Faith Can Move Mountains... But Dynamite Works Better

Monday, May 23, 2016

A Day In The Life Of A Dog

Once more we come to that time when we must hear from the resident dog and cat, starting, as always, with the point of view of the hound...

7:21 AM. Waking up. Had strange dreams. There I was up in a tree, barking down at the ground, where a squirrel was standing laughing at me. Damned squirrels.... they are a blight of the first order and such a pain in the tail.

7:23 AM. Looking outside. Things are looking nice and pleasant. We had rain in the night, but it’s sunny now. That means plenty of mud puddles out there for me to go running around in.

7:26 AM. The human comes downstairs. Good morning, human! How are you today? Say, how about a bit of breakfast? A bowl of kibbles would do very nicely right about now. I’m just saying. 

7:31 AM. Wolfing down breakfast. Not quite at my fastest record pace, but certainly within the top five finishes of all time.

7:35 AM. Out the door for my morning run. See you later, human!

7:43 AM. Running through the back fields, barking my head off. Woof woof woof!

7:51 AM. Pausing along one of the fences. Four turkeys are perched up on the top railing, staring at me and gobbling among themselves. Unfortunately turkey speak is not one of my known languages, so I have no idea what they’re talking about. I suspect they’re plotting something disreputable

7:52 AM. Staring up at the turkeys. They’re staring back at me. As birds go, they are pretty ugly. Yes, well, gobble gobble away, but I’m outta here. I’ve got some mud puddles to splash around in.

8:05 AM. Stopping in to see Spike the Magnificent, Tormentor of Squirrel. Hello, Spike!

8:07 AM. After our customary canine greetings, Spike and I compare notes on sightings of the enemy.

8:09 AM. I relate my strange dream to Spike about the squirrel. He suggests I need to refrain from eating mushroom pizza before bed. But Spike, it's so delicious!

8:12 AM. Spike and I discuss the presence of the turkeys in the area. We agree that turkeys are hideously ugly, but he adds that he’s seen something even uglier.

8:13 AM. Spike tells me about the trip his humans took last year to Australia, and all the photos they brought back. He explains that there’s something down there called a platypus, which looks like an assembly of spare parts. Who names these things anyway?

8:17 AM. Spike and I go our separate ways. We agree that we must be on our guard. We are certain that the squirrels are up to something.

8:23 AM. On my way home. Pausing in my tracks. There before me... is one really big pool of water and mud.

8:24 AM. Splashing and rolling about. Life is good!

8:33 AM. Coming back home, pleased with myself. Barking to alert the human. It is I! Loki, Chewer of Slippers and Annoyance Of Mailmen.

8:34 AM. The human opens the back door and sees just how muddy I am. She quickly shuts the door before I can scramble inside.

8:37 AM. Being subjected to a very unwelcome bath courtesy of the garden hose at the hands of the human. Come on, human, I’m not that dirty! Mud dries up sooner or later, right?

8:41 AM. Enduring the nuisance of the Towel of Torment. The things I put up with...

12:32 PM. Lunch with the human. I manage to mooch a couple of dinner rolls.

1:36 PM. Out in the front yard while the human does some gardening. I give the mailman a fierce barking at when he shows up to drop off some mail. Leave mail in our box, will you? Just what are you up to? And don’t tell me you’re just doing your job.

1:38 PM. Have finished barking now that the mailman is gone. Good riddance!

5:48 PM. The human’s making dinner. I detect the smell of sausage.

6:22 PM. Dinner with the human. Boy, sausage tastes good this time of year. Mind you, it also tastes good in the summer, and in the fall, and in the winter...

11:29 PM. The human is off to bed. Well, I think I’ll stay down here tonight, human. I have some strange suspicions that those weird turkeys might try to pull something in the middle of the night. And when I say something, I mean, like world domination. Does that sound odd to you, or is it just me?

Saturday, May 21, 2016

What Not To Say At A Wedding

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We come to that part of the evening when it’s time for a speech or two. And it falls to me, as the best man, to begin. Sometimes that involves telling slightly off colour stories about the groom meant to remind him of past misadventures guaranteed to embarrass him. Other times it involves nostalgia and finishes up with a heartfelt toast to the happy bride and groom. Well, me being me, I can’t resist a little bit of both.

