My Neighbor Caught Me Messing Around with Her Dog's Poop

My house shares a yard with a couple of other units, and one of these neighbors recently got a new puppy. I think when she got the puppy she thought mainly of the cuteness and less about the responsibility because things haven't been going so well on that front. The dog is left in the yard barking and whining for hours at a time, and while I'm not wild about that, I'm even less in love with the shit all over the yard. Dogs poop, so I don't object to that, but I don't like that our shared yard is now a literal minefield of crap. Like, clean it up every so often!

I meant to address this issue with my neighbor like an adult, but before I got around to that, I had a friend over one day and she shouted, "WHY IS THERE DOG SHIT ALL OVER YOUR YARD?" Right after, I realized that the neighbor was standing at the adjacent and open window and must have heard the comment. That's not how I wanted her to hear that message, but I wasn't upset that it happened because at least she'd take the hint.

Except that the "hint" was ignored. A month worth's of poop amassed in the yard including several piles right outside my own front door. I decided my best course of action was just to just wait for the landlady to show up on the first of the month to pick up rent because she'd definitely say something about the mess.

On the 30th, however, my neighbor went around and picked up the poop. That meant she knew she was about to get and trouble, yet waited until the last moment to get rid of the problem. Of course, she didn't bother with the poop around my door, which would not be visible to my landlady.

So I devised a plan: I would move some of the remaining poop closer to the front so that the landlady would see it. It's silly, it's gross, and it's passive aggressive, but I genuinely thought it was a good plan.

I waited until 1:30 am so that I could do it secretly. With a couple of napkins, I scooped up dried out poop using both hands and made my way to the front yard. It was only as I was in the process of relocating the poop in a new spot on the ground that I realized that my neighbor was sitting silently in the dark on the porch. Panicked, I picked the poop back up and shoved it in my pocket and ran back into my house as my neighbor watched.

I can't be sure of what she saw or more importantly what she thinks she saw, but since the motion sensor light next to me had turned on, I have to assume she did see me doing something with her's dog poop. In retrospect, I should have put it in the trashcan rather than my pockets as if to indicate, "See, I have to pick up your dog's poop!" but I was caught off guard.

I don't even know whether it'd be better if my neighbors thought I was being conniving by recreating the poop mess or that I'm plain crazy and randomly playing with dog poop super late at night. Either way, I'm super embarrassed and feel like an idiot for not realizing this "good plan" was bound to backfire on me.

Fooled Ya

I keep grabbing his leash and saying, "Wanna go for a WALK? April Fools'!" and he falls for it every time. What a moron.

7 Things You Oughta Know about George Bush Sr.

I was reminded not too long ago that as a child I was a fan of George H.W. Bush because he reminded me of my grandfather. I’m sure it’s true, but it’s hard to remember how I felt about politics over two decades ago. Here are the things I remember most concretely about Bush Sr.: we share a birthday, he doesn’t like broccoli, and he vomited on some Japanese dignitary.

Since none of these have anything to do with his actual politics, I decided to watch 41, a documentary about Bush’s life. Even though it’s a puff piece that shies away from anything remotely controversial, good ol’ Bush Sr. is crotchety enough to say some pretty “charming” things that’ll make you go “Hmmmm…”

Here are 7 things I learned about George Bush Sr. from his own words:

1. He’s not afraid to take subtle digs at his wife: “Millie [his dog] wrote a book… and made a lot of money. Illiterate though she is, she made a lot more money than Barbara made on hers.”
2. He thinks you should respect corrupt leaders: “The thing that really offended me was when you get a lot of these kids from Capital Hill… [with a] ‘we’re going to get you, we know you’re all crooks!’ mentality and treating these career people [politicians] with disdain.”
3. He uses analogies that are as perplexing and explicit as R. Kelly lyrics: “Your job reminds me of screwing a gorilla… you can’t stop until the gorilla wants to.”
4. He believes that Watergate wasn’t a big deal: “You know, breaking into some Democratic headquarters is not the end of the world.” And are there any repercussions or lessons to take from the incident? “None!... And I think that most people would agree with that assessment because life goes on, you can’t stay mired in the past.”
5. He’s open about his attraction to women: “Girls?... I was admiring the figures, physiques very early on… There was a girl named Deedee Thurston who was a year older, think she had a rich father ‘cause she had a yacht… She wore a rubber bathing suit – I’ll never forget that - that was to die for.”
6. In some cases much older women: “[My friend] yelled, ‘Hurry on up! Mrs. Seymour is taking a shower, you can see her naked!’ Well, Mrs. Seymour was about 75, and we charged up there and sure enough she was stone naked.” (For the life of me, I can’t guess why he shared an anecdote about peeping on an old woman – particularly since it happened after he was a married father.)
7. He still shudders at the thought of Ross Perot: “Can you talk a little bit about Ross Perot?” “No, I can’t talk about him. I think he cost me the election and I don’t like him. Other than that, I have nothing to say.”

