What do you think of when I say "Vagina?"

Oh, right.

A vagina.

Let me rephrase.

What do you feel when I say "Vagina?"

It's an interesting word, isn't it?  Well, perhaps not the word itself, but our reaction to it.

How about "Cunt?"

There's a word that makes you feel all sorts of things, right?

Why, in the Western world, is naming a woman's sexual organs so taboo, so funny, so shameful?

I mean, we all have them, right?

Sometimes I get sick of the shame that society has pinned on the very essence of womanhood.  

I get mad that there is no word for a penis or testicles that is considered as rude as Cunt.  

A few years ago, I went to see the Vagina Monologues in London.  The actresses told us we had to reclaim the word Cunt.  Make it positive.  Make it happy.  Make it beautiful.  They had the audience yell the word again and again and again.

While I was yelling CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  I began to wonder if this exercise would make any difference.  Men around me (the few that were there) were squirming a little, and had lopsided grins on their faces.  Even some of the women were snickering.  I am not sure they were reclaiming the word so much as enjoying the guilty pleasure of yelling it out - like a naughty child.

Ever since then, when someone in my presence uses the word, I counter with:

 "Hey!  A cunt is one of the most beautiful things in the world!"

It usually shuts them up - except, of course, if I'm with my gay friends, who tend to collapse in heaps of sarcastic laughter.

I also try to use swearwords that demean male genitalia, in a one-woman attempt to even the odds.  But they all sounds so... well, facile.  Even flaccid.  

"Dick!"

"Prick!"

"Balls!"

Pathetic.  

The only word that comes close is "BOLLOCKS!"  But it has the added dimension of being foreign in the US - it's peppered, therefore, with an exotic, humorous quality which, again, lowers the impact.

And so I live with the fact that even swearwords reinforce our society's pervasive gender inequality.

But I did discover one good thing through my contemplation of the female reproductive form... 

I saw a documentary on the BBC once, about "Ladies' parts," as some would say in the UK.

For once, I got to see vaginas close up.  All sorts of vaginas.  Large ones, small ones.  Firm ones, soft ones.  

Vaginal lips, I discovered, are as varied as facial lips.  Some are small and firm, while others hang, draping like curtains protecting a wonder behind them.

Of course I ran to get a hand mirror and take a look at mine.  I think it's a strange and empowering thing the first time a woman actually looks at herself "down there."  It wasn't the first time I'd done it, but it was the first time I had something to compare to.

And that is how I came to scare the living crap out of my husband as he came home from work.  He walked in the front door to find me standing at the top of the staircase, naked from the waist down, holding my labia spread apart, excitedly squealing:

"I have a pretty vagina!"

To his credit, and keeping in mind that he did not have any context to frame this behavior, he immediately agreed.

My husband is a really great cunt.

To read more of the I am Woman series, click here.

"It's a CUPCAKE!" she snapped.

"What is?" he asked.

"A cupcake."

"Um..."

"There's a little paper cup.  In it is a little cake.  It's a cupcake!

"Uh..."

"It doesn't need cream under the icing!  It doesn't need ganache in the middle!  It just needs to be a CUP.  CAKE."

"OK..."

"I don't want the extra calories.  I don't need the extra calories!  I just want to bite into slightly crunchy, sweet icing and then down into a soft, moist cake!  And have it be small, so I can only eat so much of it!"

"Honey?" he said.  "Have you seen the can opener?"

"I AM ON A CUPCAKE RANT HERE!" she yelled.  "CONCENTRATE!"

Silence.

"What is WRONG with these people?  I mean, the clue is IN. THE. NAME!  CUP!  CAKE!"

Silence.

"You're ignoring me now, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Fine!"

Recently I have had a some very interesting conversations with people about ancestral origins.  My theory is that you are where you come from.  Where you originally come from.  

And yes, it all depends on how far back we trace our ancestry, but don't start with me, Pedants.  Use your common sense.  Where are your grandparents, great-grandparents and the generations just before them - who probably didn't move around much - from?

