"I Think, Therefore I Ant."
October 16
Photos of
Happier Days for George
A few shots of George in happier times. You remember them, when he could get
away with all that crap he pulls. Ah, memories...
We both
agreed that while it was cute, the hat made him look like an even bigger
buffoon.
Say what you
want about George, at least he cleans up real good!
Feeling
Frisky! I was sorry to see George rinse out the red. We had a big fight and he
got all musical and sang, “I’m gonna wash that red ant right out of my hair.”
He’s such a drama queen – and lousy president.
Our comedy
act at The White House Dinner.
Him: Hey Avery, who was that woman I saw you with last night?
Me: Shut the hell up you imbecile!
(Hold for big laughs and applause)
Yet another
picture of George lying to the nation while I hump the back of his head. Hey,
whatever gets you through the night!
Mixing Breeds
I
met Nancy at Mr. Mooney’s, a bar of no noticeable distinction. She was with a
girlfriend and I had been divorced and sexually frustrated for the last three
years... I was also drunk. After making small chat about the weather and local
sports we got to talking about dogs. She had a male German Sheppard she was
ready to stud and I had Daisy, my faithful golden retriever. We exchanged
phone numbers and agreed to go over each other’s respective pedigree; the double
entendre thrilled me.
The next day Nancy called and suggested a meeting. I had sobered up and was
wondering what on earth I’d been thinking. I looked into Daisy’s big eyes and
felt shame at what I had considered putting her through in order to get myself a
little more familiar with some new female company. Sure, Nancy was cute and
tiny but I had never met this dog. My goodness, I didn’t even know its name and
here I was ready to let it go about its nasty business with my Daisy. Sweet,
obedient Daisy, the only memory of Helen, my ex-wife.
Helen and I had bought the dog after we had come to the decision that we didn’t
want children and we had planned to have her fixed in her first year, it was
something we would do "together." But near the end of Daisy’s first year Helen
was nothing but a memory and a cruel goodbye note to me and my "surrogate baby." It was irresponsible of me not to have her fixed, but all I can say is
that I soon discovered that a shared sexual frustration between dog and master brought us closer together. It had been a tough three years for both of us,
filled with long walks, chewed up furniture and lonely nights of drinking,
bonding and howling.
I
was on the verge of suggesting to Nancy that we reconsider the whole thing and
maybe take in a movie and dinner when she cut me off.
“My dog’s name is Big Dick,” she said, her voice spilling over with pride. I
felt my ankles go weak and my own manhood threatened. An unusual feeling, to say
the least.
“Big Dick...” I could barely get the words out, “interesting name, or should I
say, names?”
“They both suit him,” she laughed.
I
decided to try and stall her, I talked about my loneliness and search for the
right woman; I kept the subject far away from canine mating but still ended up
mentioning how with the exception of Daisy, these days I had little to no female
companionship, I was pathetic. I told her about Helen, and how I was secretly
convinced she had never loved our dog, she sounded genuinely concerned if not a
bit amused. She told me that she understood, it was rough alright, but you just had to
get back out there. She said a cute guy like me shouldn’t have any problems. I
found this encouraging and then in the next breath she asked if she and Big Dick
could swing by next Saturday, her voice was forceful and caring, a loving
command. I heard Big Dick bark in the background, he sounded like a good boy.
The words, “can’t wait to see you,” came out of my mouth from nowhere.
By the time Saturday had arrived my feelings of trepidation had manifested into
outright fear.
“Big Dick”? Those two simple words had indelibly left one
ghastly image in my mind, I was determined to call the whole sordid escapade
off.
Over a second glass of wine, Nancy tried to alleviate my fears. “There’s no need
to be nervous, darling,” she said while slowly reclining her pixie like body on
the sofa, “birds do it, bees do it.”
Big Dick, who had been snoozing by his master’s delicate feet suddenly raised
his head, sensing that Nancy was finally getting down to brass tacks, and
looked me straight in the eye. Not wanting to get into a staring contest (or,
something told me, any kind of contest) with this gigantic animal, I glanced out
into the backyard where my Daisy was innocently chasing a butterfly.
“What do you say to another glass?” she asked, pulling a second bottle out of
her enormous purse.
Big Dick, still on his leash, bounded into my backyard, he was followed by Nancy,
a woman that I realized would always be able to drink me under the table. The
wine had enlivened and energized her while I was staggering slightly and ridiculously still trying to
back out of the whole affair.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Nancy, in an agitated tone, “that bitch,” she said
pointing at Daisy, “is in heat, heavy, heavy heat.”
“Don’t talk that way about my dog,” I realized I was shouting, I looked into
Nancy’s small face, absorbed her tiny cheekbones and kissably elfin mouth, "they
don’t even know each other.” I gave her what I hoped was a sweet, meaningful
smile, the overall effect was completely lost on her.
“Know each other,” she scoffed, “what do you want? Flowers? Candy? Maybe a
little love poetry and some Miles Davis? This isn’t the prom, Big Dick’s just
going to...”
I
begged her to stop, informing her that I knew very well what he was going to do.
I had done it myself, lots of times, I stupidly boasted. Nancy didn’t dispute
that although she told me I might want to keep an eye on Big Dick, maybe get
some pointers. There was a strange glean in her eye, she seemed more anxious
than that oversexed beast of hers. I was now fully aware that I was in over my
head, Nancy jokingly told me she’d still respect me in the morning and when I
didn’t laugh she called me a tease. I caved into the pressure, Nancy let go of
the leash.
“Go boy go, mount the bitch! That a boy, ride her!” Nancy cried like a demented
cheerleader. I half expected her to reach into her gigantic purse and produce a
pair of pompoms. Daisy looked over at me with a mixture of confusion and relief.