Okay, so none of the things I'm taking away from the documentary are all that political in nature, but at least I have some new quotations that will soon turn into inside jokes when no one else knows what I'm referring to.

Clean Up Your Poop

On my way to the train station today, from a bit of a distance, an old man angrily shouts at me, “Make sure to clean up your poop!” I’m a little taken aback and just kind of sputter a, “What…?” He gets a little bit closer, “Oh, I thought you were walking a dog.” Nope, I’m not with a dog, I’m just pulling a little suitcase on wheels. Part of me appreciates how diligent he is at his self-appointed neighborhood watch post in the crusade against improperly disposed dog crap, but the other part of me wants to shout back “Maybe you should keep your mouth shut if you can’t tell the difference between a suitcase and a dog, old man!” Even if they did look similar, what kind of person takes his dog for a walk by dragging it behind him?

I Don't See Breed

You know those people who are so "progressive" that they claim they don't see race? Well, that's just like me… except with dogs. In other words, I don't see breed.

It's a phrase I use a lot. When people ask what kind of dog I live with, I honestly can't answer the question. It's not that I don't love the pup, it's just that his pedigree is irrelevant. It would be nice if they, too, just got to know the dog for who he is rather than making judgments based on the stereotypes they have about the breed. Dare I say it's bigoted when people say things like: "What kind of dog did you own? A golden retriever? He must be so playful!" How is that any different than being like "What race is your new roommate?" Black/White/Asian? She must be loud/an awful dancer/pay really high car insurance rates."? 

So quit acting like I'm an idiot when I don't know the difference between dog breeds. It's not nearly as ignorant as learning the differences and then insisting on labeling them. I believe in a world without labels, where a dog can just be a dog - judged on the content of its character rather than its breed.

Best Picture Nominees in 60 Seconds

The Academy Awards are this Sunday, and if you’re like most people, you haven’t found the time to see all nine Best Picture nominees. Heck, I have found the time and – in most cases - I regret it. Still, if you want to know the gist of the top flicks before the Oscars ceremony, check out my sixty second summaries. Think of them as super condensed screenplays. But BE WARNED– these mini-scripts are full of SPOILERS and SARCASM.

The Help
Viola Davis: I am a black maid. By barely emoting, I can show you how much my life sucks.
Emma Stone: I am a young white woman who doesn’t wear makeup, I also know what it’s like to be looked down upon by society.
Viola Davis: I don’t even need to roll my eyes to convey how ignorant that statement is.
Octavia Spencer: I need to poop, so I’ll use my boss’ bathroom.
Bryce Howard: That toilet is for white people’s poop only! You’re fired!
Jessica Chastain: I’m white trash and need a maid, so come poop - I mean work - at my house.
Octavia Spencer: Okay, but the next time I poop, I’m going to keep it and bake it into a pie to feed to my former boss. I am very, very funny like that.
Emma Stone: That’s a great story, I’m going to use it in a book about black maids. Will you share your stories, too, Viola?
Viola Davis: Whatever.
Emma Stone: Hey, that bestselling book you dictated to me just got me a swell publishing job in New York. Now I can get out of this hellhole. Things are finally working out for us struggling gals, huh Viola?
Viola Davis: Actually, I just got fired for no reason, but talk to you never, I guess.

The Tree of Life
Dad: The world is awful.
Big Bang: BANG! The world is created.
Son: What is the meaning of life?
Dad: Shut up! [Hits son.] I treat you awfully because the world is awful and you need to be prepared.
Dinosaur: Hi, just wanted to briefly remind you that I was once here. K, bye.
Son: You’re so mean, Dad, I wish you’d go away.
Dad: Conveniently, I am going on a business trip to travel the world and see all of its awfulness.
Son: Now life will be good!… Wait, it turns out I’m awful, too. Without my awful father around to keep me in line, I do awful things. What should I do, Mom?
Mom: Um… ask your awful father when he comes home. This film is about the history of the whole fucking world, yet apparently evolution does not allow for any strong female characters.
Birds: Hi, we’re just flying by quickly. Don’t forget that we are also a kind of life.
Dad: Son, I’m sorry for being so awful. Maybe the world isn’t so awful.
Sun (not to be confused with son): I am incinerating the awful world. Life is over.
Son: But for some reason, I’m still here. Would it have killed the screenwriter to be a bit more linear? Maybe the film is purposely awful to represent how awful the world is.

