And Now, A Message from your Dog.

A small television studio illuminates slowly to reveal a Shetland sheepdog and collie mix. His neat white paws are crossed with some reserve on the wooden desk in front of him. To his left, a tall glass of water. To his right, an uneven stack of white paper that nearly reaches the tips of his velvety ears. Behind him an "On Air" sign lights up in a dusty red.
Yellow text begins scrolling slowly up the screen.

I'm Patches. Good evening.

For many years I have been a good boy. When you called I came. When you threw a stick or ball I returned it no matter how repetitive and puzzling the task became. When you switched to No Name brand bacon treats, I whimpered not.

However, the Santa hat with elastic chin-strap of Christmas 2009 was the straw that broke the camel's back so to speak. Now, I know I am not a camel, and am in fact, a noble canine. Once, you also knew this, but your behavior of late leads me to believe you have forgotten, and consider me instead to be a plaything for you to dress in pomp and frills. The stack of paper you see to my right is filled with cries of outrage from fellow-tail waggers. I pray what you read tonight will make you conscious of your actions and move you in ways rhetoric cannot.


1. The little pink booties you force on my paws make me want to nip at your fingers. keep it up and by God I will.
Buddy. Golden Retriever. Cape Cod.

2. I did not pee in your closet. YOU peed in your closet. Have you forgotten last Wednesday night when you returned home reeking of whiskey and shame?
Ralph. Bulldog. Calgary, Alberta.

3. Why am I always a "good boy" and never a "great boy?"
Maurice. Chocolate Lab. Mississauga, Ontario.

4. The lavender jacket with fur-lined hood you insist I wear is emasculating. Why is my god-given coat not good enough?
Rocky. German Shepherd. Victoria. BC

5. Your lilting baby voice is an affront to my dignity. That is why I bit your ankle.
Murray. Dachshund. Connecticut, NY.

6. The "bitches heart me" tank top you forced me to wear last spring deeply offended my wife and lost me respect in the eyes of my children.
Pee Wee. Chihuahua. Miami, FL

7. Balls. I used to have two.
Robert. Pit Bull. New Jersey, NY

8. Nail polish? Really? How did you find the time? Were re-runs of the Bachelor not on tonight? Was the liquor store sold out of white zin? Have you run out of angry emails to write your ex? Was there no food around the house to turn into a smoking char?
Marcel. Bichone Frise. Boise, Idaho.

9. Smoking a "fatty" is no reason to put socks on my feet so you can laugh hysterically while I "funny-step" around the room.
Moonbeam. Vancouver, BC.

10. I did not appreciate being dressed up as a Rabi this Halloween. I'm catholic and you are insensitive.
Patrick. Irish Setter. St. Johns, Newfoundland.

This is a difficult time for canines everywhere. We believe there has been a significant shift in human consciousness concerning the treatment of their dogs, and what's most troubling is that this shift is a likely indicator of dark and sinister plans to degrade us further.

I implore you to cease treating us as feeble-minded creatures who know nothing of dignity and self-respect and reserve your desires for making things "cute" to human children, "little people" and might I suggest, cats?

If you find these words harsh and difficult to read, remember, it was not you who spent many frustrating hours fumbling within the cramped confines of the keyboard in an exhausting effort to hit the right keys and create a message worthy of inspiring compssiom.

Damn it! I'm not fixing that.

Final text rolls up the screen and the studio fades to black.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

I'm feeling vaguely functional now.

After a long, cold night that lasted into late morning, it's almost time to get down to work.

But at the moment, I'm held hostage by a hangover and bad TV.

I've watched commercials with dancing pretzels, a pale weenie who impresses the value of booking stress-free vacations while hiding, half-undressed, under the bed of a married woman, while her bat-wielding husband tears the room apart. A football player who being interviewed by a sportscaster, interprets every question as being about his fabulous Pert Plus hair, and a lesser chicken, who in an attempt to be fit for Mary's 2 hr. Marinated Chicken Breasts, sits in a bath all day.

Is this senselessness what it takes to cut through the clutter? I have no idea.
Agreed, ridiculous can be great - skittles has proven that again and again. But they're so far out there, so absurd, that you don't even try to make sense of what you're seeing. You just go along for the ride and enjoy the ever-loving shit out of it, because hey, funny is funny.
If you can eliminate the desire for analysis, you may just have a great absurd spot. Leave it open to question or reason and all the imperfections in its logic become glaringly obvious.
At least I think.
But I'm just a rollerskating monkey in a giant foam cowboy hat trying to sell you spreadable bacon. What do I know?

