I feel offended.
That’s not much of a question but I’ll take what I can get. -Ed.
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This is day one of The Dog Days of Summer, a Blogdramedy writing challenge. If you came here looking for quality content you are decidedly barking up the wrong tree. -Ed.
Tom B. Taker
His jowls jiggled as he spoke. There was some spittle.
“I can’t shake it, Doc,” he said. “He haunts me. I see him everywhere I go. I’ve scratched myself raw. I’ve developed a nervous tick. I even ate some poop.”
He paused, glanced around suspiciously then continued in a hushed voice.
“I’ve even, you know. Licked myself.”
Pause. “Down … there.”
I nodded. “I see. How did this make you feel?”
“Like I’m a bad dog!”
“Look, Cujo. It’s not unusual. He may behave like your mom but he can’t really hurt you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
The door creaked open and there he was. “Yo quiero Taco Bell!”
Blogdramedy’s The Dog Days of Summer writing challenge commands
victims participants to author ten stories, ten days in a row, consisting of exactly 110 words each. All stores are themed based on dogs that she has pre-selected. For more information about the challenge and to view the work of other participants, please click the link. But only if you want stories that have real teeth.
No, I will not gloat. I remember the dark times. So this is an opposite post. Today I offer a message of hope and caring to my friends on the other side of the aisle. Oh shit. Yet another political post. I apologize in advance. Just like my bladder, I’m unable to control myself.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. Fortunately dawn only comes every 24 hours. Actually, every 23-1/2 if we assume dawn is about a 30-minute process. That’s a lot of darkness.
–Tom B. Taker
Breaking news: Barack Obama won the election. White people, of course, loved the wealthy elderly white guy. Obama did worse with that bunch than even Michael Dukakis. (He ran for president in a losing effort in 1988. It’s true, look it up.) Meanwhile the non-whites in America basically all went for the other guy. This group includes blacks, Latinos, college students, educated professionals, gays and lesbians, and last but not least, Asian-Americans.
If you’re a Romney voter I want you to know that I understand how you feel. I’ve been there, done that. 2004 anyone? I truly understand that feeling of dispair and hopelessness. But my speciality is bringing the good times so here’s a few positive things to remember:
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This post is part of our advanced negativity studies curriculum. If you are not pursuing your Ph.D (Philosophy of Hateful Dystopia) in The RUNS (Risible Ultion Negativity Studies) this post may still be taken as an elective.
Perhaps it was 15 years ago, maybe more. This was back when I was still somebody and working at a real job. This was before the Decade of Despair (TM), mind you. I was doing my thing and listening to some music by Type O Negative, a band so good they even have the word “negative” in their name.
At the right moment during one of their songs Peter Steele screams out an enthusiastic, “You make me hate myself.”
My mates at work burst out laughing the first time they heard this lyrical eloquence. But if you think about it, it really is deep.
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I would like to relate a little story. This morning my wife asked me to stop at the store on the way home from work and get some shrimp. She was making a shrimp salad using leftovers and just needed the shrimp. The little shrimp, what we sometimes call “bay shrimp” or “salad shrimp.”
“How much do you want?” I asked.
“Oh, about three handfuls,” she replied.
Wow. We yanks really do need to switch over to the metric system, don’t we? 🙂
So we had a wee little problem on our hands. I don’t speak the kitchen language of dashes and handfuls and things. I like cooking by weight. I have a little digital scale for that. And if not by weight then I measure everything as accurately as I possibly can. How much could there possibly be in a measurement like “handful,” I wondered.
I decided to try to nail things down. “Three handfuls, eh? That sounds like it might be half a pound.”
“Nope,” she said. “Half a pound is not enough.”
“Well then,” I continued hopefully. “Maybe three handfuls is more like a pound?”
“Naw. A pound is more than we need. We won’t use it all.”
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “What we need is .75 pounds then.” Finally, a satisfactory answer. The matter was settled.
“Nope,” she said, shocking me out of my premature conclusion. “We need three handfuls,” she stressed again.
You see, my wife is what I’m going to refer to as “analog.” She’s very much about feelings and the arts and premonitions and intuition and some other things that don’t always make much sense to me. She doesn’t care for measurements in the kitchen and only does so when it is required. The rest of the time it is a dash of this and a dash of that. When she serves up a dish I ask, “Will you be able to replicate these results?” (Translated that means, “This dish is good but will it taste the same next time?”) But somehow she is always able to do just that. She has analog skills and powers that I just can’t understand.
Me? I’m more of a “digital” kind of guy. I like ones and zeros. Truth is a binary and that sort of thing. I often claim that the person I’d most like to be like is Mr. Spock. He’s my hero. And not the elder Spock who was an emotional wreck. I’m talking about the Mr. Spock from the original series. That guy rocked.
So we were speaking two different languages. I couldn’t help but feel amused by it. We had each drawn a little line in the sand in our kitchen and each of us was trying hard to frame the discussion our way knowing darn well the other person was being obstinate. I guess that is sometimes our way.
After work I went to the store and told the guy at the seafood counter, “Three handfuls of shrimp, please.” It turned out to be .83 pounds.