I turned away, sick with guilt.
“She’s not very good at it,” complained Nancy.
“She’s afraid.” I was having a hard time with it all. Big Dick was now fully
mounted and relentlessly thrusting away, Daisy was being defiled and Nancy
looked like she wanted to take pictures.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she kept crying, like some sort of Buddhist chant for the
sexually depraved. Just when I thought that it would never end, that my poor
dog would actually explode in my backyard, it was over. It was over, and what
did Big Dick do? He just walked away. That was it, he’d had his fun and now he
was ready for a nap and dish full of beer. Daisy looked bewildered, her eyes had
glossed over and I suspected she was in pain, I knew I was. I was getting ready
to tell Nancy that we needed to talk about what had just happened when I noticed
she had reached into her large magic purse and now had her car keys in her hand.
She called Big Dick over, he obediently marched to her side, a smug look on his
furry face.
“Thanks,” she offered a handshake that I refused. “Its been fun.”
She seemed ready to leave, I was dumbfounded and felt I had to say something;
that I had to express my feelings, which at this very moment were anger and
shame. And what about my poor pooch? Had Nancy used me to get her Big Dick to
my innocent dog? Or had I brought this on myself, had I asked for it, was I
responsible for what had happened to my Daisy? I wanted to say all of this and
more, instead I asked her if I’d ever see her again.
For the first time that afternoon she looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, I
don’t think it would work out, but we can still be friends, right?”
Right. I saw them to their car, waved goodbye as she pulled out of my
driveway, Big Dick’s enormous head stuck out of the window, his long red
blanket of a tongue slobbering on the car door handle. I stumbled into my
living room with thoughts of showers and delousing when I went to the phone book
and looked up a vet. It was time to make things right, it was time to fix things
for good.
Your Horoscope:
Aries:
There are times (pretty much all of them) when you are too suspicious for your
own damn good. Lighten up and boogie... (Sigh... Boy, I’m really going through
the motions here, aren’t I?)
Taurus: Ease
up a bit and... yes, boogie. (Sorry, but as stated above, I’m just phoning it
in today... Or should that be “boogying” it in? Oh, who cares?)
Gemini: It’s unlikely you will be thinking too clearly today. Lord
knows I’m not. Might we suggest you shake your booty to some boogie?
Cancer: Don’t jump to conclusions. Jump on the dance floor and, um,
boogie.
Leo: See above, you boogie machine.
Virgo: You will continue to boogie down the road of life.
Libra: Everybody boogie! That means you!
Scorpio: Mercury, your ruler, commands you to keep your thoughts to
yourself and keep on boogying.
Sagittarius: Saturn, the great taskmaster of the zodiac, cracks the
whip and forces you to join in a boogie conga line marathon. Cry all you want – you will
continue to boogie!
Capricorn: You’re sensing a boogie theme here – and it’s not working
for you.
Aquarius: If trying to figure certain things out gives you a headache,
remember this, boogying is mindless and fun.
Pisces: You’re the man. And in the spirit of today that makes you The
Boogie Man.
Tom
Cruise Insanity Watch
Today:
Guarded
(Check
Back For Daily Updates)
Tom Cruise's Baby Planner
So, as we
all know, that beacon of canned ham, that paragon of overacting, that
histrionic thespian, Tommy Cruiser has somehow achieved an emission impossible
and impregnated the equally untalented Ms. Katie Holmes. Together they shall
produce some of Hollywood’s greatest lousiest actors of all time. Buckle up.
Until then, why not give Tom’s baby planner a look-see?
Tommy
Cruiser’s Baby Planner
Katie has the morning sickness. Videotaped her vomiting and played it for my
dinner guests. She was mortified and they were put off their meals. Made me
laugh. Will continue to try and humiliate her and plot her demise until she
fesses up on who the dad is.
This
Week’s Featured Album:
Mike
Terry: Live At The Pavilion
Liner Notes.
Side One
1. Yes...
Vol. 2!
2. Let’s Burn The Glasgow Pavilion, Lads!
3. Put Tha’ Fookin’ Boot In (To Me, They Do)
4. Scottish Medley: Drink Pints/Go Ta Football/Drink More Later/Chips and
Curry/Fight In The Pub/Hangover/Do It All Again Next Bloody Saturday
Side Two
1. That Ain’t No Bleeding Kilt I’m A Wearing
2. Look At Me – I’m A Git!
3. You Take The High Road – Me, I’m Scottish, I’ll Get Drunk And Puke
4. The Bonny Bonny Ghetto of Glasgow
5. Put More Grease On Ma Slap Up Feed
6. Scotland – Land Of The Lout
Bloody Hell, will ya get yer wee mug around this? Right, who’s like us – damn
few and their deed. They call me Mike Terry and I’m no sure if I’m a Scottish
lass or lad. Ye be the fookin’ judge. Look a at me. I’m a bloody dreedful fright
alright. With ma knobbly knees and ma sequin frock and Harpo Marx hair and pasty
face – not ta mention ma Karl Marx leenings... And, of course, ma other leenings
as well. Those right ones that ain’t so bloody “right.” Right? This bloody album
wis recorded live at the fookin Pavilion. Ya can actually hear the crowd
screaming for ma blood and attacking the stage and really putting tha’ boot in
to me. Damn, but do they hate me. They’ll bloody pay and line up ta give me a
right good thumping. Ya got to love the Scots. ‘But even if ya don’t they wanna
give two shites.
Mike Terry 1968
Cover Photo: Doonald Trooser ©
1968 No Canna Git Yer Dialect Records
This Week's
10 Favorite Search Terms for Avery Ant
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(really!)
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