In that information lies explanations about diet, about which times of day you're most energetic in, about all those things you describe to other people in these terms: "that's just how I am, I guess."

It's not how you are.  It's who you are.

Fluffy Bear's ancestry is Irish.  Meat and potatoes is what he loves, is what his body thrives on.  He does well in cold temperatures - but not too cold.  He melts in temperatures over 36 degrees C.  

My ancestors come from a tropical island, where the races are French, Indian, Chinese and Creole.  There was no land to farm beef or lamb.  But the island was ringed with ocean, and there were sugar cane fields and rice paddies.  Give me a plate full of rice covered in spicy lentils and I'm happy.

A few months ago, a friend told me a story about a couple who adopted a child from Korea.  They were vegetarian and they brought him up with adequate protein - just of a vegetable variety.  But, as he got older, he got more and more unmanageable.  He got kicked out of kindergarten.  He threw temper tantrums.  Most frightening of all, he deliberately hurt a small animal.  They were worried they had a young Jeffrey Dahmer on their hands.  

They were told to give the child medication.  Being the vegetarian hippies they are, they researched alternatives (and quite right, too).  They found a nutritionist, who explained to them that to feed a child of Korean ancestry a vegetarian diet is anathema to his metabolic system.  His tradition is to eat meat and his ancestors have evolved to do so.  They way his body converted food to chemicals was different to how his parents' bodies did, and there was some kind of chemical that his body was not able to make without eating meat.  Because of eating the wrong diet, he was literally chemically imbalanced.  They changed his diet and he turned out just fine.

I was at happy hour a few weeks ago and told this story to a vegetarian.  He literally laughed in my face.

It was a very difficult moment for me.

I strongly believe in people's right to choose.  Abortion, gay marriage, poly-amorous relationships... you have the right to do what you want to do, as long as it does not hurt anything else with a fully developed brain. 

But we cannot deny who we are biologically.  

If you choose to be vegetarian, and it hinders your health - either physically or psychologically - you have to admit you were wrong and factor complex proteins back into your diet.  You can source them ethically these days.

And if you want to know who you are biologically, go back to your roots.

I grew up in South Africa.  My parents come from a sunny island.  I take 4,000 units of Vitamin D a day, I have consistently tested under the norm for two the last two years, because I now live in a grey, gloomy place.  If I didn't consider the prospect that I get SAD in winter, I'd be a complete fool.

I know the person who laughed at my hypothesis isn't a representative of all vegetarians.  Any named group - be it religious, racial, sexual-preference, diet-preference, political - hell, even a book club - has a diverse spectrum of people in it, even though they market themselves as a homogeneous entity.

But his attitude really pissed me off.

To not consider the fact that there could be people who are simply not suited, biologically, to his dietary life choice, was narrow minded.

Yes, my evidence was anecdotal at best, but counter my proposal, give me your hypothesis.  Don't laugh at me and pat me on the arm like I'm a two year old who just said that I am going to marry my daddy when I grow up. 

I could make a facetious comment about his being too mentally tired to debate due to protein deficiency, but I choose to rise above that.

Nevertheless, my theory still stands...

Hell is other people.

The Golden Child.

You know the type I'm talking about.

He always looks good - even on dress down Fridays the T-shirt he wears is uberkewl.

He never says the wrong thing. 

You're standing between the cubes, it's Friday afternoon, and everyone is laughing at some story or other.  Team member one make a slightly dirty - but very funny - comment, and team member two counters with something just as dirty and just as funny.  The Golden Child opens his mouth and you think - finally! - he's going to say something non-PC.  He takes a breath in... then stops himself.  His self-control never wavers.

If you pass his desk and look down at a presentation he's prepared, you realize that is work is annoyingly, bafflingly, utterly impeccable.  He's managed to fit research, options and ROI onto one sheet - in color. 

"How does he do it?" you ask yourself.

Does he work from home every night?

Does he have better experience or education than I do?

Does he have an abnormally high IQ?

