Sunday, March 29, 2015

Dear Buster the Calamity Collie

I am an animal lover.  In addition, most animals love me.  The only exceptions to this rule include every Mainecoon cat ever born, because they were forged from the very fires that heat Satan's jiffypop, an obese blob of pudding, fur, and hatred that was once a cat named Baby, and you, Buster the Calamity Collie.  Oh, yes, you act like you love me.  You pretend that all you want is my acceptance, love, and all the tummy rubs I can give.  Your actions speak much louder than this, though, and your aggression will not stand.  You can't fool me by placing your head on my leg, or by discretely placing your head under my hand so that I have little choice but to pet you.  Yours is the face anxiety.

Yours is the face of menace.

Yours is the face of impending, unrelenting, unstoppable chaos and fear.

People think you are so delightful with your boundless energy and constant need for attention.  That's because they only see you in small doses.  They also don't tend to realize that you are like a case of tinnitus mixed with an opera sung by Cher and Gilbert Godfrey.  You are always emitting noise, be it loud, soft, high pitched, or gratingly low.  You can be sitting on a comfortable couch, surrounded by people you love, and still constantly whine for an hour through the GODDAMNED FINALE OF HARPER'S FREAKING ISLAND...just because you want to.  You are the reason people drive slow in the left hand lane.  You give people that feeling of slimy cold unease they get when they sweat too much and then enter a store with really strong air conditioning.  You are the reason there will never be a sequel to The Rocketeer, even though Billy Campbell still looks great and the technology available would make it look amazing.  You cannot be happy until everyone else is miserable, and that is highlight with every last interaction you've ever had with Murphy the Customer Service Cat.

Murphy is the nicest, most happy-go-lucky cat to ever walk this earth, and this infuriates you.  If he walks by, on his way to get a small drink of water, or to find a place to nap, you viciously growl, jump up, and try to eviscerate him with the teeth that you haven't rotted out with years of drug and alcohol abuse.  Poor little Murphy, not the most sprightly of felines, is forced to duck, dodge, and flee for his life.  He can be found later, wedged behind whatever cover he can find, still winded and confused at the level of hostility and aggression that was hurled at him.  Then, there's his playtime.  Murphy's chief joy in life comes from the few precious little fuzzy balls I bought him years ago at the grocery store.  There's only a certain type he likes, which they no longer make, so he doesn't have many.  Should he politely stand at the bannister, as he does, and gently lower a paw to request I throw him a ball to play with, you, you bastard son of sin and sacrilege, go into a frenzy, trying to intercept the ball.  Should he actually get the ball and begin to sing his joyful ball playing song, you lift your head and howl in misery, trying to cover the sounds of merriment with pain and anguish. 

You even turn the nice things I do for you into awful lessons in the futility of pleasing you.  A few weeks ago, you spent the majority of my day off acting like a normal, well behaved canine.  I decided to reward you by taking you for a drive.  The lurid, high pitched mating call you cackled at every passerby could not be stifled by the radio, and you forced my hand at keeping the windows closed as you carpet bombed the car.

Not learning from my mistake, I saved a jar of peanut butter I had finished off and gave it to you to lick clean.  Two days later, you again pretended to be a "good boy" and I tried to scratch under your chin.  From the front of your jaw to your collar was a solid, unyielding crusty shell of dried peanut butter and a complete lack of shame.  You thrilled in the fact that you had made me touch that mess, and let out a shrill keening wail as I tried to disinfect my hand.  Still trying to be a hero, I tried to clean you with a wet paper towel.  At first you acted like a petulant child, turning your head away from me whenever I tried to get near.  Then you snapped at me, struggled, and tried to hide behind a chair the did nothing to conceal you.  When I raised my hands in frustration and cried out "Why won't you let me help you?" you lifted your head, smirked at me, and fire burned in your eyes. Also, I am fairly certain, you turned into a horrible looking lizard, but only for a second.  Then you were just plain, awful, feculent Buster. 

If you were a person, you would split your time between watching reality television and pulling the Hitler card on people in the comments section on the Fox Sports forums while Wayans Brothers movies play on your VCR.  Every one but Blankman, because you hate Blankman. 

