Doggy Dog Blog

to this day, i still find myself lamenting the loss of Ringo. he was a great dog, taken too soon and too young. early on, i would visit Ringo graveside every day or few to reminisce about the loss. to help fill the void, i decided back in August that it was time for a new dog. a very new dog. a puppy, perhaps.

now, i had no intentions of GETTING a dog, mind you. but of course, it's hard to resist a dog when faced with the opportunity of adopting one. i had been perusing the dog pound & SPCA like a reformed alcoholic wistfully lingering around the liquor store, hoping to find a new Ringo, which was in itself an exercise in futility. no Ringo-worthy replacement could ever be found but i was sure going to try. while at the local pound, i was told by an employee about a breeder down in the southern end of the county who had a large litter of Border Collie puppies for sale. as you know, Ringo was a Border Collie, or mostly anyway, so this seemed like a good idea. but for $150 a pop for a pup, i balked. but then again, after figuring a "free" dog from the pound would still cost about 80 bucks, i realized that a dog from a breeder might not be such a bad choice after all.



so i headed down to this breeder's place, which turned out to be a gentleman farm of sorts--a few random animals here and there, and a dairy barn-turned-storage shed. the farmer and his son were more than happy to show the pups, and although they were mostly all solid black in color, there was one male puppy with traditional white and black border collie markings. he seemed like a nice little dog, but still, i wasn't set on the idea.

meeting the litter's parents was also something i wanted to do before even considering buying a puppy. unfortunately, mommy dog was at the vet getting spayed since the breeder was all done breeding dogs. but daddy dog was still there. he was a little distant, mainly interested in keeping an eye on the farm's horses at the other end of the barn, but the farmer called him over to to introduce us. as i petted him, i asked what his name was.

the farmer replied, "Ringo."

SOLD!!!!

wow, if that wasn't some sort of cosmic canine karma, i didn't know what was. after that, i was going to leave with one of these puppies no matter what. and i did.


a young Zippo

so after a bit of haggling, i was the proud owner of a 12 week old, one hundred and twenty five dollar, Son-Of-Ringo Border Collie puppy. it felt a little crazy, like i had just purchased an infant child and forgot to get the Dr. Spock book with it. i'd never raised a dog from a puppy before--all of our past dogs, including Ringo, had been the used-car type dog and required little or no raising. but with a little bit of fathering instinct and a few calls to the ex-girlfriend vet tech (kimmyshea!) i figured i'd be alright. after all, the farmer had said one of the other puppies from the litter had been housebroken in two days! wow! even if it took me twice that long, it would be over before i knew it!

the new-pooch feeling wore off slightly on the way home when Doggie Dearest hurled about a pound of hot, steamy dog barf onto my leg, the car door, and leather seat. apparently Junior had eaten too much before leaving and now he was a tad excited.

luckily, the barfing stopped there, and it was relatively easy clean-up since it was mainly undigested dry dog food. it scraped off of my blue jeans quite nicely, as far as barf scrape-up goes.

i dreaded telling mom and dad since i never mentioned i was going to even LOOK at puppies, let alone GET one, so i took the "i want you to meet my new friend" approach with a heaping dose of irony regarding the puppy's father's name. after a few moments, it worked, and he was welcome in the home.


extreme sniff job

he went nameless for quite a while. after all, it took me a couple weeks to come up with the name Ringo, so this was extra hard. i wanted it to be something like Ringo, like Zingo, or Dingo, or Pongo, but it was too hard to try to top Ringo, so at mom's suggestion, i decided to go in a different direction. only problem was, i didn't know what direction to go in. for a week in august, mom had been calling him Zippy for lack of a name. after coming back from the NASCAR race at Watkins Glen, where Zippo Lighters are a big sponsor, it was settled. his name would be Zippo, and obviously, Zippy would be his nickname.

the potty training came along even slower than his name. it didn't come in two days. or four. or even a week. it was more like, oh, 2 freaking months with still a few mistakes here and there. i blame myself because i wasn't home enough between my job and my side business. i was beginning to feel guilty that he spent so much time alone and i was missing him grow from a cute little portable furball to a gangly, romping teenage dog day by day. not being able to fix the problem, i decided to band-aid the issue by doubling my dog ownership from one to two.