The Artist
Actor:
Actress:
Actor:
Director:
Actor:
Actress:
Actor:
Dog:
Actor:
Actress:
Actor:
Title Card: Never before has a silent film said so little.

Midnight in Paris
Owen Wilson: As a writer, I wish I lived in Paris.
Fiancée: Ugh, you’re ridiculous.
Owen Wilson: As a writer, I wish I lived in the 1920s.
Fiancee: Ugh, you’re ridiculous.
Owen Wilson: Oh my gosh, I just inexplicably went back in time to the ‘20s.
F. Scott Fitzgerald: Hi.
Ernest Hemingway: Hi.
Gertrude Stein: Hi.
Pablo Picasso: Hi. Here is my beautiful girlfriend, Adriana, by all means fall in love with her, my time-traveling friend.
Owen Wilson: The past is awesome. I finally have everything I’ve ever wanted!
Adriana: Nothing will stop us from being together forever!
Owen Wilson: Actually, I should probably learn how to live in the present. Sorry.
Gertrude Stein: Look, I’m a feminist and all, but before you go back, you should know that your bitch fiancée is a cheating whore.
Owen Wilson: [travels back to present day] Are you cheating on me?
Fiancee: Yup.
Owen Wilson: Looks like I’m moving to Paris.

The Descendants
Clooney: Alex, come visit your mother, she’s in a coma.
Wife: [Lies in a coma.]
Alex: Nah, she’s a bitch. P.S. She was cheating on you.
Clooney: What?! We must go have an awkward conversation with my dying wife’s lover. Go get your sister!
Alex: Family vacation!
Clooney: I have spent my wife’s last living days traveling around Hawaii to find you, guy who cheated with my wife, and yet now that I’m here, I have nothing meaningful to say.
Guy Who Cheated with Clooney’s Wife: She loved me and wanted to divorce you. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t give a shit about her and was just ruining your marriage for kicks.
Clooney: For nonsensical reasons, that does make me feel better.
Alex: Hey, Dad, remember that subplot where you own a lot of land with your extended family and have all agreed to sell it to become wildly rich? It’s time to sign those papers.
Clooney: Oh that? I’ve changed my mind because I’ve learned an important lesson this past week - you can dick your family around all you want and they’ll still find a way to forgive you in your final hour. [Kisses comatose wife. Removes her life support.]
Wife: [Dies.]

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Oskar: My dad died in the Twin Towers on 9/11. As a result, I am very strange now, right, Mom?
Sandra Bullock: Right. It sure fucked you up. It also doesn’t hurt that you might have Asperger’s. The tests were inconclusive, but we mention that to account for your inconsistent character traits without having to commit to the disorder fully.
Oskar: I’m pretty sure my dad left me a secret message before dying, so I’m going to go behind my mom’s back and invent an elaborate mystery to solve that involves interviewing hundreds of strangers about some key I found. Let’s start with Viola.
Viola Davis: Hey, don’t mind me, I’m just stopping by to give a more profound performance here in just a few minutes than I do in all of The Help.
Oskar: This is hard work talking to all of these people given my potential social disorder and questionable motives. Perhaps I should enlist a sidekick.
Mute Old Man:
Oskar: You don’t talk, but you’ll do.
Mute Old Man:
Oskar: Hmm, I’m starting to deduce that you are actually my grandfather, Mute Old Man, but I have another mystery that I fabricated that needs to be solved first.
Viola Davis: Hey, sorry to pop in again. I know I’m the first stranger you spoke to, but it’s time to admit that I actually know who that key belongs to after all, and it has nothing to do with your dead father.
Oskar: [Cries.] You’ve destroyed my long-running delusional pursuit.
Sandra Bullock: You still have your mother, though, Oskar. And don’t think I don’t care because I actually knew you were running around New York City meeting with strangers to talk about a meaningless key this whole time!
Oskar: So you knew I was repeatedly putting myself in danger and let me do it anyway? Maybe you’re as crazy as me after all - we can be a family again. Plus, I think I’ve now made peace with Dad’s death, so everything’s finally good.
Sandra Bullock: Yup. Except that you probably still have Asperger’s.