I first met Andrew Deveraux back in our college days. We were in the same fraternity. Andrew of course was studying law, and I was studying dentistry. I say studying, but that was confined to what we were doing in between the drinking, the chasing girls, the juvenile stunts that the fraternity would regularly pull. I don’t think Professor Englehart ever knew that we were the ones who disassembled his car and put it on the roof of Calvert Hall. Took us all night, remember, Andrew? Lugging parts up and down that staircase. It’s a miracle no guards found us while we were busy. By the way, Andrew, you’re the lawyer... is there a statute of limitations where fraternity pranks are concerned?

Those were the days, when we could goof off, drink all evening, write exams while hung over, and somehow manage to get through the year without failing. I don’t know if you had any close calls, Andrew, but to this day I have no idea how I managed to pass Professor Hendrick’s third year final exam. What with being up all night between the sheets with Rose O’Raney, who, by the way, really was a whole lot of fun when you got naked with her.

That’s probably beside the point. She’s not here tonight, is she? Because I wouldn’t have thought of making anyone else blush. Though I see Andrew’s cousin the nun blushing. Hello, Sister Bridget! Any chance you might be thinking of retiring from that calling? Because you and I, that could really be a blast.

Anyway, moving on. Long story short, we spent our time womanizing our way through college, somehow managing to keep from not getting arrested for those fraternity stunts. Even the time we abducted the mascot from Caltech. Andrew, is there a statute of limitations on kidnapping a beaver suited freshman and taking him on a road trip?

And so we graduated, got ourselves established, stayed friends. It took some adjusting. I mean, a career actually means going to work, not getting hammered the night before like we did through college and sleeping around with whatever girls crossed our paths. Which reminds me, Andrew, remember those twins we came across down in Acapulco? Who’d have thought that they were both Olympic gymnasts, and that they could be so.... flexible?

I’m getting off topic here. Life meant work. Andrew was busy being a lawyer, taking on disreputable clients and living down to the worst expectations people have about lawyers. I was busy establishing a dental practice and finding out just how much people hate dentists. I don’t know why, I mean, just because we dope people up and inflict all sorts of high pitched drills and picks into their teeth and then take them for hundreds of bucks and tell them we’ll see them in six months.

And there I go again, getting off topic again. We were busy working, so it cut back on the whole drinking and carousing thing we did in college. That, and it’s kind of a problem if you’ve got a legal or dental practice and you find yourself in the news the following morning for throwing up on the governor after one too many Jack Daniels. We got away with that in college- though Governor Mathis never forgave us- but you can’t get away with that after college.

So we were becoming, for lack of a better term, at least somewhat more respectable. Not sleeping around as much as we did. Oh, come on, Father Darlow, stop looking like such a grouch. I’m just saying it like it is.

Well, eventually, along came Amy. The blushing bride, who seems to be casting daggers at me with her eyes right about now. Hi, Amy. Trust me, I haven’t even mentioned the story about the three strippers at the bachelor party.

Amy and Andrew fell in love, and Andrew got all settled down and happy. It’s a wonderful thing too. For two people to find the person they fit with and make a lifetime commitment, it astonishes me, but these two really were meant for each other. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses with me. To Amy and Andrew, may you have years of happiness and joy, may all your dreams come true, and may your marriage be blessed and free of annoying in-laws. No, Mrs. Deveraux, I didn't mean you, I was referring to Andrew's no good brother Ryan, who as we speak is busy drinking the scotch and making a pass at that waitress.

By the way, I still haven’t figured out where that stripper left her g-string."

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Even More Obnoxious Than An Orc

Supporters Of Egomaniac Meet Their Doom; Egomaniac Shaken

Calgary (CP) The presumptive Republican nominee for President (unless the party hierarchy manages to pull off a last ditch effort to deny him the nomination) continues to criss-cross the country, making no end of speeches to his demented supporters, picking fights with half the country, putting his foot in his mouth, and boasting that he’s the only person qualified to be President. He may be the last Republican standing, while previous candidates lick their wounds and plot for future campaigns, and while party brass hesitate to actually support him- but he’s not resting on his laurels.