now, no parent in his or her right mind would willingly allow their 28-year-old boomerang son to have TWO dogs, let alone one, so this had to be planned perfectly. as it turned out, the timing was half in the bag already. the day mom and dad left for florida for a week, the pound called to say they had just the dog for me to adopt. but unbeknownst to the pound, i had already gotten Zippy and hadn't really planned for another dog, but hey, a dog needs a buddy, right? and what could be more perfect than another cattle-rounding dog like an Australian Shepherd?? that's just what the pound had, and it gave me a few days to get the new dog settled in before mom & dad got home.


it's Shep!

he came with a clean slate but that was about it. this 8-month old Shepherd was in sore need of a bath, and as i found out, he was also in need of some housebreaking. plus, he and the new puppy didn't even get along at first! what would mom and dad say when they got home? two dogs, and one of them is an asshole???!!?!? this would never do, and i spent a couple sleepness nights agonizing about it. but after they both got used to the idea of sharing me and the house, they became best buds and are now inseperable.



when mom and dad did get home, they did freak out a bit. much more than with Zippy. in fact, it went over like a lead fart in church. but they did relent after insisting NO MORE GODDAMN DOGS after these two. i agreed.

at least this dog found a name quick--Shep was a natural name that just hit me as soon as i got him. nothing else came that quick, though, except for the anguish of potty training two pooping, peeing puppies at once. yikes. we were beginning to wonder if shep's inability to shit outdoors was the whole reason he turned up as a stray in the first place. but he did have some shining moments, like when some cows got out and Shep instinctively rounded them up and got them back in the pasture with ease, much to my dad's delight. until then, i believe my father was under a permanent belief that dogs were abso-positively freaking useless when it came to cattle, and Shep proved him wrong. Shep's herding instinct also shined through when he went after the neighbor's concrete calf yard ornament, only for him to be absolutely amazed that the calf didn't even blink, let alone move, when he nipped at it's heels. he fell for that twice, and to this day, he still does a double-take when he sees that calf.


snarling curs

it's now october, and as you might have guessed, i've been too busy cleaning up dogshit in the house to do any blarfing, but the poop situation has improved slightly. i simply don't have the time to devote to doing it right, and it's hard to discipline when there's two suspects, one turd, and no eyewitnesses to the crime. but we are getting there.



yeah, i still miss Ringo dearly. i always will. but these two new dogs are pretty cool nonetheless. it's an uphill battle for them, though--after all, Ringo was a hard act to follow, and i have learned it's not easy to have as strong a bond with two dogs as it is with just one. i still miss you, Ringo buddy! but i'm sure Zippy, Shep, and i will have just as many good memories as i had with Ringo. it will just take some more time. new memories will only come with time.

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BEHIND THE BLARF: FACT #1:

the lead-in photo has Zippy featuring a coat of blue paint. he got a bit too close while i was painting my Enduro race car (which may never get raced at all, thanks to crappy weather and crappy race track management.)

BEHIND THE BLARF: FACT #2:

since Shep was bigger than Zippy when he was adopted (8 months vs. 4), he inherited Ringo's red collar. it was tough to put a sacred memento on a new dog, but i did it for financial reasons, and plus, i don't need a used collar lying around with no dog in it.

BEHIND THE BLARF: FACT #3:

Bug the Goat has not yet met either dog. (Bug has been out of the country climbing Mt. Everest with a bunch of Sherpas--more of that "meet your goals" crap they beat into you in goat rehab.) come to think of it, Bug never met Ringo, either. no doubt Zippy & Shep will chase the hell out of him when he returns from the Himalayas.

ANOTHER USELESS FACT:

Mount Everest, named after Colonel Sir George Everest, uses the modern-day pronounciation "Ever-est", however, Sir George Everest's name was pronounced "Eve-rest".



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please post the usual foolish absurdities in the comments section.

THE CUBS WIN!

i'm finally back. Bug and i recently took a trip to Chicago. we met up with amyloo and critter--it was great! it was the first time either bug or i had ever left the eastern time zone, and what an adventure it was! bug loved the Cubs/Nationals game, as pictured above--and the cubbies actually WON!

for those concerned about bug's welfare, the trip to chicago was a gift to himself for making it through goat rehab. but without the letters, calls, and support of folks like you, he couldn't have made it through.


bug on the chicago coastline

on a crappier note, i managed to lose my digital camera on a city bus on the 2nd to last day of our trip. as you could imagine, the mental anguish of losing a $400 camera is almost as bad as the pain of losing several dozen pictures from a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. some *GREAT* photos are long gone, and i hope the asshole who found my camera (and didn't turn it over to the bus driver) really enjoyed them. and i also hope the camera did me one last favor and exploded in the shithead's face. i hope he died from shrapnel wounds. BASTARD! thanks go to Chicago's city bus line for being helpful and professional as i frantically called them on the hour every hour for their lost & found department. and special thanks to amyloo for supplying us with her pictures. still waiting for yours, critter! thanks in advance!!! *hint hint*

some other things we noticed:

1. chicago bums dress nicer than the middle class back home
2. chicago police cars still have the same paint scheme as seen in The Blues Brothers (and i could show with a photo of me standing next to one if I HAD MY GODDAMN CAMERA BACK)
3. wrigley field hasn't changed much either since the movie was made
4. chicago's Shedd Aquarium has some of the same fish i have at home, albiet they are larger
5. stewardesses don't like having drunken goats run up & down the aisles during a landing approach at O'Hare (we had to circle back around twice) (no pictures of that, either.)

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after getting home, i got a new camera, which has partially healed the wounds of my loss:



the CANON POWERSHOT SD630! ooooh. ahhhh. ohhhh.
with the cost of the camera, the chicago trip proved a bit pricier that originally planned.

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for those of you wondering why it took me over two months to blarf again, let me explain, quite simply, that from May 19th til July 11th, i had 0.00 days off. NONE. if i wasn't at The Job, i was at The Other Job. money was made, yes--but the finer things got tossed by the wayside. i apologize, especially to those of you who got testy from looking at a pic of Betty Ford for over 2 months.

i have no further comment on this matter, for fear of inciting a riot. moving right along to....

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Nautical news time: AGELESS, POPULAR CLICHE DESTROYED BY TINY DETAIL OF NAVAL HISTORY:

i recently learned that the phrase "cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey" didn't start out with the same meaning i grew up with. the humor in it was the mental image of, well, the balls freezing off of a brass monkey. funny stuff. but in reality, it's an old British naval expression. cast iron cannon balls were stacked in pyramids on shallow brass trays called monkeys. when the temperature got really cold, the thermal expansion between the cast iron and the brass was such that the balls rolled off.

what was once a funny cliche just isn't so funny any more. bummer.

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and now for a blarf viewership update:

some anomaly in the internet space-time continum has sparked a spike of international page views on the blarf, all stemming from this delightful photo of leah remini. i appreciate the extra attention, but the abnormal jump has skewed my viewership data. and in my internet-challenged mind, i'm subconciously fearing an all-out attack on the blarf. could the International Internet Commie Commandos be conspiring to bring the blarf to its knees and burn it down to the waterline? only time will tell. perhaps they could be appeased with more stolen photos of leah, such as this one:



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and now what you've all been waiting for: words of wisdom and brain-shredding trivia from BUG!



Bug's ALL-NEW quote o' the day:

"i'm horny as a three-balled tomcat"

(give him a break, he's got to get back into the groove.)

BUG'S MOVIE TRIVIA QUESTIONS O' THE DAY:

1: what is the street address of Wrigley Field, as mentioned in The Blues Brothers?
2: what was the make, model, and year of the Bluesmobile?
3: what item did elwood trade the original Bluesmobile for while jake was in prison?
5: what does SCMODS stand for?
4: what illinois county does the city of chicago reside in?
4.5: how hard is it to put a goat on a commercial aircraft?
6: what type of overdose did John Belushi die from?

put answers in the comments. use a #2 pencil.

now that i finally just put up an all-new post, i've taken it down already for something much more important to me. it will be back later.

i'm a dog person, you all know that. my dogs are my lifetime pals. keep that in mind as you read.



i just went to wallyworld today for new bag of tennis balls, since Ringo had managed to lose the last dozen and was always searching the house for one. these were Wilson brand tennis balls--his favorite! dad would always feign annoyance about how Ringo would constantly pick up & drop tennis balls at our feet, making a "THUMP-THUMp-THUmp-THump-Thump-thump" noise every few seconds until we threw the ball for him. dad said it drove him nuts, but i don't think he really minded. if he could only wait until dinner was over, or the tv program was done, it would be fine, but no. Ringo had to have all tennis balls, all the time. all dad wanted was for Ringo to BRING him the ball so he could throw it, but Ringo never really did trust to anyone but me, so he would get tantalizingly close, but not close enough to let dad pet him. as far as Ringo was concerned, he was more than satisfied to just have dad throw the ball and not get within 5 feet of him--endless frustration for dad.


tennis ball hunting

i also stopped at the store tonight for two cases of dog food, carefully picking out a variety of canned flavors, including beef & cheese--another favorite of his! 1/2 a can, on top of a bed of dry dog food, twice a day. just like he liked it. unless the cats beat him to it--he didn't have the guts to kick the cat out of his own food dish. i always busted Ringo's chops about that, but perhaps he was just too nice--he always did want those darn cats to play with him, but they just didn't want to. endless frustration for Ringo.