Moneyball
General Manager: I love managing baseball! Too bad it’s too expensive to pay for a winning team.
Sports Nerd: Numbers, numbers, numbers.
General Manager: So you’re saying if I hire players based on statistics rather than conventional wisdom, we could win?
Sports Nerd: ###
Players: We are baseball’s bad boys who other teams don’t want because we cause a lot of trouble despite the fact that we get on base a lot.
General Manager: You’re hired! This is a good idea, right?
Sports Announcer: This is a terrible idea.
Sports Nerd: ###
Team: [Loses many games.]
Sports Announcer: This was still a terrible idea.
General Manager: Daughter, you still love me even though my team sucks, right?
Daughter: [Sings horrible song, unabridged, for no reason whatsoever.]
Team: [Wins record-breaking 20 games in a row.]
Sports Announcer: This is an example of some brilliant sports managing!
Ex-Wife: I suddenly find myself attracted to my ex again now that his team is winning. The fact that he’s always looked like Brad Pitt doesn’t hurt either.
General Manager: We are going to rule so hard in the playoffs!
Sports Announcer: Wow, this team has sucked so hard in the playoffs. Bad sports managing!
Sports Nerd: ###

War Horse
Boy: I love my horse! Please don’t sell it to the army, Papa.
British Soldier: Don’t worry, boy, I also love this horse. I promise to take care of him. [Dies.]
Nice German Soldiers: Oh, hey, a horse! We will love this horse forever! [Die.]
Young Girl: Look, grandpa! It’s a horse! Now he is mine forever!
Mean German Soldiers: Not so fast, we are going to steal this horse from you.
Young Girl: [Dies.]
Horse: [Makes friends with another horse.]
Friend Horse: [Dies.]
Horse: [Gets tangled in barbed wire.]
New British Soldier: It is remarkable that this horse survived such a bloody battle.
New German Soldier: It is remarkable that we have managed a temporary truce just to rescue this horse.
New British Soldier: Indeed, this horse has taught us a valuable lesson about war.
Both Soldiers: [Presumably die shortly thereafter.]
Boy: Now that the war is over, I will buy back my miracle horse.
Young Girl’s Grandpa: Actually, I’m going to outbid you for it.
Boy: This horse has survived so much only to be taken away from me again.
Young Girl’s Grandpa: Fine, you can have him. Owning him would probably mean the death of me anyway.

Hugo
Officer: I am the coyote to your roadrunner, Hugo! [Chase scene ensues.]
Hugo: Woo, I escaped yet again. Hi, I’m an orphan.
Isabelle: Me, too. Friendsies?
Hugo: I guess. Wanna see a movie?
Isabelle: My godfather won’t let me see movies. It’s peculiar how adamant he is about this.
Hugo: Let’s do what most kids our age do and research cinematic history to see if that turns up any clues.
Isabelle: Oh my god, my godfather was once an important filmmaker!
Godfather: That may be true, but no one cares now.
Film Historian: Hey, talk about showing up at the right place at the right time, but I can assure you that your contributions are significant.
Godfather: But none of my films have survived, so let’s just forget about it, okay?
Film Historian: What if I am inexplicably able to find all of the films you thought you destroyed?
Godfather: Then I will feel respected and stop being so grumpy.
Officer: I could stop being grumpy, too, I guess.
Isabelle: Now I get to watch movies all of the time! We did it, Hugo!
Hugo: If by “it” you mean make a pointlessly self-important movie about the magnificence of filmmakers and need for cinema preservation that is designed to fellate Hollywood’s elite while half-heartedly placating the plebeians with 3D effects, then yes we did!

Clifford the Big Red Dong

Lately I've been curious about the origin story of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Like, how did he get so big? Are his parents big? Did he mutate? Would his kids grow up to be equally as big?

When I brought this up to Dan, he pointed out that Clifford is not "genetically sustainable". At first I was confused, but then I realized he was just finding a polite way to say that Clifford is, for all intents and purposes, unable to procreate because of a presumably massive penis. At his stature, Clifford must be hung like a horse, by which I mean that he probably has a penis the size of an actual horse. For a moment, ignore the fact that he's a ginger and that no one would be attracted to him - even if a lady friend of Clifford's was daring enough to give him a whirl, she would surely die in the process.

However, I could definitely see someone using Clifford's sperm to artificially inseminate another dog to breed more huge dogs. But even that's probably not in the cards for Clifford at this point. Surely his owners have had him neutered, otherwise he'd be humping every billboard and building in town. Trampling through a neighbor's rose garden is an appropriate conflict in children's literature; thrusting against a church steeple is not.

So how was he neutered? I figured they might have to use a sword, but Stacy thought of a more appropriate implement: a pair of those comically oversized scissors meant for ribbon-cutting ceremonies. I could definitely see that being a mayoral duty. "I may not have cut taxes, but I did snip Clifford's big red dong. Never has it been so important to control the pet population."