You watch him in meetings, trying to follow his train of thought and how he got to that excellent question, that perfectly phrased feedback.

You have conversations over coffee, asking him advice, telling yourself you can learn from him, he can mentor you, even if he is seven years younger than you are.

You try to find out his secret, his method, his mojo. 

But nothing works.

He just is.

He's a phenomenon, slipping like 4 stroke oil through the coporate machine, fitting in with everyone and everything.

And you hate him.

With a passion.

To read more in the Workplace Personalities series, click here.

We found another lost dog last weekend.

We were driving along and he ran across the road right in front of us.

Having seen a dog run over and killed a few months ago, Fluffy Bear is very sensitive to this stuff, and immediately pulled over.  

I called the dog and it came to me, very friendly.  It had a collar, but no tags.

We put it in the car, in the back seat because our two crazy mutts were in the back of the SUV, and headed up to the nearest vet.

I've been to this vet before and the receptionist totally put me off registering there.  We still go to our old vet close to where we used to live.  He's worth the drive.

The receptionist was just as rude and incompetent as when I'd first met her.  She was clearly not interested in helping us, and kept scanning only one spot on the dog's back.  Fluffy Bear tried to explain to her that our dogs have their chip in their shoulder, and asker her to please move the scanner around, but she just kept waving it at a spot on the top of the dog's neck, saying that there was no chip.

She was utterly useless.

We put the dog back in the car and decided to head down to the Animal Shelter.

The dog was very sweet, very well behaved and sat down quietly next to me.  This was clearly someone's loving pet.

At the Animal Shelter we met a very nice English Vet Tech who helped us out.  She took out her scanner, waved it and it went BEEP in less than 5 seconds.  I swear to God!  She found the chip right away.

She also realized that the number, being 15 digits instead of 10, meant that this was a foreign chip.  Apparently America uses a different standard to the rest of the world for dog chips.  No comment.

Anyway, she said she'd trace it and we left the dog in her capable hands.

Two days later, we were driving past the Animal Shelter, so we stopped in to see what had happened to the dog.  

And here's the crazy thing.

The couple had come into the shelter less than an hour after we dropped off their dog, looking for it.  They had just moved to town, and they are English!

So everyone involved in this story of the lost dog has a British accent!

No wonder the dog came to me when called!  He was probably thinking:  "Oh yes, you sound right.  Unlike all the other strange hairless apes I've been around for the last two days!"

Imagine how freaked this poor dog was.  He had just been on an 8 hour flight, come to a very strange place and then got completely lost.  

We were so happy to hear this story had a happy ending.

Fluffy Bear and I have decided that there is something about us.  We have a magnet for lost dogs.

We were on our way to our local coffee shop today when we saw a dog, another Weimeraner, lolloping along a busy main street.

There was a guy walking by it and we asked him if it was his.  He said no, but he was on the phone with Animal Control.

I called the dog and it came towards me.  It had no collar, so I caught it but couldn't hold onto it.  As it came near Puppy Dog, it freaked out, so it pulled away, toppling me over.  I hit the road pretty hard on my knee.  I have a lovely bloody scrape now, reminiscent of when I was a tree-climbing, Hide-n-Seek playing child.

(Hello, Neosporin.)

I kept calling the dog but it ran across the road, in front of a Land Rover.  Thank God, the woman in it stopped in time, and saw what was going on.  She stopped, got out of her car and asked me if it was my dog.  I explained what was going on.  She got hold of the dog but, like me, was struggling to hang onto it.  I asked her if we could please put the dog in her car.  She said yes immediately.

So the guy who was on the phone to Animal Control, the woman in the Land Rover, myself and another couple who were walking dogs were all stopped, talking about what to do.  The Land Rover was still stopped in the middle of the street.  She had had to stop there to avoid hitting the dog in the first place.

I was explaining to the woman that, last weekend, we took a dog to the Animal Shelter and they scanned the chip and the dog was back with its owners in an hour.  I was trying to convince her to do this because she was talking about taking the dog to her vet and that made me think she was going to keep it overnight, today being Sunday.  

