The final installment in the pet portion of my family tree is a 100 pound American Bulldog named by a 5 year old.  In my world the name is too easy, it’s expected, it’s hack.  My kid apparently knows her audience because every time she tells someone the dog’s name is Kitty, she gets a laugh.  This beast was purchased as a proactive measure for my eldest daughter’s sanity.  It was about 2 months before the new kid was due, and the shitzu wasn’t looking too good.  It was decided that since the first kid was already going to get upset at the loss of attention to the new kid it might be too big of a shock to loose her little dog too.  In other words we were going to tell a 5 year old, “Your dog died, fuck off your sister’s drying, here’s a puppy.”  

We bought a bigger dog because I travel so much and the wife wanted something that would occupy a potential attacker while she changed into something sexy and loaded her pistol.  It was also agreed that since we bought a bigger dog, we must train a bigger dog.  A month and $1500 later, we had a 60 pound puppy that listened better than the kid… except the kid didn’t eat her own shit.  Our trainer had created the perfect dog, he just couldn’t take the trailer out of her.  After a very stressful 6 months we have finally instilled the wisdom in our pet that it isn’t necessary to lay in a puddle of your own piss while chewing fecal matter.  The only thing left to do is teach her that John Cusack is talented.

 

Now that you know about Shitzu the shit bucket, it’s time you met Sam.  Sam is an 8 year old Valley Bulldog.  Somewhere there are papers that say she’s an English Bulldog but she’s as English as Puerto Rican’s are black.  I don’t care what texture your hair is, deep down you still want a job (Sorry, I just watched Gran Torino).  I don’t really remember the reason behind getting Sam, mostly because those memories were replaced by those of a bulldog shitting thru the front of a cage.  At just 4 months Sam had the amazing ability to shit on 6’ of wall and not get a single drop on the floor.  It was as if she was able to strafe down the hall while vomiting out her asshole.  Aside from her fecal ability, Sam is also living proof that dogs can be retarded.  This is not a hack chance to use the word retarded, it’s just the only word that make sense.  Retarded children do not respond well to a lack of routine to the point that sometimes they are unable to adjust to even the simplest change.  If you put Sam’s food bowl behind her, she will starve to death.  They don’t realize their own strength even to the point of hurting themselves.  Sam once ran full speed into the side of a car that had been parked in the same place for 3 days.  IQ for retardation is less than 75.  Sam can’t count and lets other dogs piss in her mouth.

 

Step 1.  Remove and carefully pack all ornaments.

Step 2.  Wait 3 days.

Step 3.  Drink heavily, wait 2 more days.

Step 4.  Take tree apart and make 4 unsuccessful attempts to fit a bowling ball in a matchbox.

Step 5.  Take tree outside to “pack more effectively.”

Step 6.  Once out of site, burn tree.

Step 7.  Place remaining poles in outside trash.

The wife is not happy.  The husband has been drinking.

It’s not big news here yet, but give it a day or so and… wait, Fox News (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,443705,00.html) is on it.  The Atheist Bus is coming to town.  Ariane Sherine noticed a mild religious advert (this is British news losers, we’re using the Queen’s English today) on the side of a London bus.  When she went to the website she found it a little more aggressive than the ad, since it was forcefully explaining to her that she and all her atheist friends were going to “spend all eternity in torment.”  As a retort, she got together with Richard Dawkins and attempted to raise $8,000 to put their own message on a few buses.  In four days, they raised almost $150,000.

Their message is simply, “There probably is no god, now stop worrying and enjoy your life.”  I’ve been reading news articles about this story for the last few hours and the more I read, the more I think we’re all finished.  I thought it might be time for me to respond to a couple of the quotes that I’ve read.

Sandra Lafaire, a 76 year old from Los Angeles said, “I think it’s dreadful.  Everyone is entitled to their opinion but I don’t like it in my face.”  Well Sandra, I agree completely.  Let’s fix this problem immediately.  Have everyone stop knocking on my door at 8 am Saturday morning.  I’m either on the road, or hung over.  Either way I couldn’t give a fuck that only 250,000 people are getting into heaven.  While we’re at it, I don’t want to see anymore church billboards or those shitty little marque signs.  They’re too “in my face” and they’re blocking the view of the informational billboard that tells me what exit Georgia to take if I want a fat naked trucker whore to bring me a $12 microwave cheeseburger.

Paul Woolley, the director of the religious think tank Theos, said “It tells people to stop worrying, which is hardly going to be a great comfort for those who are concerned about losing jobs or homes in the recession.  Stunts like this demonstrate how militant atheists are often great adverts for Christianity.”  First, how telling people to stop worrying and enjoy their life not a comforting message?  I’m thinking it’s a pretty relaxing message, rather laid back if you will.  So laid back in fact that some of the unemployed people with homes in foreclosure may think that their remaining money is better spent supporting their family instead of the church.  The got they support may be helping, but last I checked he wasn’t hiring.  And second, how is the word “probably” a “militant” message?  Don’t get me wrong, I know Dawkins is a militant atheist.  He’s also a genius and an asshole which is why I like him so much.  If you want a militant atheist message I’m sure he would be more than willing to burn one in your front yard in a language you’re too stupid to translate.  Until then, accept the fact that this little sticker is nothing more than a peaceful, “what-if” statement.  A lot like the things the hippies were saying about 40 years ago.  Good thing your people got there in time to cave in some fucking skulls before the pot heads got too militant.