Sister Hazel Necklace

I'm honored to be named as one of Molls' Five Favorite Things of the Week. It's genuinely flattering to receive support from someone like Molls who I respect for her talent, hustle, and wisdom. It's an even bigger honor to be named her "second favorite blogger" (after Caragh, which duh, no one's going to dispute that), considering that she's like a Countess of the Internet.

So yeah, I finally met Molls, and gave her the spiffy necklace she shows off in the video. (I'm referenced in the first segment, but if you keep watching, Molls shows you her bra, so there's your incentive to watch through the end.) It was originally a party favor at a Bar Mitzvah, and even though I never wore jewelry of any kind, I figured if I got a foot medallion (which I think was the most "masculine" option) inscribed with the name of my then-favorite band, maybe I would use it. Well, I never did, and it's a wonder it never got thrown out after fifteen years, but I'm glad Molls can give it a new home. (Said my mom, who I had track it down in my childhood bedroom: "Your friend knows it's not real gold, right?")

Also, I don't normally give jewelry to people the first time I meet them. Let's just make that clear so I don't end up upsetting future first dates or whatever.

I was about to say I had fun playing with Molls' dog Wagandstuff, but looking back I'm pretty sure he was actually playing with me. Even more than cute, Wag is an in-charge kind of pup, and I like that. It was also great spending time with Molls and experiencing her no-nonsense humor in the flesh. It's weird to know a lot about a person and then try to "meet" her. The same goes for Sasha, who was also hanging out, who I often view as more of a cyberbully than a friend. But color me shocked: she's not as rude in person as she comes across on the web. In fact, she might actually be pleasant... sorry if that gossip ruins your internet cred, Sasha. Don't worry, you can still leave insulting comments on my blog/Facebook.

Since Molls blogs about painting nails on the daily, both Sasha and I "got our nails did" by her. Molls chose a sea-foamish Justin Bieber polish for my fingers, and it was when she was nearly done that I started to worry about how I would get it off seeing as I don't own nail polish remover. Sasha suggested I just buy some at the drug store, but that would mean going into a drug store with painted nails. And don't say people might not notice - there's no way when a man buys nail polish remover that the cashier doesn't check out his nails.

That's when I came up with a brilliant solution: I could take a sharpie and scrawl the word PENIS on my forehead. That way, when I went to the drug store people who saw me would assume I had passed out drunk the night before and my friends played pranks on my unconscious body. I mean, sure, it would probably detract from the fact my nails were painted, but I'm going to blame that I even briefly thought that this was a good plan on all of those nail polish fumes I was inhaling.

Update from Sasha:

Zing! There's the bitch I remember.

That's Ruff

“I’m a dog groomer and a behavioral aid for kids with autism. People don’t like to say it, but they’re pretty much the same job.” - Interesting things acquaintances tell you at BBQs

UConn Wins

UConn won the NCAA basketball tournament last night.

That news would normally be followed by an exclamation point or four, but it's hard to muster the enthusiasm with everyone talking shit about the game.

My two favorite teams, UConn and Butler, made the finals. This conclusion is unprecedented in the life of sports-watching Kevin, especially since I tend to root for the underdogs. To be fair, both of these teams were underdogs coming into the tournament, but proved their talent and determination.

I'm not going to pretend the game was a pretty one, but I'm also not going to agree with the hoards of sports pundits who call it the worst/ugliest championship game in all of sports. It was still a hard-fought game, and if it had occurred at any point prior to the final game, it wouldn't have blemished the accomplishments. However, since it ended on a strange note, many keep commenting that the title deserves an asterisk.

To that, I say PHOOEY. All y'all are just jealous that UConn refused to lose whenever it counted. Connecticutians don't have much - don't take our college basketball from us, too! You may have managed to take the excitement from me, but you won't succeed at making me sad. You see, I can't feel sad because I'm already indifferent.

That's right, I'm indifferent. I'm not about to let sports make me feel bad. Fanaticism is stupid anyway. I was in for the excitement, but I'm not up for getting upset about something as trivial as a sports game. If you want to keep shitting on UConn's win, that's on you, but I'm going to go back to not caring about sports again for a while... at least until I forget why I developed that stance in the first place.

Urban Iditarod 2011: Oregon Trail

What happens when you and your friends dress up like frontiersmen and women and push a covered wagon down the Venice boardwalk? You end up having to literally flee from the cops. And that is a really sweaty and difficult thing to do when you are drunk and in full costume.

The event is the Urban Iditarod. It's a secret pub crawl in which a few hundred people form teams, "borrow" a shopping cart, dress in themed costumes, get inebriated, and make a spectacle of themselves in public. Since I'm good at all of those things, I participated in 2009 and 2010 as well.