Last week he appeared at a gathering of Trump 2016 supporters in Virginia, spending nearly an hour spewing antagonism towards the President, as well as his presumed Democrat election opponent, Hillary Clinton, still dealing with Bernie Sanders ahead of the party convention. Trump also spent time lashing out at his usual targets- Muslims, Mexicans, women, and anyone who doesn’t like him- as well as a few unlikely targets- Sesame Street, Miss Marple, and Stephen Hawking.

And then things went in another direction. The Trump campaign, earlier in the day, had received a formal reply from representatives of the heavy metal band Metallica. The candidate wanted the band to provide his campaign with a new music theme. The formal reply, paraphrased in more polite words, told Trump to go fornicate with himself.

Trump had his audience of demented lunatics in the palm of his hand when he brought the matter up to them. “You know, folks, I gotta say, it doesn’t surprise me that this bunch of losers doesn’t want anything to do with me,” he said with his customary sneer. “Over the hill, drugged out boozing metalheads. That’s what these guys are. I could have been doin’ them a yuuuuuuuuuuuge favour letting them be part of the Trump 2016 Make America Great Again campaign. But they’re too dumb to realize a good thing when they see one, am I right? Let me tell you, they’re gonna have to learn the hard way what happens when someone tells Donald J. Trump to go **** himself. I don’t need to **** myself. That’s what I got my wife and my mistresses to do... wait, did I say that out loud?”

Trump shrugged, smirked, and said, “hey, it’s a joke. Buncha humourless socalist liberals don’t have a sense of humour, and you just know those media scumbags are gonna try to make something out of that remark, right? But it’s just a joke. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Those Metallica guys are gonna have to learn the hard way what happens when they cross me. Which brings me to say this. Since we’ve started this whole campaign, we’ve had a lot of protestors show up at these events. Events, I’ll add, where we’ve got thousands and thousands and thousands of loyal Trump fans basking in the greatness that is The Donald. And those protestors, who seem to have nothing to do with their day but come and bug their rightful master, they ended up causing a disturbance like all those professor agitators like to do. And I’ve told the crowds to kick them out, to get them outta there, and that I’d pay whatever legal fees might be involved. And those agitators ended up getting knocked around a bit by one or seven of my loyal Trumpites.”

The candidate paused a bit before continuing. “Well, now I’ve got something I want my followers to do for me. I want all of you to go find Metallica and beat the crap out of them. One by one. Teach ‘em who’s boss. Teach those drunken druggie losers what the meaning of respect is. Believe me, folks, nothing bad can happen to a Trump fan. I’ll pay your legal bill if any cop’s dumb enough to have you charged, and I promise, I’ll have that cop fired if they dare charge you. So I want you to start with their drummer. The guy seems to spend a bunch of his time as a Mountie. I don’t know what that’s all about, but hey, doesn’t matter, am I right?” Trump sneered again before continuing.

“I want all of you to go and beat the crap outta Lars Ulrich.”

Trump fans being a very stupid lot, it didn’t take long before across the country, their legions started marshalling to hunt down Lars Ulrich.  Fortunately for the drummer and the rest of the band, Metallica happens to be on tour in Australia at present. That said, however, tens of thousands of them made a horrible mistake, one made by many before them. They mistook the Metallica drummer for the other Lars Ulrich, the legendary RCMP inspector, notoriously cranky lawman, and scourge of entertainment reporters, who often mistake him for the drummer.

Two years ago, forty thousand Rush Limbaugh fans were goaded into a fight with the Inspector, a fight that left them broken, bloodied, and crying like babies. Some of them might well have been part of the estimated sixty thousand American citizens who converged in northern Montana over the next four days. The army of Trumpites were angry, itching for a fight, and comparing notes on the location of the mistaken Lars Ulrich.

