Please, no more “dog saved my life” stories!

dogstoriesI’m tired, tired, tired of them. Every time I go a-book shopping, I inevitably run across a book about how some dog changed some author’s life. Baloney. Not since Underdog has man been saved by a beast whose most notable prior accomplishment was learning to lift a leg and not pee on himself. My cats and I agree on one–make that two things:

  1. Tuna is delicious.
  2. Dogs suck.

Here’s an introduction to a far superior work, in progress, soon to ride atop the wave of Amazon’s animal lovers’ list.

Their names are Syd and Symon. They are cats. Not just ordinary, sleep, eat, and shit-in-a-box cats, mind you. These two fur-balls are gifted heroes, capable of the miraculous. Obama? Einstein? Anne Frank? Copernicus? Mere mortals. My cats are fucking kittigods.

The Story of Syd

Syd, born of Monkey and Diggles, was tragically stolen from his parents when three-weeks old by a rabid coyote. Syd played dead, and waited in the jaws of the coyote for the right opportunity. When the evil coyote returned to his den, and held Syd down, preparing to bite off his head, Syd rose up and roundhouse kicked that fucker square in the coyote nuts. Syd then dropped an elbow on the back of his neck, severing his spine, causing immediate death. As Syd ran from the coyote den, he encountered a large Waste Management truck bearing down upon him. Syd rose up on his hind legs, scaring the driver, who drove smack into a home and killed three people. Don’t worry. They were bad people–evil types. They raped turtles and stuff. Seriously. When Syd arrived back home, he noticed his owner (Phil, The Not-As-Great) had fallen asleep with a joint in his hand. This started his La-Z-Boy aflame. Fear not, the magnificent Syd thought quickly on his paws and tossed the closest glass of fluid he could fine on the fire. Unfortunately, that fluid was highly-flammable rum. Ah, but, that fireball woke Phil up, as he ran screaming to the guest bathroom and dunked his burning hand in the toilet. All was well. In tribute, Phil has retired the guest toilet from being used for anything other than a drinking bowl for his master, Syd.

The Story of Symon

Symon, also born of Diggles, but whose father may have been Igor (because Diggles was a little slut), was adopted by a pair of inbred hayseeds who lived in a camper near Yuma. They adopted poor Symon because they wanted to cultivate and clip his whiskers to use in creating a poisonous tea they would feed to the unsuspecting folks over at the Our Lady of Huh resting home. When the evil father clipped whiskers from the right side of Symon’s face, it set in motion a series of events (after Symon figured out how to stop running in circles) that would change the course of history. Poor, lop-headed Symon scurried away and hid in the cabinet beneath the rusty sink. There he found substances (well, thank goodness for his background in Chemistry, I tell ya) that he was able to combine, and create a bomb, which detonated when one of the inbreds turned on the television. Symon escaped unscathed, except for the missing whiskers, which were destroyed in the explosion, and new ones grew back … even stronger. Symon ran almost 300 miles before showing up on Phil’s doorstep. (Yes, that same Phil guy.) Just so happened that Phil needed a feline chemist to assist with his morning cappuccino, and Syd needed someone’s butt to sniff.

And they all lived happily ever after. Amen. Namaste. Salamalekum-malekumsalamisandwiches. Later.

Have you tried Mary Jane’s baked goods?

My “friend” has one of those invaluable medicinal marijuana cards. California dispensaries should be studied, and their customer service emulated. They make baked (!) goods that are far superior in taste to the cardboard served at Starbucks, with the added benefit of knocking one on his cosmic ass. Oh, and they deliver … women in bikinis deliver the goods. Wow!

I built up such a huge tolerance to weed in my twenties. Now, I need a cigar-sized joint to put me in a haze. Still, when in the presence of medicinal peanut butter or cookies, I can’t resist. The one I encountered recently had “XXX – Triple Strength” on the label. I figured that would do the trick, as I tore off a chunk and headed home before it hit me.

I was anxious to watch this week’s on-demand episode of “The Newsroom.” As I settled into my La-Z-Boy and pressed play, the cookie began attacking my senses. Coincidentally, this episode featured the news anchor (Jeff Daniels) hosting party at which he consumed not one, but two marijuana-laced cookies. This caused many layers of fucked-upness for me. I let out a “whoa,” pressed pause, rubbed my eyes, and slugged down a Diet Dr. Pepper as I leaned on my kitchen island. My cat, Syd, followed me into the kitchen (as all cats do), hoping I’d accidentally drop tuna into his dish. Syd looked up and meowed as I belched Pepper fumes. I could swear his meow came out as, “Can you make me a carp on rye, please? Hold the mayo.”

Good cannabis cookie.

I returned to my family room, well aware of the fog I was in, and enjoying it. I pressed play, anticipating the episode would correct itself and discontinue poking fun at me with the storyline. It didn’t. The anchor was completely roasted on the baked goods, and forced to go on the air in his altered state. Fortunately, we’re both functional stoners.

Syd must have let his brother, Symon, in on the fact that Pop was in the ideal state to be fucked with. He waited until I was totally engrossed, then he stood, placing his front paws on my armrest, and said, “Don’t be an inconsiderate prick. Toss some catnip on the floor so we can enjoy the ride too.” I complied. I’m such a good daddy.

