one 3-pack. Yesterday was underpants #1. When I got home, I found the empty plastic underpants package in the living room. Where are my other 2 underpantses? I found 1 under the dog bed, but I STILL haven't done laundry and tomorrow is a new day and where the fuck are my underpants? Damn dogs.

Personally, I heart gay men for all of the reasons most women already understand. Love, love, love them. However, I have a bone to pick with musical theater, and I believe the two may be related. May I offer as evidence: The Graduate has been made into a musical. (?) Stunned silence in my brain goo. Why? Wasn't perfect good enough? A fucking MUSICAL?? This musical is currently touring the country featuring Morgan Fairchild (Yeah, that's right, Morgan Fairchild, says Tommy Flanagan) as Mrs. Robinson. Since (in my mental omniverse) gay men are the driving force behind musical theater, I blame them/you. This musical will soon be playing in San Antonio. We're close enough to Dallas that seeing nekkid bleached-blonde plastic surgerized women isn't really (coff) novel or arty. I believe that a fabulous film being turned into a cheezy musical featuring a Suzanne Somers-wannabe is one of the signs of the impending apocalypse. Really. I read it somewhere. I may have written it, but that doesn't make it not true.

May I add that I once dated a dude who thought he was original and funny but his very best musical theater idea EVER was a musical version of Shaft starring Samuel L. Jackson. Like that's even a) original b)funny c) why would I date such a guy?

So the thing that launched my brain toward the swirling maelstrom that is musical theater is a conversation about WorkSlut. The musical theater comes in because her very charming and cuckolded husband (he's no angel, either) hates musical theater but allows himself to be dragged to various productions to prove his love for his wreck of a wife. Proof that he's a good guy? He fell asleep at Stomp. Among other productions. Read that again. You must adore him NOW. HE FELL ASLEEP AT STOMP. Hooo.

Since Buster's shave-down, his new nickname is "the Head." Because his head is ginormous.

Dude. I'm typing this with the teeeveee on, and ABC is apparently using "ABC--123" as bumper music. Hmm. Umm. Errr. The Jackson 5? Is this really the best time to feature a Jackson 5 song to gain new viewers?

Katy's response to this is "ARFARFARF!" But that's her response to everything.

To my British reader(s) (by which I mean "reader"), I'm tired of saying "Yeah, but... No, but... Yeah, but... No, but...." and "Anyone? Dust. Anyone? Dust." and receiving blank stares. Get with the programmmme, people.

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