Border officials were already alerted to the presence of angry gun toting Americans just south of the border at the Cut Bank, Montana- Del Bonita, Alberta crossing, demanding entrance north into Canada. Word got to the detachment, and the Inspector himself came to the spot. Reporters turned up at the site, where the tension in the air was obvious. Customs staff members on both sides of the border were nervous to be holding back thousands of angry Trumpites, wearing Trump 2016 shirts and hats. Those thousands of Trumpites were, by this time, foaming at their mouth and screaming for Ulrich’s head. Ulrich gazed at the hordes of Trumpites, shrugged, and called out, “Let them in.”

Officers were puzzled at first, looking back at the Inspector for confirmation. Ulrich simply nodded, and smiled in a cold blooded way. Had any of the Trumpites been able to recognize trouble when they saw it, they might have turned away and gone home. After all, Ulrich has previously saved the world from megalomaniacs, made Godzilla run away, and beaten up thousands of people. But as has already been established, Trumpites are very, very dumb.

The border crossing was opened, and the Trumpites surged forward onto Canadian soil. Reporters backed off as the hordes rushed to encircle the Inspector. They were screaming, bellowing, trying to intimidate. The Inspector merely looked around at them, with an expression of bemused contempt, lifted one hand, and beckoned them forward.

A shout rang out. “Kill the drummer, y’all!” The thousands of Trumpites surged forward, like something out of Lord Of The Rings- only Orcs aren’t this obnoxious. They converged on the Inspector like the sea crashing onto the shore- and there they were stopped. Reporters at a distance could see at the heart of the sea of Trumpites a hint of someone in red serge clutching a single Trumpite by his legs, using that Trumpite as a bludgeon to strike every nearby Trumpite in a circle. There seemed to be a pause among the screaming Trumpites- and then a realization that everything was going wrong.

Within a half hour, sixty thousand Trumpites were down, with broken bones, bloody noses, bruised bodies, and many tears. One man stood triumphant over the fallen after what has come to be known as the Battle Of Del Bonita. It was Lars Ulrich, his fists bloody, his uniform dishevelled, a pleased expression in his eyes. Reporters who witnessed the scenes weren’t that surprised. Arrests were made, and thousands of Trumpites now find themselves behind bars, awaiting bail hearings that might take months. It might well keep them from voting in the November elections.

The candidate didn’t take things well. Reporters on the trail of the Trump campaign saw him at a distance, receiving the news from his aides. Trump looked on the verge of a stroke, yelling- even louder than his usual way of speaking. “Sixty thousand people under arrest??? How the **** was I supposed to know one guy could beat the crap outta sixty thousand people??? I mean, we're talking about an over the hill heavy metal drummer!!!” One of his aides said something too quiet to be heard. “Whaddya mean he did this before? Whaddya mean he's not that Lars Ulrich? Who the **** didn’t tell me that???” He was pacing now, his orange face turning red. “I can’t pay the legal bills for sixty thousand stupid dumbass ****ers! I got everything to my name tied up in this campaign thanks to that crazy bet, and if I lose, I lose everything!!!” It was only now that he seemed to notice the onlooking reporters. “Hey! You mother****ers didn’t hear anything!”

The last word in this story belongs to another tycoon, albeit one with personal dignity. Bill Gates, the Microsoft co-founder, spoke with reporters about the matter. “I made a bet with Trump a couple of years ago,” he quietly explained. “If he wins the presidency, I have to pay him one single dollar. If he loses the election, every single cent he ever made gets donated to the charity, or charities, of my choice. I’m thinking of a whole list of charities that he would absolutely hate. Interfaith charities, Greenpeace, women’s groups, immigration aid groups, the whole nine yards. Trump and I have an iron clad contract on this bet, so there’s no way he can back out of it. I suppose it never occurred to his over inflated ego that he might lose.

Gates smiled. “Best bet I’ve ever made.”

Monday, May 16, 2016

Rantings Of Herr TrumpenCombover

I wrote this up, remarks of He Whose Hands Are Small And Whose Combover Toupee Is A Joke, as told to a select audience of like minds. Minds in this case being a generous expression, considering Herr TrumpenCombover and his fan club aren't that bright. Incidentally, writing in his voice makes me feel icky.

