This week on The Walking Dead: Lori is found, a bad guy falls down and continuity errors abound. Also, Carl makes a stupid face.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The Walking Dead: Last Call.
This week on The Walking Dead: Lori is found, a bad guy falls down and continuity errors abound. Also, Carl makes a stupid face.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Walking Dead: It's Always Deadish in Philadelphia.
This week on The Walking Dead: Hershel starts drinking, Rick starts shooting and two idiots from Philadelphia show up.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The Best Political Ad of All Time?
At first you think it's an ad for children with "special needs" and I keep waiting for Sarah McLachlan to start singing, but then it takes a turn for the interesting.
Check out some more great ones here.
Check out some more great ones here.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Dog Tested. Dog Approved.
Loving these new Subaru spots. Ironically, our dogs hate riding in our Forester.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
My First McSweeney's Rejection.
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GODDAMN DOG CANCER THAT TOOK MY DOG'S FRONT LEFT LEG.
Dear Goddamn Dog Cancer,
While many in the oncology department call you by your street name MC-T (Mast Cell Tumor), I, however, will forever refer to you as that Goddamn Dog Cancer, as evidenced by this letter's less-than-amiable salutation.
Despite your DJ-friendly moniker, to the best of my knowledge you have never lifted a filament to improve the lives of a single canine on God's green Earth, let alone spun tracks. After all, I imagine it's hard to promote an evening of Dubstep where all the attendees are missing a limb. More like Dubstumble, am I right?
Instead you decided to pay a visit to Alli, our golden retriever of the past 11 years. The doctors gave us a choice of chemo, radiation (both of which had no guarantees of success), or amputation, which, they assured us, would work. Although it was not without its drawbacks, namely the loss of the infected limb (in this case, her left front leg), this is the method of treatment we selected.
Of course, once her leg was placed in the bin, full of other now-useless limbs and the corpses of four-legged family members who would no longer joyously leak urine throughout their forever homes or surprise their owners with sloppy, wet face kisses after eating a litter-encrusted cat turd, I hope you took the opportunity to reflect upon your handiwork and come to terms with the havoc you have wreaked.
If not, let me fill you in:
Thanks to your inability to master your mitotic urges, my dog can no longer walk up and down the stairs. I have to pick her up and flop her over my shoulder like the proverbial bag of potatoes (or beets, depending on your regional dialect), before shuffling her between floors in much the same manner as a two-legged grain elevator, if such a contraption a) actually existed, and b) could be installed in today's tract homes.
Thanks to your jackbooted obsession with cellular domination, my dog can no longer properly lick herself. While many assume dogs do this as an act of self-gratification (an ability which, let's be honest, we've all envied on more than one occasion), let me assure you it also plays a very important part of a canine's self-grooming ritual. Now, without the means to prop herself up, she is unable to thoroughly clean the urine off her inner thighs, resulting in the occasional light rash/and or infected sore.
Worst of all, thanks to your devotion to deoxyribonucleic acid destruction, my dog can no longer squat to relieve herself on her own; instead, she must endure the humiliating stares of the neighbor dogs (especially Sasha, the she-devil Chihuahua who lives next door) as they watch me place both hands beneath her abdomen so she can lower her shanks to a level necessary to empty her bulging bladder. Do you have any idea the emotional strain that takes on her dignity? No, I suppose you don't, since you lack the necessary legs, a urinary tract, or any semblance of working genitalia.
Nor, evidently, do you have a heart.
If you did, you would have bypassed my dog and struck the hellspawn of the COO of my previous place of employ. This demon child reveled in letting everyone know his father ran the company, and, by extension, our lives and the lives of our loved ones. Since I openly expressed my disdain for his progenitor, Damien took extreme pleasure in marking his territory by "pissing in my Wheaties", a phrase his father no doubt picked up in a chatroom frequented by other cogs who "earned" their MBAs from any number of online diploma mills.
One day, this small child picked up my Magic 8-BallTM and threatened to break it on my desk. When I informed him the toy was filled with his father's chlamydia-tainted urine, he stopped, but I suspect this was due more to a fear of splashing pee on his overpriced, undersized Abercrombie & Fitch sweater than any trepidation at encountering a sexually transmitted disease to which he had no doubt repeatedly been exposed to by his father's well-documented inability to lift the toilet seat.
An equally appropriate target for your prodigious talent would have been the shriveled ball sack of the man currently occupying the locker four doors down from mine at our community rec center. Not only does this man insist on walking around sans towel and/or dignity, he routinely shaves said sagging testes in full view of our entire row. Even if your touch only prompted the removal of one ball (left or right; I'll leave that up to you as I am not, technically, a "ball" man), I can't help but imagine the shame of having only half a sack would prompt him to turn his back when lathering up his remaining sperm fount.
I could go on, as my list of enemies is longer than eighteen times the length of Alli's missing limb; unfortunately her bowels are making a rumbling sound indicating an eruption of Mount Pinatubo-ian proportions is imminent, so I'm off to gently steady her posterior while she takes a shit. I just hope I don't get any on my shoes.