My team chose Oregon Trail as our theme this year because it's nostalgic, cholera jokes are the best, and my friends are creative enough to make a rockin' covered wagon out of a shopping cart with just a sheet, some cardboard, and hula hoops. In addition to a lot of pioneers, we had a couple of Indians ("No offense" Ben's shirt read), an ox, and a buffalo. Even though there are no official "winners," the other teams were declaring us the winners because of how slick we looked when we reached the starting line.

Unfortunately the cops, who are wise to our ways after the years, were also waiting at the starting point and started issuing tickets before the event even began. I don't blame the police entirely. They'll give you some leeway when there's some plausible deniability; for example, our team consumes all of our beverages from soda and water bottles. However, when you are openly shotgunning Bud Lites next to the cops, they're going to ticket you, and if you give them guff for it, they're going to cuff you.

Rather than running between pubs like in the past, we ended up just fleeing from the police. We ran down random alleys and barely had a proper chance to catch our breaths. At one point we were trapped between a deep puddle and an oncoming police car and the other teams were shouting at us to quickly "calk the wagon and float it across." It was exhilarating in that sense, though I personally wasn't too worried about being arrested. Cuz let's get real here: more than racial profiling, cops douche profile. When they randomly start citing people, of course they're going to go choose the guy with an lewd statement scrawled on his wifebeater or the girl with her boobs spilling out of her outfit. If anyone were to ask, we were just a bunch of historical re-enactors who got mixed up with the wrong crowd.

Since other people had already quit, gotten lost, or in a few cases been apprehended, we no longer had the benefit of "safety in numbers." Once people started getting ticketed for stolen shopping carts, we dropped out of the race and made a beach day out of it. We stayed in costume and danced jigs to the bluegrass cover songs we brought and made a spectacle of ourselves all over again. In a way it was actually better once we were separated from the other teams, because we looked even nuttier to people out of context.

I love all of my fellow Oregon Trailers, and I'm glad to see that none of us fell prey to dysentery, snake bites, or even the police for that matter. Though we made it to the Pacific Ocean, we didn't quite make it to Oregon. Maybe we'll try again next year, but I'm going to need a year to think about it.

Found Dog

"Hi, I'm calling about your sign."
"Oh, did you lose your dog?"
"No, he's still right here next to me, but I figured since you're going to be finding him in the future, I'd give you my contact information now to save us both some time."

Walking the Dogs

Stacy is currently housesitting and taking care of three dogs. They're needy pups who insist on human contact when they sleep, so invariably she finds herself in the master bed smothered between three dogs who try to snuggle up into her every nook and cranny. I thought this in itself was one of the funniest mental pictures I've had in a while, but then she topped it when she described the process of walking these dogs...

The first dog is really excited about the world and loves to explore. It constantly runs ahead, tugging Stacy on the leash. The second dog is afraid of just about everything and, much like in bed, refuses to leave Stacy's side. The third dog has a cleft paw and can't actually walk, but since the owners don't want it to feel left out, they bought it a bassinet. Despite its gimp leg, the dog continually tries to hop out of its stroller so it can walk, even though it physically can't.

What I wouldn't give to see Stacy being yanked in two directions by differently tempered dogs while pushing a frilly baby bassinet with a third disabled dog who tries to escape up and down the hilly streets of East LA.

Traumatic Experience

Just had one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

I was meeting a few friends for lunch at a local burger dive. Since it is only a mile and a half away and a nice day, I decided to walk and meet them there. Even walking, I beat the other three and pondered whether I should go inside and get a table or just wait on the corner for the others to arrive. I called Lisa to see how close they were to the restaurant, but our conversation was abruptly interrupted by a little boy, approximately eight-years-old, who ran up to me frantically.

I dropped the phone to my shoulder mid-sentence because something was clearly amiss, and the boy asked me if I had seen a white chihuahua run by. I told him that I just arrived and hadn't seen one run this way, but that I would help him look. As I did a quick scan to see if I could see a little white pup scampering around anywhere, I spotted a white dog about fifteen away and pointed saying, "Oh, there!"

The word "there" didn't even finish escaping my mouth before my jaw dropped in remorse. The dog was laying on its side in a way a dog wouldn't normally do unless it was... Before I could react, the kid screamed, "My dog!" and dropped to his knees in a dramatic fashion, sobbing inconsolably. Even though I'm a former teacher, I don't always know how to deal with kids well, especially in a situation like this. I bent down and started patting his back as he cried. I would have given anything to revive this kid's dog, but it was clearly no longer breathing.

For a few minutes, I tried to hug/console the kid, unsure of how I should deal with an unattended child and his deceased doggy. I actively hoped that my friends would arrive so that our collective minds could determine the best course of action, but before they showed up, a white van pulled up beside us. Inside, a man who I assume was the kid's father asked the boy what happened. As soon as the dad saw the dog, he started crying and screaming as well.

