1+1=A Bigger One

Within several minutes of each other recently, I saw an odd pair of TV commercials.  The first one was one of those “Look at these poor starving children; for 50 cents a day…” ones.  The second one followed the same format but the subjects of our heartstrings were animals.  And this one set the price at 60 cents a day.

I’m an animal liker and all, but two thoughts occurred to me:

1)  How does it cost more to care for an animal in America than a human in the Third World?

2)  Why don’t we send the animals to these starving people?  I had a cat that lived to be about 17 years and obviously had affection for him.  But I sure as hell would have eaten him if I had to.

My Favorite Beatle

George Harrison memorial tree killed by beetles
By July 22, 2014  The Sideshow
 .George Harrison was rememberd by hundreds of fans in Grifffith Park. A plaque was unveiled next to a tree planted in his honor with family members and special guests present. (Credit Image: Chuck Green/ZUMAPRESS.com)

“George Harrison was rememberd by hundreds of fans in Grifffith Park. A plaque was unveiled next to a tree planted …”

“Isn’t it ironic?

“A memorial tree planted in Los Angeles to honor the late Beatles musician George Harrison needs to be replaced after it was infested with real-life beetles…”

When reached for comment, Pete Best denied reports that he had been active in entomological experimentation.  Yet he could not contain his diabolical laughter when asked about his thoughts on Ringo Starr. 

The animals were very distressed when the people were rescued

Dozens stranded when SeaWorld ride malfunctions

6.30.2014 SAN DIEGO (AP) — “Dozens of people were stranded more than 200 feet up on a revolving tower at SeaWorld San Diego for hours Sunday when a power failure stalled the ride, authorities said…”

Their temporary loss of a freedom at an aquatic prison for animals seems quite apropos.

One strandee, Willie, commented, “Two of the park workers with us had big bags of Goldfish crackers, but the [maternal fornicators] wouldn’t share unless we did humiliating tricks for them.  My boys had to hold me back from punching the [anus] when he said something about a blowhole.” 

Lost and Found: “Looking for person to ‘lose’ owner”

This guy tattooed his dog, now it’s illegal: Right decision?

By John Luciew ; pennlive.com; 6.19.2014 

If I ever did get a tattoo, it would be something absurd like “Spice Girls rule!” (with picture), or a banal statement like “This is a tattoo.”  I think in this case the owner should be forced to ink the dog with an accompanying tattoo reading, “First, they came for my nuts.  Then my douchebag of an owner did this!” [with arrow].  

…Or at least gotten a burger out of the deal

Baltimore Police Shoot Cow Running Loose in City

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you, baby. The dog ate my phone. I swear to Dog!”

Jealous Puppies are Destroying Smartphones at an Alarming Rate

Tech Columnist June 9, 2014

“…Some 28 million Americans report having had at least one digital device damaged by a pet, according to a new survey from SquareTrade, the aftermarket warranty vendor. Four out of 10 say their pets gnawed through a power cord; one in three say their beloved companions mistook a phone for a bone — or worse. (Let’s just say fluids were involved and leave it at that.)…”

Because of my abhorrence of cell phones, particularly people’s obsession with them, I’d have to say, “Good dog!”

