There are no bad owners, only bad dogs



You know what?!? It gets fucking HOT in south Tejas in August! No! Yes! Really! Fuck! Why did people in covered wagons stop HERE and say "This is great!" Of course, if they stopped in January, that would explain it all.

I am growing a horn out of my chin. Because I have to appear in public day after tomorrow in front of a lot of impo-tent people, my body reacts by growing a new appendage. It's throbbing. It's got lobes. It will probably burst in the middle of my presentation, making Gallagher seem tasteful and restrained, because he doesn't pump pus over the first row of his audience.

One of the vets I used to work for insisted that there was no adjectival form of the word "pus." Because we always describe (maybe not always)things that produces pus as being pus-y. But Dr. Buchanan said we must say "prurulent" instead, because when you try to spell pus-y, you just spell pussy. And that's just silly.

So there's this new show on FX called "Starved," which is both very funny and good and very controversial. Because it's about people with eating disorders -- anorexia, bulemia, compulsive overeating, combinations of all three -- so the people who are TOO SERIOUS about everything got their knickers in a twist about it because anorexia is NO LAUGHING MATTER. But it is. Because the writer, director, star of the show is a compulsive binge/purger. He knows the scoop. He knows about laxatives and gag reflexes and ipecac, et al. He knows that sometimes to see tragedy, you have to go through comedy. But the "Suffering Is Not Entertainment" people (umm, Shakespeare, anyone? Woolfe? Joyce? Anyone? Bueller?) insist that EATING DISORDERS ARE NOT FUNNY. Fuck you. Not just you, but all y'all. It is too funny. I was bulemic for a long time, and I still struggle with hating myself in my current butter-bally state. But my sense of humor and quality detection gland weren't damaged along with my tooth enamel, and "starved" IS funny. And sad and poignant and sweet and tragic. For fuck's sake.

Peter Jennings' passing leaves me very sad for some reason. He was sort of the James Bond of journalism. The man didn't have a high school diploma. He didn't need one, because that's how smart and ambitious he was. That's how amazing he was. Handsome, smart, funny as hell. Since I started paying attention to the news, he's always been there, smooth and fabulous. And now we've got... I don't know. Miles O'Brien? He's a bit of a goofball.

Two days ago, greggers and I were walking the idiots, and we were about a block away from home. Pumpernickel (aka Pumpydog, because she literally THINKS. SHE. IS. A. DOG.) had accompanied us, as she really, truly does think she's a dog (she craps in people's yards on these walks -- i think i heard her bark yesterday). So stroll, walk, ambulate, la la. Suddenly, another cat appears. "Uh oh," I think in my lima bean-sized brain, "Pumpy is going to need help." Because, yo, cats is all like up in yo grill. With other cats. With people, it's all "purr purr purrrr." So the dogs get into "She might be a pussy, but she's our homey" mode to defend her, and it turns out that the other cat is her brother, Junebug, who apparently thinks it's just OkeyDokey for him to go wherever the hell he wants. So the six of us strolled on home.

I'm a bit peeved that I'm getting Adam Corolla at 10:30 instead of Jon Stewart. Because, there's like no equivalence whatsoever.

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