At first, he yelled at me. I guess since I was standing there, he assumed I was in some way at fault for running the dog over, but I told him that I had walked there. "Who is responsible? WHO KILLED MY DOG?!" he screamed at me. He was truly frightening, but I'll forgive him given the circumstance. There was a car parked right next to the dog and he wanted to find the car's owner, but I hardly doubt if someone were to run over a dog they'd proceed to park right next to it. I'm no veterinarian, but I don't think the dog was run over at all, seeing as there was no blood or sign of external injury. It's a hot day, so maybe it suffered from heat exhaustion or heart failure while running away.

Since I was unable to offer any clues, distraught dad scooped up the chihuahua and rest its limp body in his front seat. The still sobbing child hopped in the back seat and managed to say "thank you" to me out the window between his tearful heaves as the car pulled away. Promptly, I inexplicably dropped to the ground myself. As I sat on the sidewalk, I could better appreciate the kid dropping to his knees, because you know what, sometimes life is just too heavy to stand up. I was already dehydrated from my walk, but I managed to shed a few drops from my eyes.

Did I really have to be a part of that? Did I have to be in that exact right spot at the exact right time? Couldn't I have at least registered that the dog being dead before pointing it out to the child so he didn't have to discover it in that manner? If my friends had arrived on time, I would have missed the incident altogether. If I hadn't been walking briskly in order to stay ahead of a garbage truck so I wouldn't have to walk beside it the whole route, I also would have missed the incident altogether.

Finally my friends arrived, expressing some concern because during the whole episode I failed to hang up my phone, allowing them to hear a child crying and the subsequent screaming. From the sound of it, their best guess was that I had assaulted a child. Thankfully, they did a good job of cheering me up afterwards, but COME ON life, we've got to stop meeting like this. Quit fucking with me!

Porn for the Blind

Blindies have needs, too.



It would be hard to count all of the things I absolutely love in this two minute news clip, but I'm going to try:
1. CNN borrowing footage from Fox News to make an unfunny joke.
2. The reporter getting really excited to find the author's raised naked image.
3. The author becoming indignant when the reporter declares that it "isn't sexy."
4. Watching blind people fondle 3D naked bodies: it feels like I'm intruding on something they should be doing in private.
5. Blind people can be... GAY?!
6. The blind girl is super funny and adorable. Surely she doesn't need this smut because she can get the real thing.

I'd actually argue that I know some non-visually impaired people who would enjoy this (to the fullest, if you catch my drift), but I'm glad blind individuals can have some wanking material. Blind people need a release, and there's only so much a seeing eye dog can do to help before it is considered abuse.

For the record, porn for the blind isn't exactly a novel idea, as it can already be found at http://pornfortheblind.org . According to the site "Porn for the Blind is a not-for-profit organization dedicated to producing audio descriptions of sample movie clips from adult web sites." Volunteers watch pornographic clips and record dry, clinical descriptions of the action as MP3 files. You're more likely to emit laughter than fluids, but it's great nonetheless. There are no pictures or videos or pop-up ads, so you have nothing to worry about after clicking the link. If you're curious, or just looking to donate your time to a worthy cause, check out the site.

Commercials

I watched a lot of TV yesterday. It sounds sad, but it was actually social, as I had a couple of friends watching rugby/Olympics with me. If I had just been watching television by myself, I'd call that a weekday. I don't have too much to say about the sports (shut up), but three commercials did catch my eye.


Does no one else find this obscene? This is obscene! THESE ARE BEARS WITH TOILET PAPER STUCK TO THEIR BUTTS. How does this get past the censors? Someone told me that Charmin has used this campaign "for years," but I don't know how I've missed this.

Plus, is this a real life problem? For people, I mean. I've bought some cheap toilet paper in my day, and none has ever gotten stuck to my butt. (I might have to ask someone to peek to confirm.) If this is something that happens to you, let me know, but let me know anonymously so that I don't judge you.

Am I sending a letter of complaint? Does a bear shit in the woods? APPARENTLY.


This ad is kind of cute; pointing out that everyone drinks cola is a nice way of stopping short of "ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US." Still, I find it funny that "BFFs" can be the same bottles of coke...

"Frienemies" can be the same bottles of coke...

But then they go out of their way to make "Lovers" be two different types of bottles.

Coke hates gay people. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. Memba I toldja.


Pets are the new Somalian children.

I know a lot of people (read: lesbians) are excited for the Lilith Fair reunion, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be fucking depressing.