and he was so nice with the nieces & nephews, too, from the seven year old all the way down to the youngest, who is less than two. never forceful or overbearing, he was always armed with doggie kisses, smiles, and a wagging tail. always looking for someone to play with, he'd run with them outdoors until everyone was exhausted.


the blur

if i was in bed and he wasn't already in the bedroom with me, he'd barge in and leave the door wide open, letting the cool, air-conditioned air out into the hallway as he collapsed in an exhausted heap in his own bed on the floor. i guess he never really understood the concept of energy conservation, so i'd always have to get up and shut the door again. of course, i couldn't be mad, since he just wanted the cool air just like i did. i could often find Ringo snoozing on my bed before i got in there as well. he'd look at me with a shit-eating grin and his tail would go thump-thump-thump on the bedsheets when i walked in the bedroom. of course, a good dog gets to sleep on the bed at least a little bit, so i'd let him stay. he'd sleep there with me until he got to hot, and then he'd clumsily tromp over me on his way to the cool, wooden floor. i always forgave him for that, too.



last weekend, the family went back to our camp for dinner, and of course, Ringo came along too. he had never been swimming before this summer, but after a few tries, he went to the water like a fish. we'd swim together and doggie paddle around the pond. i'd throw a tennis ball and we'd both go tearing after it through the water. he'd almost always beat me to the ball, but he'd also get tired on occasion and want to be carried through the water back to shore, which i gladly did for him, since he was such a good ball fetchin' dog. and then he'd go up on shore and shake off the water next to the family and get them all wet. i think he just wanted to share the fun with them. and lately, every time he got wet, it would rile the residual skunk odor from when he got sprayed several weeks ago. i was getting so used to the smell that whenever i smell a skunk now, i think of Ringo.


still wet from a swim

on the way home from the camp, he and i enjoyed the wind in our hair (and fur) as i drove slowly down our road in the jeep with the softtop down, the doors off, and the windshield folded down. he could get in all the smells that way, with the wind blowing in our faces. i wish i had taken a picture of us together doing that. come to think of it, i have no pictures of the two of us together.


Ringo vs. Will

that dog was all about having fun. if there were no tennis balls, he'd chase something else-- a bone. a stick. a rock. a plastic toy the kids had abandoned. he would even chase after the watermelon rinds i would toss into the tall grass and he'd bring them back to me like he was doing me a favor. one time recently, i decided to let him lap up the drips from the watermelon as i ate it, which he clearly appreciated. that made me think he'd want to carry the rind around for a bit, so i gave it to him without throwing it first and he laid down and ate the damn thing like it was prime rib--never puked it up or nothing. tuff dog. crazy dog. perhaps since he didn't know it wasn't good for him, it was ok, but anyone that can eat watermelon rind and not even burp or barf is a hero to me.


Ringo: rind chompin' champion

as with all heros, Ringo had a fatal flaw. being a border collie beagle mix, he was super-smart about everything. well, JUST about everything. he was never good with cars--i think he was being as friendly to them as he was to everything else that moved. even though we had made progress, especially as of late, i was never comfortable with him around the road.

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this evening i got home around 10:45 after blogging all night here at the family store. when i pulled up to the house, i parked across the street because i had the next day off and i didn't want to block in my parent's cars in the morning. Ringo was outdoors and came bounding over to see me as usual. we whined back and forth to each other as we always do when i get out of the car. he was always so talkative when i got home, always whining and howling like he was telling me about his day and asking about mine. as i got out of the car, he took off, waiting for me to follow him to the door. as i rounded the corner of the car, i could see headlights coming down the road, and instinctively called for Ringo to come stand by my side like a good boy. he'd been picking up on that lately, so even though i could hear in my own voice that i was noticably worried, i thought for sure he was still on my side of the road by my car. he wasn't.

he was already either crossing the street, or had finished crossing and was coming back when i called him. i don't know. but i knew when he got hit. it was a sickening sound, and an even worse sight to see your best friend tumble down the road in the shadows behind a car. i screamed, i ran, i knelt beside him. i cried and put my head on the pavement next to him.

he was already gone before i could get to his side.

luckily, it was quick for him. but for me, it felt like forever. it was surreal. so painful. it felt like a dream, like i was watching from somewhere else. was this really happening? or was i in bed, sleeping, dreaming this nightmare? i wasn't. he and i were both there in the road until mom came out, hearing me scream in disbelief. dad came, too.