I didn't think this was a good idea, especially since she said she had two dogs.  The lost dog was already freaked out - we all agreed it probably ran away because it's Seafair today and the Blue Angels jets were zooming by, very loudly, overhead.  It didn't need to spend the night in a strange house, and its owners would have 24 hours of pain and worry.

So, anyway, we're all standing there trying to establish next steps.

And some moron comes along and honks at me because he has to overtake the Land Rover and I am standing a foot into the street on the other side, making his passage through a little narrower.

Now, here's the thing.  You're driving along a main suburban street.  It's a Sunday.  There is a car stopped in the middle of the road.  5 people are standing around, all clearly discussing something.

And you overtake, get mad, and HONK?

You're a fucking Arsehole of the First Degree, a Pillock of the First Class, a Dickhead of the Smelly Smeg!

I don't have to tell you, do I, that I yelled my head off at him.  If I hadn't been dealing with the hurt knee, I swear I would've run after him, hit his car, made him stop and gone Full Crazy Bitch on his ass.  Trust me, with an English accent, it can be very, very effective.

Damn!  Now I wish I had done that.

Ah, well.

The Land Rover lady connected with the guy on the phone to Animal Control and decided to go to to the Shelter.  So hopefully this will all end well.

Oh, and just by the way, the people that left their dog without a collar on, on Seafair afternoon, when there is a cloudy sky and the Blue Angels are obviously going to do their low flying show, are arseholes too.

Hell is other people.

Dear Diary

I had a lovely walk home from work last night.

For some strange unknown reason, I got a 2nd wind at around 4:30pm - after feeling tired and drained all day - and ended up working till almost 7pm.

Now that I no longer work in the Hellhole, leaving the office that late is a rare thing.  But it's summer in the Northern latitudes, and that means a light sky and a balmy breeze at 7pm.

iPhone streaming the Beatles Pandora station in my ears, I headed across the bridge to start my journey.

I try to enjoy my walk.

There are a myriad of routes I can take home, and I try to turn a different way each time.  I slowly wend my way through semi-suburban blocks and parks, heading in a vaguely diagonal direction.

I stop to gently sniff roses hanging over people's fences, and try to pay attention to the rainbow of flowers along the way.

I look up to see the pattern of the day painted by the clouds.

There are many grasses and hedges that people use to border their properties, and I let my hand stretch out to feel their spiky stickiness, or soft woolly touch.

Sometimes life surprises me and I get to see a hummingbird, or a butterfly.

And, of course, I smile widely at everyone's dog.  

Sometimes I forget that there is an owner attached... one notable moment being me saying "Hello Handsome!" quite loudly (remember I'm plugged into Pandora) to a Golden Retriever attached to a man who was somewhat taken aback by my greeting - until he saw I wasn't looking at him.

Walking home is the perfect way to unwind from a day at the office.  Annoying meetings, empire building colleagues and the ever growing task list melt away when I pass two women in downward dog on a grassy hill, or smile at a little boy with a flaming shock of red hair waving shyly back at me when I flap my right hand at him like a crazy lady.

Sometimes, life is good.

"Who the hell is this?" she yelled from the kitchen.  "Is this someone from Food Network Star who's auditioning to actually get a real show on the channel?"

 

"No," he yelled back from the living room.  "It's a real show... about Mexican cooking."

 

"She sounds terrible!" she yelled.  "She isn't convincing me at all.  There is no way she has girlfriends coming round for lunch.  In fact, I doubt she has any friends at all!"

  

"You are so mean!" he said.  "I guess this is why her show is on at 6am.  See, now you're making me think like a Next Food Network Star judge," he said.  "I keep thinking things like 'That looks like a mess' and 'There's nothing original about this dish!' "

 

"I know," she replied.  

 

"So she's been saying that this cake recipe is something everyone used to ask her mother to bring to parties.  But the recipe looks pretty easy to me.  Do you think maybe the family friends were saying 'Hey, just tell her to make that cake again.  I'll make the Mole, you make the tortillas... let her do something she can't fuck up.' "

 

"Oh now who's mean?" she laughed.

