There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Yellow feathers in her hair, where can I find a woman like that?

OK, anyone who watches the Colbert Report knows that Dr. Noah Drake, none other than Rick Springfield, is triumphantly (?) returning to General Hospital. I mean, who doesn't want to go back 30 years in time to where they were in the late 70s? Back in the day, when they were successful, something that hasn't occurred in three decades. Because three decades of failure is something to remind people about. When "Jesse's Girl" is your zenith, well, where are you going to go?

This reminds me: The next time we do karaoke at Mr. Taco, I pledge that I will perform (or "perform" as it is more accurately known) "Copacobana."

One of the more common stress dreams that I experience on a regular basis is the "I just walked into someone else's house and now I've been caught" nightmare. Last night I had a doozy.

Here's how it started. I dreamed that I live near Dooce, and just decided to waltz on into her house and get a souvenir. Only she wasn't Heather B. Armstrong in my dream, but she was Dooce, only not. It was dream logic. (By the way, Katy is sacked the hell out next to me and is farting up a tiny, smelly little storm.) So I just walked into this house (I think the greggers was with me) and was like, snooping around in her stuff, when she and the newt came downstairs and caught us. Only she didn't see us. We froze, like bunnies, and she went about her business. Then there was something about her being passed out next to a crack pipe. Then we apologized, said we were also bloggers (of the variety that has to have a real job) and left. Then we went back. And I broke one of the many beer bottles that was lying around and tried to clean it up by vacuuming it up. Then there was all sorts of stuff that occurred outside and eventually we all bonded. It was much more detailed than I have documented above, but if I go into the great detail about the back yard and how Katy and Buster were there, running around in the creek, and how this person I was stalking, who I knew but didn't know, turned out to be a temp who worked at EduMart, I would just sound fucking crazy. I woke up confused. I am still, as always, confused. It was a disturbing dream, as are all dreams in which one finds oneself in someone else's home, lurking.

I have concluded that there is a direct relationship between canine IQ and temperature. It was cold today.

On that same topic, my dogs are so awful, bad, ill-behaved that when other people who are walking dogs see us coming, THEY TURN AROUND AND GO THE OTHER WAY. That, my friends, is impressive in the bad dog universe. Complete avoidance? Schweet.

Her name was Lola...

Captain Wacky is having a holiday gathering at her home for the first time since I took out some landscaping with the Subaru after a festive occasion. I think she thinks that I've been sufficiently mocked, ridiculed, belittled, and humiliated to stay sober at this one. HAH! There's not enough mockery in the universe.

Have I mentioned that baloney is best paired with a buttery Chardonnay?

As of tomorrow, La-Z-Boy has been back at "work" for four weeks (calendar weeks including Thanxgiving holiday) and I have been able to document only two full days (of 18) that he has worked. He has not sown, neither has he reaped. It's so hard to wait for karma.

Among the many, many, many reasons I have no use for movie critics: We saw "Just Friends" over the holiday weekend and laughed our arses off. The critics, among whom I can count a clearly crack-addled Roger Ebert, hated it. I mean, it's no "Chances Are" starring Cybil Shepard, but for fuck's sake, it had its moments.

It's White Noggin time! Yay!

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