the deputy in me instinctively took down the driver's name, address, and license plate number, and surveyed the damage to his car as i snuffed back tears. the driver was fine but felt terrible. he didn't see Ringo. i don't blame him. i'm just glad he stopped rather than take off.

i don't really blame anyone, but i wish so badly that i could do this evening over again--i would have come home a minute sooner or later to avoid the car. i would have parked in the driveway instead of across from the house, so Ringo wouldn't have been in the road. i wish i had petted him a few seconds longer to keep him near me longer. i wish i knew where he was before i called him. i wish i could do it all over so badly, but i can't.

mom was upset, too. she said i should bury him in the morning, but i couldn't wait that long. i didn't want to have to wake up to that, so i did it right then. i went from petting him, to howling hello to him, to crying beside him, and to burying him, all within 15 minutes. i had to grit my teeth through the tears to be able to see what i was doing with the shovel. mom and dad helped dig. dad doesn't really get emotional, but he did find one of Ringo's tennis balls to bury with him. i didn't think of that, so i'm glad he did. we buried him wrapped in his blanket and with the tennis ball; i kept his collar. we laid him next to Spaz, my other buddy who we had to put down in the fall of 2004. i had used the jeep's headlights to help see, and when we were done, i left it sitting graveside, almost to keep guard overnight. i had mud and blood on my hands, and i couldn't do anything more except breathe deeply, grit my teeth, and clench his collar and dog tags in my hand as i slowly walked back to the house.

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on the way home right before it happened, The Dance by Garth Brooks was on the radio. the corny irony there is the song is about the pain of a lost love but the remembrance of the time spent together. i couldn't recall ever really listening to the lyrics before, but i did tonight. how ironic it was that i'd be feeling that same pain in only a few minutes.

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance, I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance

--a quaint, corny anology there, but still effective. i hate so much to see him go, but i sure did enjoy the time we had. it was a great eight months together. somehow, in that short time, he packed in so much. he was the best dog i've ever had. i'm so glad i had the chance to adopt him, give him a good home, and love him. i'm so glad he had that love when he went. a lot of good dogs don't get that. even though the memory is horrible, i'm so glad i was able to be there by his side when it happened rather than be gone somewhere and get an awful phone call. i'm glad i got to pet him and make us both happy that one last time.



Ringo
December 17th 2004 - July 14th 2006

he's gone. quite easily the best dog i've ever had. gone. he was one of those dogs you worry about losing because he was one in a million. i spent every minute i could with him during the last 8 months, and i really noticed that the next morning when i not once stepped on his paw, or let him out the door, or took him for a ride, or heard his tags jingling. he wasn't in bed with me when i woke up, nor was he sprawled out on the floor. and he didn't eat his food today or even bark at the cats or the cows. i expected him to be right there every time i turned around, but he wasn't. it's hard to come home now because i know he won't be there waiting for me. he's gone. Ringo, i hope you and Spaz finally get to meet--now you'll have a playmate forever.



i miss you, buddy. i love you.

A very special message for those of you who have been concerned about Bug the Goat's absence:

The truth about Bug must come out. For about a year now, he's been addicted to goat painkillers, on top of reoccurring bouts with alcohol. He checked himself into the Betty Ford rehab clinic several months ago, which is why he hasn't been around. He feels he needed to come clean with his fans and with himself to fully recover. Things have been going quite well, other than for a few fits of psychotic rage and some tiny little relapses now and then. With your help and prayers, he will be back again on the blarf soon, spouting more words of goaty wisdom, albiet with a severly damaged goat liver.

--Bug's Publicist


best wishes to Bug (p.s. get off the drugs, you stupid, hollow-horned ruminant)

since Bug should be just fine in due time, all of you Bug-Lovers can now go and have a nice, cold Genny Cream Ale and relax.

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and in less touchy news:


the evil Nokia 6230

some long-time callers may have noticed that i recently had to change my voice mail message. this is because my Nokia 6230 crapped out again, and while waiting for a warranty replacement, i had to forward all calls to my business cell phone. that meant re-directing all of my calls from the regular phone to the biz phone by way of a new voice mail message. that pissed me off to have to do that, since i'd been using the same message for over 5 years. i still remember recording that message--i was standing on the sidewalk behind Pritchard Dodge in Ithaca on a warm, sunny day with traffic wizzing by. *sigh* so much for sentimentality. it goes in the toilet when technology rots out from beneath you.