 

"She's putting the mixture in a bundt tin!  I hate those things!" he yelled.  "My mother brought one back from the US when I was a kid and I could never get the cake to come out whole!  It has so many ridges that the cake just sticks!"

 

"Well watch how she does it," she said, pointing at the TV.

 

"She USES HALF A POUND OF BUTTER TO GREASE IT!" 

 

"Well there you go," she smiled.  "You learnt something new today after all."

 

"Oh, shut up," he said.

 

 

 

Well, last night was exciting.

Let me put it this way - within ten minutes of arriving home, in spite of a bottle of red wine and two glasses of Pimms and Lemonade, Fluffy Bear was 100% sober.

Why?

Because Puppy Dog was missing.

We had been to dinner at a friend's house and, as we walked up the steps to our front door, I was worried right away.

Three things:

• First, Puppy Dog wasn't standing behind the glass, tail wagging, greeting us.  He knows the sound of our car and he waits at the front door, guarding his den, whenever we go out.  
• Second, the cardboard piece that had been blocking the glass panel of our front door (which the dogs broke a few weeks ago) was sticking out.  It had been shoved out from the inside.
• Third, there was a strange bowl on the steps, with water in it.  

We went into the house and Puppy Girl ran out to meet us.

But no Puppy Dog.

Not in the bedrooms, not in the kitchen, not in the basement, not in the front yard, not in the back yard.

We were freaking out.

We walked around, calling him.

Then I thought I heard him bark, and the jingle of the tags that hang off his collar.

We ran back out the front and there was our next door neighbor, bringing him home.

He had found Puppy Dog on our front porch when he came home - about half an hour after we left - and he had slowly enticed our dog into his house.  Puppy Dog is a rescue, and he can get very anxious.  Our neighbor fed him and hung out with him, but he told us Puppy Dog's back legs were shaking the whole evening.

He was in the middle of telling us all of this when I lunged at him and hugged him.  I was so happy and relieved, I couldn't help myself.  The poor man.  He was very nice about it, but I think I almost knocked him over.

Puppy Dog was beside himself with joy to be back with us.  He jumped all over us - which he doesn't normally do - and licked us for about fifteen minutes after we got home.

We gathered around him and spent some time with our furkids, in our pack, appreciating our family.

Today we took our neighbor flowers, wine and a card.  I feel like it's not enough.

Thank God Puppy Girl didn't follow her brother out, because she wouldn't have hung out on the porch like he did.  She would've been off round the neighborhood, clomping along on her bandaged foot.  A car driving too fast, someone who felt like stealing a pretty dog, falling down the steep drops in the park near our house... there are a multitude of bad things that could've happened to her.

Fluffy Bear and I had a long debate about how Puppy Dog had got out.  I was convinced that it was through the missing panel in the front door, but he thought the open windows in the dining room were to blame.

Until this morning.

We left for our golf lesson and, as we got in the car, Fluffy Bear looked up to see BOTH dogs running towards us.  The windows weren't open wide enough for them to get out, so my theory about the missing panel in the front door was proven right.

As we led them back to the house, we engaged in a loving exchange:

Me:  "Say it!  SAY IT!"

Fluffy Bear:  "You were right."

Me:  "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Fluffy Bear:  "You heard."

Me:  "No, I really didn't.  What was it you said?"

Fluffy Bear:  "You were RIGHT, OK?  YOU.  WERE.  RIGHT."

Me:  "Thank you.  Now fix the damn door."

But it still wasn't over. 

As soon as we got to the golf range, I ran up to our pro and told him to greet my husband with a question.  As Fluffy Bear walked up to him, he went with my joke:

"Hi," he said.  "Who let the dogs out?"

Fluffy Bear laughed.  He's taken my shit for over ten years... I've trained him well.

But I kept the best for last.

Half an hour later, as he was lining up his putt, I let him have it, channeling the song by the Baha Men.