All of the Family

Because of my current socioeconomic status (SES), virtually any woman I would desire would regard me as out of their league.  Because of my outsized ego, I feel that very few women of any SES are worthy of me.  I’m only moderately concerned with physicality, but I can relate to Jim Morrison when he wrote “Build Me a Woman.”  Several times, after being rebuffed when I was in a better SES, I have said to the girl/lady, “Your loss, baby.”  If there’s any karmic justice, such women have seen me piss drunk and passed out on a sidewalk somewhere. “Yeah,” they will have thought, “what a loss!”
Not that SES is everything.
Living near Three Mile Island–Happy Meltdown 35th Anniversary!–for a couple years, not to mention my extensive partying over the years, has probably killed off most of my healthy sperm.  At 38, I will probably never procreate.
The worldly benefit of that should be evident by the recent conversation I had with my sister Janelle:
Me:  …So how’s Tyler [her 5.5 year-old son] doing?
Janelle:  He’s doing good.
[She recently told me that he’s been asking questions about her parents, who died before he was born.  In spite of earning her undergrad degree in psychology and doing social work with messed up kids, she’s been at a loss as to what to tell him.  I, a master of avoidance and denial, have urged her to explain the issue posthaste.]
M:  Did you have that talk with him yet?
J:  [sighing]  No.  But I will the next time he asks.  I’ll use the advice you gave me and some of the stuff I’ve been reading about the subject.  I’ll tell him that my Mommy and Daddy got old [they didn’t] and their bodies stopped working.  But now they’re in a wonderful place called “Heaven.”
M:  No talk of reincarnation?
J:  Uh, I think that’s definitely beyond his comprehension level now.  And I don’t know if I believe in it.  I know you do.  Brett [her husband] doesn’t.
M:  You’re never too young for a good old-fashioned existential crisis.  “You mean you’re going to die someday?  More importantly, I’m going to die someday?!”  That shit freaked me out as a kid.
J:  Me too.  And it’s not like we had church or anything.
M:  When I heard about hell, that really freaked me out.  I even cut down on my masturbation by 7%. 
[Cum to think of it, I might not have any sperm left.]
J:  Thanks for the mental image.
M:  Well, I don’t know what Piaget would say.  And don’t care.  Who would trust a Frenchy Frenchman anyway?
[We are part French, and I proudly tout our Huguenot background.]
J:  Or a German?  Or an English or Welsh guy?
M:  Yeah, we are just a couple mutts, aren’t we?  But you could tell him that you almost died at birth, and then his soul would be in another body now.  Or what if Dad had died at birth instead of his twin sister?  Where in the fuck would we be?
J:  True that.  And who would Mom have married?  And Brett?
M:  Here’s what I’d do:  have Tyler watch as Brett kills a deer.  Then tell him that the deer’s spirit is going elsewhere, but we’re eating that bastard’s body for a couple good meals.  Because all animals except humans are literally bastards.
J:  I swear, Brian.
M:  Better yet, kill one of your pets, because that’s something he loves.  Tell him, “Yes, Fluffy did some bad things, like not using the litter box or some shit, but overall he was a good cat with good karma.”
J:  We don’t have to eat the cat, do we?  I mean, it’s not like we’re part-Chinese or anything.
M:  Unless it’s done in self-defense, you have to eat whatever you kill. 
J:  So you ate all those bugs and bats and mice you killed in some of the hellholes you lived in?
M:  You forgot about the hobo, but I was on a four-day crystal meth binge.  “Youthful indiscretion,” you know, all that jazz.  But 1-2% of bats are rabid–I know you’ve read or seen Cujo–so that was self-defense.  The bugs threatened my peace of mind.  And the mice threatened my cheese.  Which we Frenchy Frenchmen love as much as we hate showering.  [I affect the stereotypical French laugh.]
J:  Don’t forget your stupid cooking wine!
M:  [I hum the McDonald’s tune]  I’m loving it!
J:  Tyler wants to talk to you.
[My nephew always gets excited when I’m on the phone.  Frankly, he doesn’t impress me that much.  Janelle told me he has an imaginary brother.  Early sign of schizophrenia?]
Tyler:  Hi!
M:  [I instinctively adopt the softer pitch one uses when speaking with children]  Hey there, buddy!  How are you doing?
T:  Fine.
M:  You’ve got a birthday coming up soon, don’t you?  How old are you going to be?
T:  Five!
[Might need some math tutoring there, young man.  You’re already five.  I then realized I had confused Brett’s May birthday with his in October.]