Friend: "$18 a month? Can I find someone to pay me $18 a month not to beat my dog?"

Barnyard Love

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Some FRANK Polls

POLL TIME!

If you could meet any artist, living or dead, who would it be?

A. Pablo Picasso
B. Claude Monet
C. Henri Matisse
D. Lisa Frank

I'd choose D, Lisa Frank, for her groundbreaking work of rainbows and cute things. No one understands colors and fourth grade girls better than Lisa.


As much as I like making "Lisa Frank as a serious artist" jokes, I tend not to make them, because I'll often botch the punch line and accidentally say "Anne Frank" instead. And, well, to say the least, referencing "Anne Frank" definitely changes the tone of the joke.

As far as Lisa and Anne go, I can't think of any similarities beyond a shared last name. Perhaps they were sisters? (I told you the basement was a better hiding space!)

But anyway, that leads me to my NEXT POLL!

What do you consider to be the biggest Anne Frank tragedy?

A. Like Vincent Van Gogh, her work was not published and appreciated until after her death.
B. Like Harper Lee, she lacked the talent to produce a second work that lived up to the quality and success of her first book.

This time, I vote B. It's called the sophomore slump, and it's a shame she fell prey to writer's block and a long, fatal descent into booze and pills.

That is how she died, right? Oh. Well that's really terrible. Quick! Lisa Frank, create a distraction!

Teeheehee, so cute! I'm glad that mistake works both ways.

The Heat of the Moment

This post is not about the song of the same title by Asia. It is one of the best songs of the 80s, though, so you should listen to it:



Nor is it about South Park’s Cartman, who performs a cover of the above song in order to convince the U.S. Congress to legalize stem cell research. This clip is hilarious and shows that “Heat of the Moment” is all about the hand claps.



No, this post is SEXUAL in nature. Be warned.

While reflecting on Cheap yesterday, I left out the main characters of the book. All right, there are no real characters in this non-fiction book, but the book cites so many studies by Dan Ariely, a professor of behavioral economics, that you’d think he was the protagonist. There were a number of his studies that seemed kind of interesting, but then the author mentioned one of Ariely’s studies that threw everything else into question: “The Heat of the Moment: The Effect of Sexual Arousal on Sexual Decision Making.”

The experiment was designed to see whether people (and by people, we mean men exclusively, of course) make different decisions when aroused. In other words, do guys sometimes think with their penises? That’s a question that warrants research, for sure. And how does Ariely gather his data? He solicits thirty-five male college students and pays them $10 a piece to watch them masturbate. They are to answer questions while pleasuring themselves, because there needs to be some pretense of this being a scientific study and not a pornographic exhibit.

And it gets even weirder. Students were given a laptop to type their responses with their non-dominant hand (the dominant hand being, well, otherwise preoccupied). The questions were all pretty “gotcha” in nature. They flashed pictures of a preteen girl, a 60-year-old woman, a man, a fat lady, an animal, etc. and asked the guys to indicate on a scale from 1-100 how attracted they were to the image. Since they were already arousing themselves, I think it’d be nearly impossible for them to indicate that they weren’t at least slightly aroused, so it seems like a bunch of hooey to me. If I were to have participated in this study, though I would not have responded to this ad in the first place, I would be very suspicious of the experiment – perhaps to wary to even arouse myself in the first place. Am I being filmed for the internet? Are there police waiting to apprehend me if I indicate that a preteen girl is anything more than a score of “1”? Is the real test to see if I continue masturbating after the notion of me having sex with a dog is planted in my head?

If you’d like to see the study written out in full by Ariely, click here. My favorite sentence of the whole article is: “It is important to note that all the subjects completed the sessions, and no one reported that they accidentally ejaculated during the session (subjects were instructed to press the tab key if they ejaculated, which would have ended the session).” Good to know!

There’s a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo to legitimatize it, but I can’t get myself to believe its sincerity. The study is framed in the context of “we tend to believe that men make different decisions when sexually aroused but we’ve never proven it!” I’d guess that’s because it’s not something anyone needed proven. The results are clear, however: men who are already masturbating are more willing to penetrate people and things that they wouldn’t (at least admit to) when they are not masturbating. Gotta love academia!

The mere mention of “The Heat of the Moment” study in Cheap seemed pretty out of place, but maybe the real conclusion we can draw from the experiment is tangential: poor college students will do just about anything for ten bucks. Even masturbate while looking at pictures of senior citizens. I’m not judging… if anything I wish it were a full time job! You can’t tell, but I’m ending this post by hitting the tab key multiple times.

Thankfulness

Quit being modest! For what it's worth, the remote really did land there and she really was proud. Ecstatic even.