"Who let the dogs out?  Who?  Who-Who?  Who-WHO?"  

To read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click here.

Hello Mama's friends!

It's been a very annoying week.

Annoying like a cat meowing at you from behind a fence.  Or a squirrel staring at you from a high branch in a tree.  Or a Chihuahua barking at you from his mother's handbag.

First I had a sore foot, which was fine, because I have three other paws I can walk on if I need to.  But then Dada took me to the Vet Lady and she put some strange hairless ape furs on my leg.

She made me sore.  

It was very annoying.

Then I kinda had some fun with my new friend, the Pink Squirrel, who shoots rainbows out his bum, but then the furs on my leg started to itch.  

So I chewed them off.

Well, Dada was very, very cross with me.  

I don't understand why.

I mean, of course I chewed the furs off.  They were itchy and it was hot and I didn't like them!

Dada was being very annoying.

But then Dada took me back to the Vet Lady and they put more strange furs on me!

And this time they're different colors and in a funny design!

Not funny-ha-ha.  

Funny-peculiar.

The lady who put it on took a very, very long time to do it.  Much longer than last time.  She kept giggling.  

It was very annoying.

See what I mean?

It's been a horrible week!

And now Mama and Dada are laughing at the new strange furs.

Dada said something about "Converse" and Mama said:

"Ha!  At $600, that's a designer shoe."

I'm a DOG.

I don't wear shoes.

Mama and Dada are very, very annoying.

In case you missed it...

This is a repost.  This was originally posted Thursday, October 8, 2009 at 8:09PM.  But the thing with blogs is, new people find them all the time, and who the hell has the time to search through all the crap I've written in the past?  So, now and then, I'm gonna regurgitate some of it for you.

These post-its are not real.  They are just in my head.  I love my husband.  Seriously.

Dear Fluffy Bear

My birthday is coming up. 

You are a man. 

Man = boy + geek. 

Buying you a birthday present is pretty easy.  It needs to be a toy, and it needs to be electronic.  End of story.

As you know, I am a woman.

Woman = girl + sex bomb + mother + cleaner + philosopher + culture vulture + friend + confidant + fashionista + chef + karaoke queen + stand-up comedian + secretary + project manager + politician + taxi driver + yoga junkie + make up artist + skincare consultant + hairdresser + interior designer + real estate agent + OK let's just leave it here or I'll be here all night.

So here are a few pointers to help you choose my birthday present: 

• Anything that can be used in the house by both of us --> Not a valid birthday present
• Anything that needs a charger, or you to "install" it --> Not a valid birthday present
• Anything that is considered "useful" --> Not a valid birthday present
• Anything that is involves us going to a nice store and you taking out your credit card --> You're getting warmer
• Anything that turns out to be EXACTLY what I dropped major hints about while watching TV --> You're pretty safe
• Anything small and shiny, that comes in a nice box --> Now you're talking

 To read more in the Post-its of Wrath series, click here.

Hi everyone!

Hi-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Helllllll-oooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I'm Puppy Girl!

It's the second time I'm talking to you and I--

Hello Pink Squirrel!  You have a very, very fluffy tail.  How are you today?  

Oh, that's good.  Well, sorry, but I'm talking to my Mama's friends.

Yes, OK, we'll talk later.

Sorry about that.  Where was I?

Oh yes...

Hello again!

I had a very fun weekend!  We went to Tasha's house to play with her and Theo.  Tasha's daddy was throwing the ball for us and we were chasing it!  It was such fun!  

But then I ran and turned around and I---

What, Pink Squirrel?  No, I don't want a rainbow, thank you.  I'm busy.  

Well, yes, that does look good, but why is it coming out of your bum?

Really?  That's interesting...

OK, I'm sorry but I have to go---

Pink Squirrel?

Where'd he go?

Just disappeared!  How rude!

Sorry about that.  So, anyway... I was running and then I turned funny and I hurt my foot.  It was very, very sore, and I had to walk on three legs.

But it felt a bit better after a day or two.

