How to Train Your Dog in 15 Million Easy Steps


This morning (6.45 am) I woke to this:

WIFE: Down, Sparky. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

Good dog!


Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

What the fuck?


Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

Good dog! Yes, that’s a good boy! Yes, it is! Such a good dog. Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy? Who’s my boy?

Fucking shit!

Down! Down! DOWN! DOWN!

Good boy!

Don’t wake up Wayne! Nooooo sireee! Noooooo sireee! Don’t wake up Wayne! Don’t wake him up! No doggy… No we don’t want to wake up Wayne.

No we don’t!

No we don’t!

You will, of course, notice at this point that Sparky has not barked, growled, whimpered, farted or yipped. Sparky was not the one in danger of waking me up. But I still love them.

Both of them.

But one was taking a slight lead until they decided that MY sofa was now THEIR sofa.

Bad dog! Bad Sparky.

(Oh, I can’t stay mad at him…)


Holy Crapolla

Since I’ve had my new cell/mobile phone I’ve been pretty good about NOT using it for assinine bullshit dumbass utilities like ‘texting’ and ‘calling 911 in a dire emergency’. (Actually emergency phone calls over here are 999… weirdos.)

Unfortunately, my wife (who uses her phone to text things like ‘I love Coldplay’ to her imaginary ‘cousins’) called me at work today (so everyone, just EVERYONE) could hear the ring tone that I thought was (secretly) meaningful (to me) but everyone else in the whole wide world thinks is annoying.

The results were about 10 people shouting and whistling as I answered my phone.

I had to run to the private ‘meeting room’ where no one could hear me.

And for what reason was my wife calling?

It seems the cable was out. Of course she wouldn’t just simply and unconditionally BELIEVE that the cable was out (which is what I told her) so she had to call her parents on the other side of town.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m in a weak, lonely place at the moment but I think I know when the goddamn cable is out.

She apologized when I got home.

I was right.

That’s sort of a good feeling.

The Dog Suicide Bridge


Tonight my wife is heavily into “The Dog Suicide Bridge” a *ahem* brilliant semi-documentary playing on a shitty television station about dogs leaping to their death from a bridge (obviously) in Scotland (by “obviously” I meant they jumped from a bridge, not that they obviously jumped from a bridge in Scotland. That makes no sense whatsoever. Obviously.).

I’m not allowed to speak when it is on. (She’s very concerned about these dogs. She believes something is wierd. Like the river below is made of sweet, sweet liver or dried pigs feet and the dogs just can’t resist. I’m not allowed to ask. I will get yelled at. Shhhhhhh! Now my typing is too loud! She’s very concerned. I feel so callous. I’m SORRY!)

This is serious stuff.

Over 50 canines have jumped to their doggy deaths from the Overtoun Bridge.

Yet, somehow…I find this whole thing… amusing.

I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation (maybe Scottish dog owners are assholes or the bridge hurts the dog’s feet and they think “Goddamn it! This bridge blows! I’m gonna take a swim!”).

Anyway, I hope there’s a conclusive answer at the end of the program.

(But I doubt there is.)

Yeah, She’s All Right.

As some of you may (or may not) have suspected, I’m pretty much a guy’s guy.

I’m about a million miles away from even resembling the scent of anything close to a metro-sexual. (Not that there’s anything wrong with being a so-called sexual being of the metro persuasion.)

I wouldn’t doubt that some of my best friends are probably dousing themselves in “Odour de Beckham” and plucking their eyebrows and sniffing their armpits before applying some sort of gel that automatically combats B.O. and shrivels back and shoulder hair at the same time.

But I don’t do that. It’s too much effort.

My wife, who loves me for some reason or the other, just shrugs her shoulders and says, “You know, you don’t have to spiffy-fy your entire life but it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if we went out sometime and you didn’t wear jeans, tennis shoes (she calls ’em ‘trainers’), and a hat dripping with hair grease.”


The only reason I wear jeans is because they’re comfy, the shoes are there because I’m flat footed and any other footwear causes back pain and migraines (my theory) and I wear the hat only because science has proved that bald men lack the ‘radar’ that normal hair provides (look at any bald man and you will see that they have scab upon scab on their noggin. It’s because hair acts as a kind of sonar/radar/sensory tactile instrument for humans. If it’s not there (hair) you will smack your head on everything. Seriously. NO! SERIOUSLY! Shave your head and I guarantee you will bash your brain case on things you totally took for granted…like door handles and toilet seats.).

Anyway, today I bought not one but TWO pairs of jeans and they cost me the grand total of 8 British Pounds (about $14 dollars).

I’m happy and you people in America are probably saying, “Yeah, that’s a good price, but so what?”

Well, I’m more than happy because a pair of Levi’s over here can cost about 100 pounds a pop (that’s $189 to you and me, kids).

The cheap jeans I bought are definitely NOT Levi’s and I don’t care. My point is fashion has a price and it’s not something I’m willing to pay.

So what if I’m not trendy and cool by American/British standards. But I’ll be golldarned if I’m going to pay a tenth of my monthy salary a pint of blood for something made of cotton that only covers my crotch and skinny legs.

There was a point to all this but I can’t remember what it is.

Oh yeah. My wife loves me even though I’m a slob. And that’s pretty cool.

We’re All A Little Bit Crazy


My wife wants to start her own blog (no, the pic above has nothing to do with anything. I just like pictures. Pretty pictures! Huh-huh-huh!).

I want to help her. I truly do. But apparently, I’m useless at helping her come up with a name for her info-portal into the intra-tubulars.

Witness the following word for word conversation we had only minutes ago:

Her: Will you show me how to make my own blog?

Me: Of course! It’s easy!

Her: What should I call it?

Me: How ’bout ‘Ruth Rocks!’?

Her: No.

Me: ‘Rockin’ Ruth!’?

Her: No.

Me: ‘Ruth Rocks Your World!’

Her: No.

Me: ‘Rockin’ Ruth Rocks!’?

Her: No.

Me: ‘Rock with Rockin’ Ruth as She Rocks the Rockers!’

Her: No.

Help me here, people. I’m all outta ideas….

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