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and now another snazzy story about me being annoyed:

i was at walmart the other day. it was fricking busy, and as usual, out of 20 check-outs, there were about 5 that were open. i picked the one with the shortest line, which, of course, will take the longest time to get through according to Murphy's law. i watched other shoppers get into other lines, wait, pay, and leave while i stood there long enough to grow stubble. obviously, i wasn't going to leave my line in fear that i'd end up stuck in the slowest line somewhere else (once you've been cursed with the slow line, it follows you, even to the express lane.) when i got to the front of the line, i discovered an exceptionally courteous cashier, an older white guy in his 50's or so, painstakingly counting change and making delightful small talk with customers.

now before you call me an asshole, let me say that i love people like that.

but not at freaking walmart.

i'd rather have a fat lady named Deb in a blue apron say to me "welcome-to-walmart-$23.87-here's-your-goddamn-change-thank-you" because that's what we know & love about walmart. walmart cashiers should not be slow & steady guys like this who count out the change to the exact penny & stuff. god bless him, but he belongs at Ye Olde Time Hardware Store or something, or at least at the door saying hello. come to think of it, i haven't seen walmart greeters lately--are they extinct? did walmart decide that paying some old man minimum wage to greet people was not cost effective? did it force them to raise the price on a gallon-size jar of pickles by another penny? good heavens.

and more importantly, can you buy Genny Cream Ale at walmart?


walmart sez: hurry up, damn you

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and on the JobFront:



as you might expect, when on The Job, you have to be The Man.
you have to call the shots.
you have to put people in their place when necessary.
you have to make life-altering decisions for dipshits that can't handle it on their own.

and this was the mindset i was in one day recently when my dad called me on the cell phone. i think i had just gotten done writing a ticket to a deserving idiot driver, or told someone to hang it in their ass (in a nice way) because it needed to be said, and that's when dad called. he mentioned he and mom were going to go out to dinner and i was invited. did i have any ideas of where to eat, and about what time would i be out of work? i thought, yes, dad, i do know where i want to eat and why don't you call me later and i'll tell you when and where we're going and--WHOOOooHHH, back up the bus. did i just almost tell dad what to do? that does not happen. my dad is by no means a prick or an asshole, but still, his sons don't tell him what to do, so i had an odd juxtaposition of The Man telling The Big Man what to do. whoops. glad i cought myself before i dissed my dad. sometimes even The Man has to answer to somebody.

nothing beats The General

i was in my favorite chinese restaurant the other day. as usual, those crafty Chinese had the heat turned off, and the only thing keeping the pipes from freezing was the heat oozing through the walls of the store next door. i'm sure the neighbors luuuvvvv that.

anyway, while waiting for my General Tso's Chicken, my eyes searched the walls of the icy-cold eatery. in addition to the stack of FHM magazines by the door, i noticed a chinese calendar on the wall. this was not the traditional chinese calendar, mind you--it was half english, half chinese calendar from some food distributor. on it was a awkward collage of photos depicting the Communist Chinese view of typical American life--a hot Chinese girl, a Cape Cod style mansion, and an '80's Mercedes convertible. describing it does it no justice--it has to be seen to be understood. clearly, and as usual, the Chinese missed the mark. they got the general idea of the world's view of American lifestyle, but still funked it up royally. i wish i had a photo of it. those silly Chinese, when are they going to open the floodgates and allow it's people to see the rest of the world without "Communist Red" colored glasses?


excellent reading material available at this place

as i turned back to the counter, i laid eyes once again on the cashier--a boney chinese dude, with banana-sized lips in sore need of chapstick, wearing a grubby t-shirt and a Larry the Cable Guy hat with "GIT-R-DONE" on the front.

*sigh* another Chinese soul that has succumbed to American culture.

on a lighter note, The General was delicious.

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and in dreamier, creepier news:

i had a dream recently that i was at home with mom and one of my brothers, and lately, for some reason, i had not been able to communicate with anyone outside of my immediate family. i couldn't be seen or heard. i turned to mom and asked, "mom, am i dead?" and she began to explain the horrible truth. i was indeed dead, felled by the bullet of a criminal, and i was only visible to members of my family. i suddenly had a slow-motion flashback of our farm, on a clear and calm summer evening at dusk. i saw myself drawing my gun just as i was shot. i saw my face crashing down to the dusty driveway by the barn... and that was it. nothing more.

then i woke up.



talk about creepy. my mind ripped off "The Sixth Sense" something fierce.