M:  Keep on playing that soccer and learn as much as fast as you can.
[I assume my sister never followed my direction to tell him that his soccer coach, a former classmate of mine, was a coke-snorting woman-beater.]
T:  Okay.  Bye!
[I do not see a future in broadcasting for this kid.]
J:  He’s into t-ball now, aren’t you Tyler?
M:  Are you fucking serious?  That shit’s a joke.  You’ve got to have the ball thrown at you.  It’s like when I see newbie skate fags trying to learn to ollie while stationary.  I tell them, “Dude, you’ve got to learn that basic trick while moving.”  I then try to give a demonstration but usually end up falling anymore.
J:  Gee, Brian.  Maybe you should have been a kids’ gym teacher.
[She knows I think I would have made a good one, because I love teaching kids basic motions like how to throw a ball or a Frisbee, how to hacky sack, etc.  Perhaps I could have incorporated philosophy into the curriculum and produced classes of young superior Spartan Supermen.  Shit; I’m starting to sound a little Nietzschean and Hitlerian, aren’t I?]
J:  He does want a skateboard.
M:  That’s great!  I mean, “Rad!”  Is it because of that [early Jason Lee] video I sent you.
J:  Maybe.  He did love it.  I probably won’t let him watch Earl, though, until he’s older.
M:  Bad karma, Janelle.  But then again, the show does feature race-mixing.
J:  Oh shut up!
[My mom’s best friend and our babysitter growing up was one of maybe a dozen blacks in our half-horse town.  The rumor started that she was my mom.]
M:  Shit, take him back to our old house [at the top of a hill] so he can do the downhill to the river.  I’ll coach him under two conditions:  he has to not be afraid of getting hit by cars, and he has to accept that pads and helmets are for pussies.  I never broke a bone.  Well, not from skating, anyway.
[Full disclosure:  I sucked at Little League baseball, was a below average skateboarder for nine years–with the exception of downhills–and found my true athletic passion with tennis and racquetball.  I was average at best at these activities.  My best sport, not including the non-sport of dancing, was ping pong, i. e., one of the least manly sports imaginable.]
J:  You know, maybe I should place a restraining order on you on Tyler’s behalf.  No offense; I just have to look out for his well-being.  You can see him when he’s 18.
M:  Which is right when he’ll need an “old head” to buy him beer and who has the knowhow to score pot.  I’ll get him acid and ‘shrooms a couple times, but I’ll have to set limits at that.  I’ll even make up shit about you and Brett.  “Did you know your mom was a stripper in college?  Or that your old man used to run a cock-fighting ring?”
J:  Jesus Christ, Brian.  It’s a wonder you didn’t corrupt me–not much, at least–and that your friends turned out well.
M:  Don’t forget all those times I almost killed you and your friends when I was a crazy driver, like the bad kid on The Afternoon Special.
J:  I tried to repress those memories.
M:  Ashley, though; I remember she was a trooper.  She laughed herself silly when we did that icy 270 degree slide, then a 180 in the other direction.
J:  She was probably delirious because she hadn’t eaten in three days.  And it’s stuff like that that probably led her to law enforcement.
M:  And hey; when I did that day in jail, she hooked me up with extra trays.  All the other criminals were probably wondering why the hot C.O. was giving me preferential treatment.  Bought me some cell cred.
J:  So it’s like, full circle, you’re saying?
M:  Speaking of which, I’ll try to find this one clip you can show to Tyler about life…
[This Buddhist-like lesson on the nature of existence is sans video, but I’m sure my nephew would find it informative]:

Weapons Aren’t Always Bad

16th-century manual shows ‘rocket cat’ weaponry

Associated Press                    

By MICHAEL RUBINKAM                                 March 6, 2014

PHILADELPHIA (AP)— “You’re a 16th century German prince plotting to crush a peasant rebellion, or perhaps you’re leading an army against the Ottoman Empire or looking to settle the score with a rival nobleman. What’s a guy looking for a tactical edge to do?

“Bring on the rocket cats!

“Fanciful illustrations from a circa-1530 manual on artillery and siege warfare seem to show jet packs strapped to the backs of cats and doves, with the German-language text helpfully advising military commanders to use them to ‘set fire to a castle or city which you can’t get at otherwise’…”

In sexual terms, some women figuratively throw their pussies at you, some launch them.