“.... and I’ll tell you something else, folks, when I’m in charge, things are gonna be different. There’s gonna be no more of this being reasonable crap. America First is what I say, and it doesn’t matter who I have to kick around to get things done. If that means I gotta kick Luxembourg around, I’ll do it. What good has Luxembourg ever done? I mean, they gave the world limburger cheese, am I right, folks?

And if those rotten Luxembourgmeisters don’t like the idea of me kickin’ them around, that’s too ****ing bad. I’ll just drop a nuke on them and teach them who’s who and what’s what. ‘Cause that’s what you gotta do these days to make you respected.

I’ve gotta tell you, lots of apologists for that Kenyan guy who thinks he’s the President, I’m not even gonna say his name anymore, it’s disgusting, just terrible, so I’m just gonna have him arrested and charged for high treason as my first act when I’m elected. Should have been done years ago, or hey, maybe my former butler should have just gone ahead and indulged those hostile thoughts he had back in the day. Where was I? Oh, right, those apologists. You know, if we’re gonna make America white again.... wait, I mean, make America great again... oh, hell, with an audience like this, you know what I mean. If we’re gonna make America white and great again, that means we gotta shut them up for once and for all time.

That means making some tough decisions, but hey, I’ll tell you, there’s nobody better at making tough decisions than me, believe me. I mean, I’m amazing and spectacular and outstanding in the big decision game, and you know, my whole record in that is tremendous and speaks for itself. It’s yuuuuuuuge!

So, that’s where we are. Making tough decisions. Not the kind of decisions like which episode of The Apprentice you want to watch. Though speaking of that, when I’m president, I’ll make the network air repeats of my show 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. And every other network too. ‘Cause who needs the news? Just an informed public, which is the last thing I want, am I right, folks?

What it all really comes down to is making those tough decisions, and once I’m elected and inaugurated and whatever the **** else goes on, I get to make them. And you know what? It’s gonna be spectacular what I’m gonna do. From Day One of the Trump Regime, I’m gonna be the greatest president in American history. I’ve got the best team, the best people workin’ for me, it’s gonna be special and unforgettable and something for the ages. Because hey, we’re gonna put banners and giant statues of me in every small town and big city across the country. Just like I deserve.

You know, when I was growing up and workin’ hard to figure out which condo building I’d be putting up someday with Papa’s money, they used to talk about great presidents. Like Lincoln. And Washington. And the Roosevelts. You know what? Compared to me, those guys are losers. Looooooseeers!  I mean, seriously, folks, father of his country? George couldn’t even father a kid. What kind of loser can’t have kids? You know what I do when I find out someone’s sterile? I laugh at them. And I point at them and call them a loser. Loser! That’s George for you, folks, it’s a miracle he managed to win a revolution.

Those Roosevelts? Both of them are losers. Socialist Marxist losers, let me tell you. I don’t care if Teddy was a Republican, he wasn’t on the side of big business, which makes him a fascist communist loser. We should have his name erased from history forever, and if he doesn’t like it, he can come back from the dead and take it up with me himself, that ****ing dead loser coward. Hey, Charlie? People can’t actually come back from the dead, can they? Good.

Same thing goes for FDR. Or Failing Frankie, as I’ll call him. I’ll tell you, folks, it’s disgusting how lazy this socialist bastard loser was. Spent his time in a wheelchair spendin’ his way out of the Depression. You know what winners do, Failing Frankie? Winners can walk.

And something else, folks? Lincoln. I mean, you wanna talk about losers? Here’s a big loser. Can’t even commit to growin’ a proper beard, gets himself shot just when he should be celebratin’ a victory. You know what kind of presidents die when someone shoots them? Losers, Abe! Losers! That’s you! A big ugly loser! And believe me, I know ugly. I’ve argued with Rosie O’Donnell and Megyn Kelly, and that’s ugly. They’ve got blood comin’ out of their... well, you know, it’s disgusting and terrible and I don’t wanna bring it up, but hey, it’s already out there.