Monday, March 16, 2015

Dear Top Hat Guy

The other week, I was at the casino, getting my monthly free dinner splurge.  Afterwards, I wandered around for a bit, gaming and enjoying myself.  The only reason I set any of this up is to point out where I was, or more importantly, where I wasn't.  It wasn't a wedding, gala, or inauguration of any kind.  I had the day off, I was out relaxing, having fun, and getting hit on by a very attractive cougar while I had a belly full of waffle fries and golobki.  Things were a-ok in my book, until I look over the head of the very short but well put together lady touching my arm to see you standing ten feet away.  Thanks to you, I had to explain to that lady, who, by all methods of standard weights and measures, had a ratio of boobs to body of nearly 43% thanks to her short stature and ample bosom, why I was discreetly taking pictures of a guy.  Specifically, you.  You, with that dopey look on your face.  You, with that brand new set of Etnies kicks, and you, with that damned hat.

Part of me wants to applaud you.  Clearly, you give not one damn what anyone thinks of you.  If you did, at the very least you wouldn't be wearing mom jeans.  Maybe, by writing this letter, I am committing some extraneous form of body shaming.  I started think I could be in the wrong, because no one else seemed to be having the reaction to your dumb, stupid hat that I was.   Perhaps I am the one that needs to rethink things.  Surely in my past I had worn stupid things to try to get attention.  Sure, I was younger, and mostly drunk at the time, but I had done it. 

So, there I was, having a moral crisis as I stood in front of The Walking Dead slots with a woman that was very nearly half boobs.  I thought, maybe more people should be like you, just running free, doing what they want because it feels good.

Then I remembered that we've tried that before.  They were called hippies and beatnicks and they ruined everything.  You are lucky I was indoors, where there were no rocks I could throw at you, you Maynard G. Krebs, Wavy Gravy looking son of a bitch. 

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Dear People Who Want Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites

Some people don't understand what it is like to not be able to find Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  Either the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites come easy to them, and always have, or they just happen to have found some Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites and were lucky enough that they never lost them.  Some people though, are to ugly, awkward, or busy, and it is very hard for these people to find Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  Those people either die alone, without the warming comfort of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites, or they take more drastic measures to find some Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites to call their own.  Some people, like me, join websites where other people looking for Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites go, so that they can finally have what they've been wanting. 

I exhausted the somewhat limited bounds of "People my friends are willing to introduce me to" quite some time ago.  It has never worked out well, which probably says plenty about me and the quality of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that I have to give.  Since then, I signed up for online Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites sites.  I've been on two sites for a few months now.  They have guarantees on the one site that if you don't find your Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites soul mate in six months, they'll give you another six months for free. They are that certain that you'll find someone to share in Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites together. 

One would assume that, to have signed up for these sites, a person would be eager to meet someone else.  Otherwise, why would they be on there?  Sadly, this seems to be the farthest thing from the truth.  Without hyperbole, I have sent message to over 500 difference women on those sites, ranging from a simply "Hi!  How are you doing?", to the more complex "I really enjoyed reading your profile.  I'd really love to chat with you and discuss Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites".  One lady who I really didn't want to waste a chance on, so full of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites she was, I wrote "Hi! You are an amazingly gorgeous lady with a well thought out profile. It would be a pleasure to me if you'd like to message a bit and get to know each other,and to talk about Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites".  Minus three people, I have gotten the worst possible response.

No, they didn't just write back "Ew, no.".  They didn't tell me I was too ugly or poor to share their Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  They didn't take the kind and polite route and say "I'm sorry, but I am not interested."  They simply read my words, and did nothing.  I know, because you can see when someone has read the message you sent.  They felt that my Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites and I were not worth the few keystrokes it would take to tell me that a better idea than talking to them would be to fornicate with myself. 

That's right.  People that have a hard enough time getting Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that they have to join the site can be cruel enough to ignore someone else in the same boat as them.  They can be cowardly enough to hide when someone puts themselves out there offering them all the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites they can give, because somehow, kicking someone when they are already down has become such an acceptable thing that 497 ladies out of 500 think it is a perfectly acceptable thing to do.  The other three?  They wrote to me once or twice and THEN they stopped writing back.

It may shock you all to realize that the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that I mentioned in this letter are really just a euphemism.