I Just Love Bubble Wrap: A Haiku

o' poppy plastic
You are not just packaging
So much more to me

Socially Awkward Masochism: Episode 1

Lately I've been a real weirdo at parties. Truth is, I'm not a fan of large gatherings. Being around people who expect you to grease the social wheels with them can make me feel put-off. It doesn't happen all the time, I like meeting new people and making new friends, but certain party atmospheres mess with my mood alchemy and I become distantly aware of my stupidity, but unable to stop it. This odd compulsion reminds me of Marco Stanley Fogg, the main character in Moon Palace who chooses not to help himself survive and leave his life to fate just to see what happens when his world stops being beyond his control.

Example 1
Stealing Time Octoberfest Party, 7:15 pm. Me talking to a senior writer in a big agency's medical division. Her name could be Lindsay.
Lindsay: Aren't those mini crepes delicious?
Me overlooking the obvious non-octoberfest food conversation starter: yeah.
Lindsay: So where are you from?
Me: Cundari.
Lindsay: Cundari, what do you do there?
Me avoiding the polite response and not asking her what she does: junior writer.
First awkward pause.
Lindsay: I'm a senior writer at big agency medical.
Me: cool.
Lindsay: How long have you been at Cundari?
Me: Not sure.
Awkward pause.
Lindsay recovers: Where did you go to school?
Me: Humber Copywriting.
Lindsay: Me too!
Another awkward pause with direct eye contact and several blinks. She no doubt suspects I am employed because of some equal rights initiative that integrates mentally deficient people into the workforce.
Me in a moment of sanity realizes that I'm sabotaging myself: cool. Did you have Jane Bongers?
Mutual laugh at the program co-ordinators funny last name.
Me half to self: Bongers.
Lindsay: I did, but she was teaching then. When did you do the program?
Me: Two years ago.
Lindsay: So you're around 22?
Me: Nope. 26.
Another long pause.
Lindsay reaching: So have you seen Inglorious Basterds? I'm going tomorrow.
Me : Yeah, I like this one Nazi a lot.
Substantially awkward pause.
Lindsay: I've got to go throw out my napkin.
Scene

Caution! Fly!

Yesterday, due to a broken screen, a blanket of tiny flies coated the entire second floor woman's bathroom. Underneath the window is a dumpster, which is why there were so many. I made a teeny fly-sized caution sign to go with the mess. The picture doesn't show the half of it. Seriously, it was frickin' bilblical.

My gushing head wound

Last week I decided to stand out.
Enough of being a wallflower, enough of blending into the background, enough of going unnoticed by even the most appalling looking members of the opposite sex, enough of being mistaken for a speed bump or a potted plant.
I will be seen!
But how?
I can't hang my hopes on getting adopted by a wealthy, high profile family this late in life. Maybe I can stand in Times Square with a balding, saucy talking parrot, or make an Internet video where I play Obama being visited by Lincon’s ghost who also just happens to be drinking a Pepsi.
No.
I need a real showstopper, something sure to stand out.
And then it hit me. Literally. All it takes to get noticed is a gushing head wound.
Now, as the yogurt and regional car dealership endorsements roll in and I make club appearances with Lindsay Lohan and her gushing nose, or guest star on a very special episode of John and Kate Plus 8 where I teach the octuplets the importance of safety when using a wood chipper, and to that end, the importance of family; I look back on my obscure past, into the feelings of inadequacy mired in meaninglessness and I think gratefully on my positive life choice to become a person who counts.

Memo to those who stop to talk on subway stairs during rush hour

Keep walking.
If you're the Spanish looking guy in the Madonna t-shirt from last night, alejarse my friend.
Stopping suddenly when others are behind you is just plain dangerous.
You wouldn't kill the engine in heavy traffic to admire a majestic butterfly would you? No you would not. Because you'd have a ten car pile-up on your hands, not to mention the blood of the family from Vermont whose car is crumpled and oozing behind you.
Even nature knows better.
What do you think would happen if a gentleman salmon, mid-migration, stopped swimming because he wanted to chat up pretty Miss. Salmon?
Ha! Trick question.
That would never happen, because even salmon have more sense than you.
If you would like to stop and chat on the phone or in person with consenting friends, by all means, feel free! Stop and talk your black little hearts out. Just make sure you remember to switch crowded stairways for the front of a moving truck.

Kisses,

Me