Hatefully yours,
Larry
Dear Goddamn Dog Cancer,
While many in the oncology department call you by your street name MC-T (Mast Cell Tumor), I, however, will forever refer to you as that Goddamn Dog Cancer, as evidenced by this letter's less-than-amiable salutation.
Despite your DJ-friendly moniker, to the best of my knowledge you have never lifted a filament to improve the lives of a single canine on God's green Earth, let alone spun tracks. After all, I imagine it's hard to promote an evening of Dubstep where all the attendees are missing a limb. More like Dubstumble, am I right?
Instead you decided to pay a visit to Alli, our golden retriever of the past 11 years. The doctors gave us a choice of chemo, radiation (both of which had no guarantees of success), or amputation, which, they assured us, would work. Although it was not without its drawbacks, namely the loss of the infected limb (in this case, her left front leg), this is the method of treatment we selected.
Of course, once her leg was placed in the bin, full of other now-useless limbs and the corpses of four-legged family members who would no longer joyously leak urine throughout their forever homes or surprise their owners with sloppy, wet face kisses after eating a litter-encrusted cat turd, I hope you took the opportunity to reflect upon your handiwork and come to terms with the havoc you have wreaked.
If not, let me fill you in:
Thanks to your inability to master your mitotic urges, my dog can no longer walk up and down the stairs. I have to pick her up and flop her over my shoulder like the proverbial bag of potatoes (or beets, depending on your regional dialect), before shuffling her between floors in much the same manner as a two-legged grain elevator, if such a contraption a) actually existed, and b) could be installed in today's tract homes.
Thanks to your jackbooted obsession with cellular domination, my dog can no longer properly lick herself. While many assume dogs do this as an act of self-gratification (an ability which, let's be honest, we've all envied on more than one occasion), let me assure you it also plays a very important part of a canine's self-grooming ritual. Now, without the means to prop herself up, she is unable to thoroughly clean the urine off her inner thighs, resulting in the occasional light rash/and or infected sore.
Worst of all, thanks to your devotion to deoxyribonucleic acid destruction, my dog can no longer squat to relieve herself on her own; instead, she must endure the humiliating stares of the neighbor dogs (especially Sasha, the she-devil Chihuahua who lives next door) as they watch me place both hands beneath her abdomen so she can lower her shanks to a level necessary to empty her bulging bladder. Do you have any idea the emotional strain that takes on her dignity? No, I suppose you don't, since you lack the necessary legs, a urinary tract, or any semblance of working genitalia.
Nor, evidently, do you have a heart.
If you did, you would have bypassed my dog and struck the hellspawn of the COO of my previous place of employ. This demon child reveled in letting everyone know his father ran the company, and, by extension, our lives and the lives of our loved ones. Since I openly expressed my disdain for his progenitor, Damien took extreme pleasure in marking his territory by "pissing in my Wheaties", a phrase his father no doubt picked up in a chatroom frequented by other cogs who "earned" their MBAs from any number of online diploma mills.
One day, this small child picked up my Magic 8-BallTM and threatened to break it on my desk. When I informed him the toy was filled with his father's chlamydia-tainted urine, he stopped, but I suspect this was due more to a fear of splashing pee on his overpriced, undersized Abercrombie & Fitch sweater than any trepidation at encountering a sexually transmitted disease to which he had no doubt repeatedly been exposed to by his father's well-documented inability to lift the toilet seat.
An equally appropriate target for your prodigious talent would have been the shriveled ball sack of the man currently occupying the locker four doors down from mine at our community rec center. Not only does this man insist on walking around sans towel and/or dignity, he routinely shaves said sagging testes in full view of our entire row. Even if your touch only prompted the removal of one ball (left or right; I'll leave that up to you as I am not, technically, a "ball" man), I can't help but imagine the shame of having only half a sack would prompt him to turn his back when lathering up his remaining sperm fount.
I could go on, as my list of enemies is longer than eighteen times the length of Alli's missing limb; unfortunately her bowels are making a rumbling sound indicating an eruption of Mount Pinatubo-ian proportions is imminent, so I'm off to gently steady her posterior while she takes a shit. I just hope I don't get any on my shoes.
Hatefully yours,
Larry
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Goodbye Alli.
At 3:30 Sunday afternoon Alli crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
Looking into her eyes Saturday night, we could tell she was ready. We were both with her at the end; as hard as it was, I know she was glad we were. I didn't want her to be afraid, and she needed to know it was okay to go. I held her head in my lap while Vanessa petted her. As the vet injected the second dose, Alli was same sweet old soul we've known and loved for the past 16 years; one heartbeat later, the light's gone and she's a just bag of bones. I know she'll always live on in our memories, but I already miss her so much. Someday we'll cross the bridge ourselves and I'll finally get to see her again.
We love you, Alli.
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