When I was 15 my step father gave me the most influential piece of advice I’ve ever received. There have been other statements that helped me make more money, or kept me out of jail (with only two exceptions), but this single statement is the one that effected the way more decisions have been made throughout my entire life. He simply said, “Guys like that grow up to fuck fat ugly women.”
Why don’t more people give honest direct advise like that? I would have been much less of a fuck up as a child if people would have just stuck to the point when trying to tell me what mistakes I was making. Don’t say she’s not the girl for me. Tell me she sucked you off in a subway bathroom. Okay, bad example, but you get the point.
And the point behind this blog is once again my stepfather’s prediction has come true. Friday night the wife and I went to a local bar to meet up with some people I went to high school with. For the most part the evening went much like it would have 16 years ago (I was drunk) but I did enjoy catching up with a few people I’d lost track of. One is a photographer and from what I remember probably a pretty good one. Two others fly dirigibles (blimps, if you have to ask like I did) which for some reason I find fascinating. And then there are the people who live less than a mile from me and I haven’t seen them in 10 years. But my favorite is a guy who walked in the back and stood at the edge of the crowd all night. In grade school he was the first to introduce me to the word nigger (the first sign of my step father’s prediction) by explaining to me informing me “we don’t eat with them.” In the 7th grade he constantly felt the need to analyze the status of everyone’s pubic hair (not included in the prediction, but still really fucking odd). And for some reason once a year for the last 15 years, someone comes up to me to let me know just how much this guy despises me. We’ve never fought, we’ve never even confronted each other, yet he still finds the time to converse about his hatred for me. About 10 years ago I got fired from my job for 5 minutes (the subject of another blog, I promise). The VP who felt the need to fire me, also felt the need to discuss it with his family at the dinner table the night before. The VP’s son informed the gentlemen in question and for 6 months after that I heard stories about how happy he was that I’d lost the job (that I didn’t loose). Each time I’ve heard these stories I’ve been a little miffed about them as most people would be. Then this past Friday night came along and my step father’s advise/prediction turned my head towards the door. I saw a bald middle aged man (easy assholes, I’m bald by choice) walk in a bar, grab a water, and stand at the edge of a crowd trying to talk his way into the pants of girls 15 years younger and 50 pounds heavier. The only way I could have been happier is if he had a hair piece that was slightly askew, and plaid pants. Well, I would have been happier if he was still asking to see everyone’s pubic hair but that would probably take place behind the bar instead of in it.
Thanks Pops. If it weren’t for you and a subway bathroom or two, life might have been different for me. Instead, so far I’ve lived it to the fullest and all the fat ugly women I’ve nailed have been by choice and not necessity.

I’ll preface this blog by stating I’m completely aware I’m not at a gleaming example of good health. I eat and drink in excess more often than a should and about once a month I make a life decision to loose 20 pounds which sticks for as long as it takes me to find a bar that serves a good stout. That’s why today I was eating a plain grilled chicken sandwich for lunch when I looked up and saw a 350 pound asshole eating a cheeseburger bigger and greasier than any deep fried pig you’ve ever come across. As I’m watching this overindulgent dip-shit eat three times the equivalent of my daily calorie intake I’m thinking to myself, “I never want to be that guy.”
Then I took a closer look at the guy and the burger and thought, “I might want to be that guy.” That guy is happy. He has a 10 pound fist and a wife that listens. He has a $500 truck and a $50 couch, both almost paid for. He isn’t worried about the economy because his worst financial problem is how to buy a WWE pay-per-view with the money he was supposed to use to pay the cable bill. I think I have a new outlook on life and if I play it right I’ll be the biggest bad ass in the trailer park.

As much as I’m a fan of Russell Brand and all the shit he’s pulled, today he’s pissing me off. Russell Brand has approached a studio to remake the Dudley Moore classic “Arthur.” Why? I certainly understand why some comics take a movie just as a paycheck. If someone offered me the lead in Benji for 10 million I’d practice humping legs for a year. But, if I was starving in a ditch I wouldn’t shit on another comic’s masterpiece. Does Russell want to remake Arthur because it doesn’t hold up anymore? I still spit beer watching the skeet shooting scene - BANG “Pull… hit the bullet, hit the bullet!” The Arthur movies were not about a funny drunk, they were about “the” funny drunk. Over 20 years later when an impression of a drunk male is performed, it’s 100% Arthur. They will not be made better, so why bother? The only thing that would make this movie acceptable is if he is planning on doing a CGI remake where the only change is Russell Brand replacing Liza Mennelli.