But then Dada took me to see the Vet man.  And they did funny things and when I woke up I was really sore!  It was horrible!

I was crying and crying!

But then Dada and Mama talked about "vallum" and gave me some knobbly peanut butter and I feel a lot better now.

And there's my new friend, the Pink Squirrel, who's been visiting me.  Sometimes he floats on a little green cloud, and sometimes he has yellow smoke coming out of his ears. 

Then he did the rainbow-bum thing, which was a bit strange, but he's very nice to me.

Also, I'm very sleepy.

So I am going to nap now.  But it was nice to chat to you guys again--

What, Pink Squirrel?  You're going read me a bedtime story?  That's nice!  Can it have lots of bones in it? 

Really?  Wow...

To read more in the Hi from Puppy Girl series, click here.

Our friend's four year old son, a few hours before the World Cup final between Spain and the Netherlands (Holland):

 

"Daddy?  Is Peter Pan going to be watching the Neverlands today?"

 To read more Quote Unquote, click here.

 

Ed Begley Jr: "Gay?  A member of the, uh---"

 

Other guy: "Of what?"

 

Ed Begley Jr: "The homosexual persuasion."

 

Other guy: "[Laughs] My God!  You make it sound like a religion.  Yes, if it's a religion, you could call me devout.  A fanatic."

 

Ed Begley Jr: "But... that's a sin against God's law!"

 

Other guy: "God is gay."

 

Ed Begley Jr: "He can't be.  He made the whole universe perfect.  The oceans, the skies, the beautiful flowers, the trees everywhere!"

 

Other guy: "That's right.  He's a decorator."

Fluffy Bear has a 65 year old friend who recently got online, finally embracing email.

One of his first messages to his friends was:

"Very impressed with the internet. It already knew that my penis was small and dysfunctional."

To see more in the Quote Unquote series, click here. 

In case you missed it...

This is a repost.  This was originally posted Saturday, April 25, 2009 at 10:29PM.  But the thing with blogs is, new people find them all the time, and who the hell has the time to search through all the crap I've written in the past?  So, now and then, I'm gonna regurgitate some of it for you.

Puppy Girl:  EW!  Why does she do that?

Puppy Dog:  What?

Puppy Girl:  Try to suck my face off.  It's gross!

Puppy Dog:  You mean Mama?

Puppy Girl:  No, the Fairy Dogmother.  YES I mean Mama!  She bends over me and purses her fat hairless ape lips and makes a strange schlooping sound and leans in to suck my face!

Puppy Dog:  Sigh.  That's not what she's doing.  She's kissing you.  That's how hairless apes do it.  They don't lick like we do.

Puppy Girl:  Why not?  They have tongues, just like us!

Puppy Dog:  I don't know.  Maybe it's because their lips are so much bigger than ours.  Maybe they can't get them out of the way to let their tongue out far enough.

Puppy Girl:  Aw... they're deformed!

Puppy Dog:  Of course they are!  I mean, how about the hairless thing?  All those silly furs they have, all that time it takes to put them on, all that grunting when Mama tries to close those 'Jeans' things. We can just go outside whenever we want to. 

Puppy Girl:  I know!  And they can't run nearly as fast as we do.  Thank goodness they can go to that big house of food, because they sure as hell can't hunt with those big flabby legs.

Puppy Dog:  Have you ever seen them run?  Sometimes I run away from them just to see them klablobble after me out of the corner of my eye.  It's so funny! 

Puppy Girl:  They're so unstable standing on two legs!  Do you remember that time Mama fell over just because I wriggled a bit in her arms?  It was like a little earthquake when she toppled over!  Ha ha!

Puppy Dog:  And how about the howling?  When Mama howls at the music on the Flicker Box, my ears hurt!

Puppy Girl:  I know!  Whenever that Glee thing comes on the Flicker Box, I want to run away and hide!  Mama seems to think she can howl better than the little people inside the box, and she is so totally wrong!

Puppy Dog:  I think it's kinda funny... 

Puppy Girl:  Hairless apes are sooooo weird.