As the episode continued, I began wondering how many layers of stoner-sediment were possible. Jeff Daniels was acting like he was stoned. What if he actually was stoned? I was stoned while watching him act stoned. What if some neighborhood cougars were hiding in my backyard bushes, smoking weed while watching me? What if teenage boys were doing bong hits in the bedroom while watching their moms in my yard? What if Google had a satellite hovering over my neighborhood … oh, fuck.

The episode ended and the credits rolled, as I found myself in a curled-up ball under an afghan. It all seems like a dream.

Cat calls don’t even work on cats.

It seems I need to lecture my brothers once again about how not to treat a lady.

I took my casual lunchtime stroll through downtown San Diego. There’s usually a variety of characters milling about and today was no exception. The first man who stood out was an impeccably dressed fellow. He wore a gray suit with a purple fedora and purple crocodile skin shoes. I’ll not describe his skin tone because it’s irrelevant; dickheads come in all colors. Across the street from him was a fine young lady, dressed as one would expect on a warm spring day. I noticed. He noticed. I kept my inside voice inside. He let his out.

“Yo, shawty. How’d you like to come strip at my club?”

Naturally, she ignored his comment and sped up her pace.

I thought, In the entire history of mankind, has that ever worked? Has a man ever yelled anything toward a woman across the street that resulted in (and I’ll widen the target here) a friendly discussion?

Nope. It doesn’t happen. In fact, if she were to respond in a positive manner it would be absolutely brilliant.

“Hey there, handsome. What’s that you say? You like what you see?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“And what’s this about a club you mentioned?”
“I am a proprietor at a gentleman’s club.”
“Well, blow lilac scented breezes across my baby peach. It must be my lucky day.”
“It is.”
“I just happen to be in the hunt for a new occupation and as luck would have it, a job falls right into my glitter-laced lap. Where, do tell, shall I apply?”
“Um, well …”
“Say, why don’t you take me to lunch and let me blow you, just to get that out of the way. Then we can talk business.”

Men, I implore you: Don’t volley comments across streets toward women because your service will not be returned. It doesn’t matter how sincere you are or how flattering the comment is. She doesn’t want to hear it shouted at her. Before you get any other cockamamie ideas, don’t hold a boombox over your head playing 80s love songs either.

Here is what you may do, politely:

  • Smile at her.
  • Tip your cap.

These are borderline creepy, but acceptable as long as she’s not a minor:

  • Ask is she’s familiar with the area and if she can direct you to her favorite restaurant.
  • Remark to her how her loveliness just made your day.

If her reaction is positive, you may proceed with further questioning, but once she objects, beat it.

Here, I’ll try a cat call on my cat, Symon.

“Yo, Symon. Get you furry little ass up here.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to.”
“Insufficient reason. Back to sleep.”
“Hey! Get up here now, you handsome ball of orangeness.”
“Do you have food?”
“No.”
*yawn*
“I am your master. Obey me.”
“You should have gotten a dog, Master. Nighty night now.”

See?

Indiana Joans

I read so much dating advice you’d think I’d be syndicated by now. Today, a column told women to be adventurous, which would make them like catnip to men. This was obviously not written by a cat owner nor a man, for that matter. I, on the other hand, have two cats, one bag of catnip, and zero bed warmers. Hence, I am qualified. I’ll dump a bit on the floor and document the reaction. Then, you can decide if you want your man all high on your sexual catnip.

Syd (black, skinny, sees ghosts) let loose a tiny mew and crawled over the nip. Now, he’s rolling onto his back and squirming around in it. He’s taking a breather. Let me interview him.

“How’s it going, Syd?”

“Groovy.”

“You look like a cheap slice of pizza overly coated in oregano.”

“All right.”

“How are you feeling? Horny, at all?”

“Do we have any Cheetos?”

“No. Does this make you want to be with a kitten, perhaps?”

“Ew, don’t be gross. She has to be a cat–at least two-and-a-half.”

“Ah ha, so you are feeling horny.”

“Wait, let me get this crap out of my eyes. OK. Now, what? Horny? No, not really. I mean, I’m not about to turn down a good licking, but right now I could eat a fucking carp.”

“Great.”

I’m taking that as one vote nay. Perhaps my other cat, Symon (orange, chubby, lazy), will give me a better interview. I’ve dumped a line on the floor and here he comes. Lovely. He’s eating it.

“Dickhead, you’re not supposed to eat it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re supposed to smell it and rub around in it.”

“Hey, do I tell you what to do with your M&Ms?”

“There’s no nutritional value in catnip, you idiot.”

“I like the way it tastes. Why don’t you roll around in it?”

“Fine. How is it making you feel?”

“Well, a few pieces are stuck … say, do we have any toothpicks? I have this pesky food pocket.”

“Stop eating the catnip! Now, does it make you want to make out?”

“With Syd? Jesus, man.”

“No, not with your brother, with a girlie cat.”

“What are my other choices and do any of them include salty flakes of tuna?”

“Fine. It makes you hungry.”

“Pop, honestly, breathing makes me hungry.”

So much for that. Ladies, go right ahead and be adventurous if you want your man to roll around on the floor and do wind sprints to the refrigerator and snack drawer.

What does the writer mean by “adventurous” anyway? I don’t see how smearing on some eye-black, climbing out the window, crawling under the porch, and ca-cawing like a crow is going to make any man horny. Perhaps sexually adventurous is what’s intended. I once had a date lift her skirt and flop over the arm of my La-Z-Boy. She gave me a devilish wink. I fetched some ping-pong balls and a catcher’s mitt–not what she intended. What do I know?