doggie doors are the next logical step after mudflaps

You know what would be a clever name for an indie-rock band? The Sippee Cups. They would be a Polyphonic Spree splinter group, and all their lyrics would sound like baby-talk. You know what is definitely NOT clever? Let us say that it is never a good idea to train a dog to use a litter box.

I was just so damn tired of waking up early in the morning to let Oedipus do his business. I thought, hey cats can do it, and they are stupider than stupid-is-as-stupid-does, so dogs should be awesome at pooping in a box. And believe me, I was right. Oedipus was like a dump truck on a construction site -- it was his natural environment. Unfortunately, it turns out dogs enjoy the taste of kitty litter, and it also happens to make them violently ill.

There was a logical next step: fill the box with toilet paper. I thought, people use it -- we don't number two on it directly, but it seemed like it would be an OK stop-gap until I figured out a more permanent solution. I gave it a shot, but the wet toilet paper disintegrated faster than Oasis. I was in my neighbor's yard, hosing out the sludge from the litter box, when it hit me -- what the hell was I doing opening the door for Oedipus when he should be opening his own damn door? That was that -- the doggie flap was installed yesterday, and now I need to train Oedipus to take some responsibility in his life.



you can't fire me, i'm wet!

Do you think anyone would hire me as a "squirrel taster?" It sounds cool.



niche cage

I just rented Lord of War recently, so I can give you a brief synopsis: Nicholas Cage beats a horse-corpse for two hours. Lord of War is such a shit movie, I feel bad for shit. It is more preachy than Al Sharpton addressing a room full of men who stole candy from babies. For fuck's sake, we know guns are bad.

The worst is that Cage has been typecast as a neurotic loser with an interesting job. Matchstick Men? Adaptation? Weatherman? Today's forecast calls for scattered screenplays and plots that improbably escalate into violence and/or recreational drug use.



the public library is very educational

When Oedipus and I do the leash-walk thing, I like to take him to the library, because being a dog is no excuse for illiteracy. Now, I'm not stupid -- I'm pretty sure dogs aren't smart enough to read me bedtime stories or anything -- I just want him to be able to recognize stop signs, or read James Frey novels.

Anyway, the prototypographical library contains three groups who would otherwise never interact in the wild -- old retired men, small children, and homeless people. Today, as usual, I was in the children's section studying up on my Doctor Doolittle, when a bearded dude who reeked of urine and had maybe three teeth stood up and shouted, "I have a bigger cock than the President!"

Man, you should have seen it -- soccer-moms dove out from between piles of books to cover their children's ears, like goalies in the World Cup. It was now quiet in the library. I mean, it was quiet before, but now it was like crucial-moment-in-a-movie quiet. How can you follow up such a bold claim? The guy was idiot-grinning and holding his hands up like Jesus before the disciples, and boom, guess what could possibly be better than a crazy guy in the children's section of a library? That's right: two crazies. ANOTHER guy piped up -- this one was wearing a dirty pair of jeans with a gigantic rip in the crotch, like they were attacked by a fat man who liked to eat denim. Thank God that hobo preferred boxers over briefs. So this new one says, "Liar! Everybody knows the president of the United States is elected based on penis-size."

I'm looking around like, what the fuck is going on here? At this point, the two hobos began to circle each other in a sort of martial-arts crouch, hands ready to strike. The wanna-be president is still boasting, saying stuff like, "My dick is so big, it has a nickname for ME," and crotchless man responding to everything with, "You ain't president, you stupid crazy hobo," which is the most amazing pot-calling-kettle moment I've ever witnessed in person.

Other random homeless folks began forming a ring around the two combatants, chanting "Sneech! Sneech! Sneech!" in unison. I really, really wish I understood what was going on, but just when we thought the first annual Hobo Debate was going to end in some sort of sneech fight to the death, the librarian behind the checkout counter fired a shotgun into the ceiling and threatened to call the police. The homeless folks scattered like underage kids at a party, and the rest of us could only stare blankly at each other, trying to make sense of all we had just seen.

Oedipus and I might take a break from libraries for a while. Reading is just too stressful.



that's a load of crap off my back

So I went to this schmancy Hawaiian restaurant -- the kind where even your beer comes with a little umbrella, and a live ukelele band covers Brother Iz and makes conversation impossible. Waiters wear brightly flowered shirts that no ninja would ever be caught wearing in public, and tables of drunk dudes demand to be "lei'd" by the hostess. Even non-island food is exotified, like the "Mauna Kea Burger" or the "Kona Koffee Burrito" or whatever. You've got the mental picture.

Anyway, my bladder can only take so many umbrella-beers before it is time to water the garden, so I beelined for the bathroom, which was next to a giant Tiki-head with glowing-red eyes, like something out of a Polynesian horror flick. The door was locked, I knocked, and a dude gave me the "just-a-minute," so I kicked it with Humpty (the Tiki-head) and pretended not to look at the dinner guests facing my direction.

Dude took like five minutes in there, so I knew he was waiting for the evacuation, and not the flood. Finally, just as I'm about to suck it up and try the women's stall, there is a flush, and the dude comes out immediately, surrounded by a foul stench. This, I decide, will not do. He was not in there long enough post-flush to wash his hands, and he wasn't the least bit concerned, even though I was giving him the, um, stink eye. I stared at him as he made his way back to his table, and as he sat, he just gave me a grin, daring me to call him out.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the courage, plus I really had to pee. I did request Ween's "Don't Shit Where You Eat" from the ukelele band, but they didn't know that one.