Why I vote Republican.

First, they take my balls. Now I’m apparently being tracked by satellite.

This is bullshit.

Summering in Mount P.

It’s not the Hamptons. But it’ll do.

Oh man…DB, if you only knew what I was getting away with on your couch. Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this:

Never loan leather furniture to a redneck.

The sum of my parts.

Get out your slide rule, class. There’s a new equation going up on the board…

That’s right folks, I’m a four-legged melting pot. The ingredients, according to Happy Dog DNA:

1. Dalmatian
2. Mastiff
3. Collie
4. American Eskimo Dog
5. Boston Terrier
6. Papillon

Be sure to check your work.

IE6 Watch: This ain’t a joke anymore..

.

Seriously, Leph…I’m with the Fuhrer. It’s getting a little ridic, brah.

Here’s yet another site dedicated to the demise of that turd on your computer.

Seriously…is Timber’s Twitter account meant to be read by mylephnt’s great aunts and uncles or something? Cuz the updates are llllllllllllllame. Where’s the profanity and general discontent that we’re used to?

Pure Luck.

For those of you that still aren’t convinced of my knack for surviving close calls, here is one more chapter in the saga that is my life with Deporter.

This is a pic of me watching her and el D leaving for some dinner a few miles down the road from the beach condo.  What they didn’t immediately realize (and what you can’t see from this pic) was that I had managed to tie myself up in the blind cords. Here’s a closer look:

Fortunately for me, Deporter suspected something was up and sent the Dude back up to investigate. Here’s his account:

Yeah, man. That dumbass had his entire torso through the loop in the cord. It was funny and quite sad at the same time.  Good thing we caught it.  I swear, it’s like living with a Martin Short character. What would that little shit do without us?

I often wonder that myself, asshole.

Help find Molly.

Molly was kidnapped from the Whole Foods at 14th and P.

Go here for all the details.

FYI: This post is going to be tacked to the front page for the time being.

ANALogies.

And by anal, I mean Palin pulled this one from her butt. Here she is being defended by her spokeperson “Meg”, who also tries to tie Sarahcuda’s decision to walk out on all Alaskans to bocce ball or something.

What’s great is that Anderson Cooper doesn’t know fuck all about sports (or so he says) and is therefore allowed to say exactly what everyone else is thinking: “Lady, what the shit are you talking about?” Pay particular attention around the 4:40 mark.

Is anyone else reminded of the phone scene between Brian Fantana and Ron Burgandy in “Anchorman”?

[Wonkette]

“Vacation.”

I honestly don't know what the photographer cares about more in this pic.

Whatever that is…has apparently begun, according to my handlers.

What’s in a name?

Apparently, a lot.

I thought I had lived up to my handle when I tumbled down a measly 150-year old staircase and walked away from it.  But you, man…you out-did me in a big way. Truth be told, it hasn’t exactly been détente between me and your kind in the past (see the afore-linked post), but I gotta say…respect.

You might be a pussy…but you ain’t no pussy. You feel me?

I’m starting to wonder: does this name of ours act like some sort of animal kingdom version of Groundhog Day? Are we immortal? I’m gonna look into this and get back to you. We might be onto something here.

Agoraphobia or: How I Learned to Start Worrying and Love the Basement.

Vacation: va⋅ca⋅tion [vey-key-shuhn] -noun. Leisure time devoted to rest or pleasure.

Ah yes.

Rest. And pleasure. Two things that I was promised when I agreed to tag along for a nice Memorial Day weekend in Hagerstown, MD. Why Hagerstown, you ask? Well, el D’s coworker, Fred, offered up a 150-year old house for he and Deporter to stay in and get away from it all. Not exactly the beach…but hey, it’s something. So into the Zipcar I jump.

A couple hours later, we arrive at our destination.

Things I learned today.

1. If I want to chew gum, I should avoid the sugar-free variety.
2. If sugar-free is the only option, then I should avoid brands that contain Xylitol.
3. If I manage to find a tasty brand that is Xylitol-free, it’s probably a good idea to not eat the wrapper as well. Because if I can’t prove that my gum choice was a wise one, el D will drag my ass to the vet. And they will insist that I vomit…by any means necessary.
4. And finally, it doesn’t matter what brand I roll with…10 pieces of gum all eaten at once still in their foil wrappers causes a bit of indigestion. I see a bloody “ah-noose” in my future.

You live and you learn.

I have a dream…

I’m standing in an open meadow. Sniffing the grass. Spraying the trees. Searching for a suitable place to bang one out. When all of a sudden, a big-ass doberman is full sprint towards me. I’m like, “DAMN”! And I start leggin’ it. I mean I’m GONE. But that dude is still on my ass!

So I turn on the afterburners. PWWWHHHOOOOOOOHHHH. Now I’m really moving. With each stride I stretch farther (and further). I didn’t even know I had it in me. Smoke trails. I look back, he’s still gaining. How is that possible? He starts nipping at my tail. Now he’s got a paw up on me. I begin to slow. Has he got me? The horror! The only thing more moist than the sweat on my furry brow is the frothy saliva of the rabid predator that has begun to coat my lower extremities.

And then the warmth. It’s all beginning to close in on me. In my last breath, I bid farewell to this cruel, cruel world and all my bitches. My sweet bitches.

Then I am stirred. For it was all chimera. And I am back on the couch.

I have a dream. This dream. About three times a day. Here’s what actually happens:

My paws twitch a couple times. My upper lip trembles. I emit a barely-audible whimper. Deporter snickers and I wake. I look up, yawn, and then I lick my hollow scrote. No big whoop. For others, it’s all too real…

Easy, spaz.

Crime pays.

It pays very well, in fact.

Soirs français. Matins difficiles.

What, you’ve never woken up next to a French fatty before?
Don’t judge me.

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