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Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Seduction of the Lonely Dogs

Sometimes I secretly administer to the neighbor's dogs' desires. The three dogs, who lead independent lives rarely observed by their absentee owner, treat my activities with the utmost concern ever since I fed them stalks of buttered asparagus through the chainlink fence. They also enjoy: hand licking, biting each other mercilessly for dominance, and ball gnawing.

Indeed, for The Lonely Dogs, "going big potty" is a big part of life. My wife and I have speculated on the eventual crap capacity (crapacity?) of their yard. Considering that half of it is piled with junk that the owner prefers to mow around rather than eliminate, the total poop-absorbing area isn't that big. I believe that we will begin to see the Lair of the Lonely Dogs reach fecal saturation as early as this summer. Once they have poop between their toes while standing up to greet us , we'll know the nitrates are winning.

Has there ever been a dog that poops in the exact same spot until a large "cinder cone" volcano forms? Why have I never seen this? I suppose it's more territorial to spread it around.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Way to Chintz on the Glue, Vatican

It was a pope dive of sorts, just moments after I arrived home from work—the search for the source of an awful crash ended at the basement steps: NO, it was my commemorative John Paul II decorative plate! Now only tidbits on dirty concrete. I had to flip some pieces over to take this crime scene photo. Much as the cats deserve to be thrown to the wolves, they were not guilty. A brief investigation showed the little hanger still on the nail--epic glue fail! My only religious icon bites the dust.

Must I take another trip back to Rome to replace my plate, or would I arrive to find only souvenirs of the living pope? Sorry, but with his necromancer's face and lack of an inspiring Marvel Comics biography, Pope Benedict simply doesn't cut it for me.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Sausage Awesome

I hereby coin the phrase SAUSAGE AWESOME.

Meaning: shamelessly chubby; fat with glee; boisterousness undimmed by one's plenitude; girth mirth. If you are sausaged into your clothes and just fine with it, that's SAUSAGE AWESOME.

Those girls out on the town with too much belly fat exposed? SAUSAGE AWESOME.

Kids bundled up in winter clothes to the point of helplessness? SAUSAGE AWESOME.

McDonaldland's Grimace, now conspicuously absent in the age of fatophobia? SAUSAGE AWESOME.


Hot Springs Highlights

Cute wife by the place where we stayed. Careful study of the background reveals the Bill-Murray-like innkeeper doing a little jig.

Fabulous woodsy decomposers.

The Natural Bridge—not in Hot Springs. After you see many billboards touting the Natural Bridge, you'll be saying, "Where's that damn Natural Bridge again?" Finally, after a steep winding road, you'll be there, and the four dollars you'll pay to proceed on foot will all seem worth it when you see the moonshine museum—a female mannikin wearing a beard, overalls and a hat, sitting by a still made from cans—which apparently whets one's appetite for the Natural Bridge. Are you allowed on the bridge? Alas, no, but it is riddled with precarious majesty.

This aggressively snapshotting old lady did not know I was documenting her documania. I called her "The Commander" after the lady from "Trekkies" whom she resembled.

The springs are hot--140 degrees or so.

What the hell is going on here? Don't look too closely.

My favorite Hot Springs TV channel, which adamantly broadcasts this phrase 24/7, just so you know. Also, the stack of pirated DVDs provided by the inn.

The face of Man-Thing manifesting in the earth.

Take the wrong way home. Maybe I'll get a big eyeball tattooed on my bald spot.

No photos available for the following highlights: bitchy motorcycle couple dickering with sales girl over tax amount for jewelry item which may or may not have been real Sterling silver, cute hermit crabs drinking from sponges, a fat guy bending to pick something up and his marbled belly flesh spilling from the sling of his shirt to his knees, a kid who looked like he was being awakened from the near-death of a general anesthesia mishap by the Egg McMuffin his dad gave him—I mean, this kid's face was pickled and his eyes looked like they'd been stitched shut for a fortnight. And of course, a parade of shady-looking characters filling jugs with water from the springs, attributed with healing properties. Apparently, old timers used to come to Hot Springs when they felt like their livers were acting up.