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and in equally creepier, yet somehow lighter news:


the new snacker, minus buffalo sauce

i was in the drive-thru at KFC the other day while on The Job. i ordered their new Buffalo Snacker Combo. as i rolled up to the window, the clerk, which had just been so polite and professional on the intercom, saw the front fender of the patrol car, spun around to his buddies, clapped his hands, and said something i couldn't hear from outdoors, no doubt something like "dude, it's a cop!" he then spun back around to take my money and saw me glaring at him and the smile instantly disappeared from his face. when he opened the window, i asked, "you're not making special Cop Burgers, are you?" he replied, "naw, man, i wouldn't do that. i would never mess with anyone's food." bullshit, i thought. he might not, but his croanies in back might.

needless to say, i inspected my Snackers for foreign matter. luckily, Snackers are of simple construction--bun, chicken & sauce, lettuce, bun. the potato wedges appeared normal. the soda looked ok, but you never know.

other than the mental distress, the meal was delicious.

Bug the Goat has nothing to add today. neither does Ringo. or the fish. nothing.
gawd, i'm tired. leave comments.

blarf viewership is in the toilet, so i'd better get blogging again finally. it's been a busy two months. i've had 2 days off this past month, and today is that 2nd day.

anyway, no pity for me. on to better things! like a rant:

i am so goddamn sick of commercials that have a family composed of two perfect children, a hot 30-something wife, and a fat assed slob of a husband. how unrealistic is that? i assume it's a subliminal goal to make fat, lazy men think that this life is attainable and therefore make them want to buy what's being advertised.


for instance, the new Dodge Durango ad, which features this type of family, lost in the desert while driving their new hemi durango while towing a huge boat: number one, how did this pillsbury doughboy of a man, who hasn't learned how to dress, comb his hair, or lose weight, EVER marry the wife he has, have the kids he has, and afford to buy the $100,000 worth of truck and boat that he has? VW has an ad like this, too. and what about those stooopid Vonage ads, where the wife is talking to the camera and the fatshit husband is doing the retarded dance in the background? god, i hate that ad. i hate it almost as much as i hate Shirley Temple.


fat husband (Kevin James) + hot wife (Leah Remini) = typical television

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and in darker, wetter news:


i had an awful bubonic plague sweep through my aquarium recently, which decimated my fish population. it all started with the new Columbian Shark (aka "Plain Old Catfish with a Fancy Name") that i got. he was fine for a while, but being Columbian, he had a bit of a drug problem, and where there's drugs, there's disease. first, he started showing signs of mental instability by swimming the exact same path in the tank for hours and hours. then he disappeared, and a few days later, i found him dead as hell, apparently from a drug overdose.


the evil cracked-out columbian catfish

that was the beginning of an awful downward spiral of disease. it was dreadful and i felt hopeless, unable to fix the problem, waiting for another fish to die, day after friggin' day. i lost my two Clown Loaches (which i'd had forever), the previously unkillable Yo Yo Loach (who spent at least an hour of his life out of water on two occasions in the past and still lived), and even my beloved Sharkie series of fish. none could escape the invisible killer--Sharkie IV, VI, VII, VIII all perished. Sharkie IV (the patriarch of the tank since the untimely death of Sharkie V many months ago), hung on as long as he could, but ultimately ended up in that big drain that leads to the sea. the nitemare finally stopped after 8 fish had died within 2 weeks. i'm now down to my big stupid Tinfoil Barb, the blue African Cichlid, the ancient & crippled Danio ( one of the original, and the oldest fish left), my zebra-striped something-or-other, and the three pain-in-the-ass Tiger Barbs. things are now under control again, and with half the fish and with a new power water filter, they should be alright. i won't get any new fish for a while now--the cost of treatment killed my checkbook too.

hmmm, lets see more of Leah Remini:

ahh, that's better.

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and in "Death of my Childhood" news:



Peter Tomarken, host of the 80's CBS game show "Press Your Luck", died along with his wife in a private plane crash March 13th. in very un-Hollywood fashion, he died doing a good deed--he was providing free air transport with his own plane for persons in need of medical treatment at the UCLA Medical Center.

i remember watching that show as a kid at grandma's house while eating those little frozen pizzas that grandma used to get. he was my favorite TV personality as a sub-10-year-old kid, second only to Bob Barker. so now i'm waiting for the other shoe to drop--actually, to be more frank, i'm waiting for Bob Barker to drop.