You know what else? When I’m President, things are gonna be different. It’s gonna be yuuuuuge, folks, let me tell you, it’s gonna be unlike anything the world’s ever seen before. It’s gonna start with that Kenyan guy who thinks he’s the President bein’ put on trial for treason. And you know who else is gonna be on trial? Hillary. And Bernie, just for good measure. And whoever else I gotta put on trial until all their supporters get the hint. Nobody messes with Donald J. Trump.

And I’ll tell you, folks, it’s gonna be a tough road, but I can do it, because I’m the greatest and the best at what I do. And it’s gonna be great. We’re gonna toughen up those libel laws so that I can muzzle the media so nobody can dare criticize me. We’re gonna take big steps to change things around.  That means making some sacrifices, and I’ll tell you, this is what we’re gonna have to do to get it done. To make America white again. I mean, great again.

We’re gonna have to get rid of that whole Constitution thing.

There. I said it. It’s out there.

We have to get rid of it.

I mean, seriously, folks, it’s a dusty old piece of paper. We’re followin’ a piece of paper and a few lousy amendments. What use has that thing ever been for us? Except for the Second Amendment, which, rest assured, will not be touched under the new Eternal Benevolent Tyranny Of Emperor Donald. You like that title? I thought of it myself. It’s yuuuuuuuuuge. Just like my hands. And my big Trump schlong.

Anything else though is up for grabs. I mean, who really needs the Thirteenth Amendment anyway? I say we get rid of it, go back to the way things oughtta be. Only this time, instead of just havin’ the blacks in a state of perpetual unpaid service, let’s make those Hispanics and those Asians and whatever Muslims are still in the country in the same state. Would that really be so bad? Of course not! Hey, the blacks love me, so they’ll do what I say, and they’ll do what you say too. Because you, my Klan brothers and sisters... hey, we all think alike.

You know, when I get to feeling like I got some soul searchin’ to do, I pick up that Good Book that all of you have read. I pick up the Art Of The Deal. Which will be required reading for all of my subjects after I’m crowned Supreme Emperor. And then, hey, because it’s pretty much required for any candidate to say this kinda bull****, I pick up the Bible, and I look at it, and I say, you know, this book would be even better if there was a Gospel According To Donald. So instead of flipping open a Bible and turning to Three Judges Chapter Seven... what, Charlie? There’s no Three Judges in the Bible? So who the **** were those wise guys who gave Baby Jesus the Enron stock?

That’s beside the point. My point is you could turn in the Bible to the best book of them all, the Gospel According To Donald, Chapter Ninety Eight, Verse Six, where I might be inclined to tell you, “and so go forth, and screweth over whoever thou must, for the Donald hath said that is amazing.” Only I was born a couple thousand years too late.

Where was I? Oh, right, talkin’ about my secret plans. When the time comes and I’ve got myself firmly in control of everything, we’re gonna have to shut all of them up. And by all of them, I mean anyone who ever dared disrespect me and call me names and say I’ve got small hands and a bad toupee, because hey, folks, this glorious head of hair of mine? All Trump.

We’re gonna have to beat them down and take away their rights and throw them in jail if they don’t like that. And it’s not gonna be a high class jail either. We’re talking about old fashioned hell holes where you wake up every day wishin’ you were dead. We’re talking Count Of Monte Carlo kind of prisons. What’s that, Charlie? Monte Cristo? Who the **** cares?

So that’s where we are, folks, let me tell you. We’re gonna go out and we’re gonna win this election, and then I’m gonna unleash my plans to crown myself Emperor, and if anyone doesn’t like it, that’s too bad, because they’re all gonna be locked away behind bars or servin’ as forced labour in my casinos or wherever the hell we wanna put them in a state of permanent misery. Remember, folks, only the Donald can make America white again. Just the way it should have always been. Civil rights can kiss my orange tinted ass.

Oh, yeah... and Megyn Kelly’s gonna get fired as my second act as President. I know, a lot of you are Fox viewers, but hey, it’s gotta be done. She dared to criticize me, and nobody does that.  It’s just disgusting, the way she talks, let me tell you, folks. Makes me wanna vomit.

Now let me tell you why I want Gary Busey to be my Secretary of State...."