Puppy Dog:  Yeah, but they got the food.  And the beds.  And the fireplace.

Puppy Girl:  I guess I can put up with some sucky face now and again.

Puppy Dog:  Now you're getting it...

To read more in the Puppy Talk series, click here.

Puppy Girl:  Mmmmmm... what is that?

Puppy Dog:  I smell it too.  We must investigate!

Puppy Girl:  It's Dada.  He's outside.  MEAT!  But the door is closed!  

Puppy Dog:  Damn!

Puppy Girl:  I don't understand!  This is the food place!  We are in the food place!  How can Dada be making meat!

Puppy Dog:  It's the Other Hot Cave.

Puppy Girl:  You're not making sense!  We are standing next to the Hot Cave!  And it's not hot!  And there's no smell from it!

Puppy Dog:  Pay attention!  I said the Other Hot Cave!  It's outside.  Sometimes Dada makes meat on it.  

Puppy Girl:  WE HAVE TO GET OUTSIDE!  I WANT THE MEAT!

Puppy Dog:  Well, unless you plan to grow an opposable thumb, you're out of luck.

Puppy Girl:  A spose-sum?  What's a spose-sum?

Puppy Dog:  [Sighs]  Never mind.

Puppy Girl:  WAIT!  He's coming!

Puppy Dog:  Stand back!  He's opening the door!

Puppy Girl:  Dada?  Can I have some meat?  Dada, can I have some meat?  Dada, can I have some---

Puppy Dog:  You're wasting your breath.  We have to wait till the Hairless Apes eat.

Puppy Girl:  But it smells sooooooo good!  I WANT SOME!  I WANT SOME!

Puppy Dog:  Listen, Kid.  You're wasting your breath.  Shut up.  Stick with me.  We'll get some.

Puppy Girl:  But I want some noooooooow.

Puppy Dog:  Follow me.

Puppy Girl:  Where are we going?

Puppy Dog:  I'll sit in front of Dada, and you sit in front of Mama.

Puppy Girl:  Check!  Oh, it smells soooo---

Puppy Dog:  FOCUS!

Puppy Girl:  OK! OK!  What now?

Puppy Dog:  Now look cute and sad and hungry.

Puppy Girl:  I can't do all of those things!  I'm just going to grab one from Mama's plate!  It's right here!  If I just lean forward a little...

Puppy Dog:  NO!  DON'T!

Puppy Girl:  But I---

Puppy Dog:  If you do that, you'll get NOTHING!  Just listen to me!

Puppy Girl:  OK! OK!

Puppy Dog:  Look cute.  And sad.  And hungry.

Puppy Girl:  How?  That's too many things!

Puppy Dog:  Just think about how much you love Mama, then think about how sad you were when you had to leave your litter, then think about how much you want the meat.

Puppy Girl:  [Mumbling]  I love you, Mama.  Aw, I miss my first Mama!  I want meeeeeeeat...

Puppy Dog:  Good, good.  Now think those thoughts again.  And again.

Puppy Girl:  I love you, Mama.  I miss my first Mama.  I want meeeeat...  I love you, Mama.  I miss my first Mama.  I want meeeeeat.... I love you, Mama.  I miss my first Mama.  I want meeeeeat... I love you--- GLURB!

Puppy Dog:  GLURB!  See?  Told you it works.

Puppy Girl:  Meat!  Yum!  Yum!  Yum!  OK, now do we do it again.

Puppy Dog:  Nope.  That's all you get.

Puppy Girl:  But---

Puppy Dog:  Mama is taking the food bowls to the food place.  It's over.

Puppy Girl:  But---

Puppy Dog:  Trust me, Kid.  It's over.

Puppy Girl:  Aw!  Still, that was goooood meeeeeat....  Maybe if I try looking up at Mama in the food place...  What was it again?  I love you first Mama.  I miss meat.  I---

Puppy Dog:  [Sighing]  Kid, you gotta lot to learn.

To read more in the Puppy Talk series, click here.