Barker drops Sandler

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how about some more of that Leah Remini stuff:



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guess that's about it for now. but stay tuned!! there is another post already written and waiting to burst onto the blarf. and finally, more from Leah Remini:



leave your comments about Leah Remini in... the comments. (better than pictures of ol' Bug the Goat, huh?!??)

last night's skiing conditions were near-perfect.

i felt like a real instructor with my new, official "SKI INSTRUCTOR BEN" nametag. i taught two people how to ski last night--one was a friend and the other was a private lesson for a guy who hadn't skied in 20 years. he picked it up quickly and understood the heavy concepts and big words i used. it's difficult to explain things to people who are so stupid they do not know the explanations of words like "fall line", "perpendicular", "parallel", "your left" and "your other left".

it also annoys me when people cannot understand simple concepts like "walking sideways" (it's as simple as it sounds) or "snowplowing". it isn't like i don't explain things. people just don't want to listen. it's an uphill battle when the skiing newbie has the options of: 1. making his brain sweat by learning to ski, or 2. using as little brainpower as necessary by throwing down the skis and going tubing on the other hill.



even worse yet is trying to teach a little prick of a child, who can hardly handle fractions in math class, especially when they are singing the classic Beginner Skier Blues like:

Mommy and Daddy Made Me Go Skiing
I Hate This
The Boots Make My Feet Hurt
My Gloves Keep Falling Off
The Skis Make Me Walk Stupid
I Think I Have Frostbite; No Really, I Know I do
This Sucks, I Want to Go Tubing Instead

my complementary Ski Instructor Blues ditties:

I'm Going to Punch your Rich Obnoxious Daddy in the Mouth
I Hate You
Ski Boots Hurt More When Shoved Up the Ass
Keep the Goddamn Gloves on Your Hands and It Won't Be a Problem
The Skis Aren't Stupid, You Are
I Could Only Wish You Had Frostbite; No, Really, I Do
This Sucks, I Wish You Went Tubing Instead

--i *HATE* children with shitty attitudes. *HATE*

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i forgot how much going to the dentist can suck.

i went to see Dr. Lee for my root canal yesterday.

i probably could have avoided it, but thanks to ignorance and beauracracy, i couldn't get my tooth properly fixed when i lost a filling, so it rotted away for 6 painful months while i waited for my health insurance elligibility to kick in, and then i had to wait for someone (anyone!) to get me the proper paperwork to sign up for dental insurance. and THEN i had to redo the paperwork because it was submitted incorrectly. all this crap took 6 months, and in that time, my tooth turned to shit from the inside out and could only be saved by a root canal.

i had the general idea about what a root canal was, but knew nothing about how it was done. i found out in short order.



first, they lead you into a room equipped with scary looking tools.

then they give you several shots, including one into the roof of the mouth, with a giant 1950's-style stainless steel syringe--i cringe. (it was about this point when i wanted to choke the shit out of Dr. Lee in the corner of his own office, but it was nothing personal.)

the rest is uncomfortable but not horribly painful:

the dentist guts your tooth with a bunch of grinder thingies.

then he puts this metal framework and rubber sheet crap in/on your mouth, not unlike something you'd see in marilyn manson's "Beautiful People" video.

then he jams these tiny little metal files all the way to the end of your tooth's root.

then he lowers your sperm count with x-rays.

then he fills the holes he made with crap to plug the now-purged tooth.

and finally he fills it in with a temporary filling and tells you to come back in a week.

so now, it still hurts. and i'll be back next week for the permanant filling.

--i'm glad i didn't know what was in store for me before i went.

3.1415926535 blarf points to the first person who can name the film the above steve martin/bill murray photo was stolen from. it's one of my favorites.


unless your kid aspires to be a dentist, one would think this game would get old quick

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in two unrelated voicemails yesterday, i was called a "butt" and an "assbag"--coincidence??? i'm not sure what an assbag is, however it seems better than being called a "welfare bag", which was heard on the job at a recent domestic dispute.

Ben's Small World Irony Of The Day:

the new friend i took skiing last night went to high school with mars, and also knows slyker and his wifey. --that's whack.

And in Other Western New Yorker News:

apparently, if you're from western new york, it's cool to say "profesh" as a slang term from "professional" or "professional looking". i guess it's sorta like saying "pop" instead of "soda". western new yorkers are a weird bunch.

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Bug the Goat's Stolen Quotes of the Day:

"Be still like squirrels" --Sarah (you had to be there)

"Cats are like dogs...that need to be shot" --Sarah (didn't have to be there)

"Weather like this makes me want to curl up and die" (just hope you're not there when it happens)

--i leave it up to Sarah to defend herself on these.