According to CNN an enraged woman attacked a dog breeder with a dead Chihuahua puppy. The perp bought the puppy (when it was alive) and returned it to the breeder (after it died). The perp tried to enter the breeder’s basement to get another puppy, presumably a live one. [Editor’s note: What kind of person keeps a basement full of dogs. Oh, I see, the story is from Missouri. Never mind.]
The breeder repelled the perp’s entrance, and the two wrestled on the breeder’s porch, where the perp hit the breeder on the head repeatedly with the dead puppy. As the perp drove away, she waved the dead puppy from her sunroof, whilst hurling insults at the breeder. Charges are pending, as of the dateline.
But wait, how much can a four-week-old Chihuahua weigh? That would be like getting hit in the head with 1 or 2 soggy McDonald's Quarter Pounders (Without fries or drink. Hell, a four-week-old Chihuahua could drown in one of those drinks).
My advice: Never bring a Chihuahua, dead or alive, to any kind of fight whether the fight involves guns (including blunderbusses), knives, fisticuffs, or whatever. If you do, it means you’re a pussy and are aching to get your ass kicked. Or your head excoriated with the product of the loins of a tossed Chihuahua. Either way, you’re a pussy.
There are several lessons here.
- Don’t get involved with dog breeders.
- If you must get involved with dog breeders, use a bigger dead dog for your club. We suggest Mastiffs or Great Danes.
- If you must use a Chihuahua as your club, freeze it first.
Strategies to defend yourself if a woman wielding a four-week-old, dead Chihuahua puppy menaces you:
- Make your self look as big as possible, because the woman with the dead Chihuahua is going to be bigger than you. By a great deal. Don’t make eye contact or boo or hiss. She already knows she’s a dog with a dead dog.
- If that fails, make yourself look like a bugger. Cats don’t like that, or so I’m told.
- If that fails, make yourself look as small as possible. Curl yourself into a fetal position with one hand covering your head and the other groping your genitals.
- If that fails, stop, drop, and roll. Avoid chit-chat with fellow fresh-meat companions and rapid movements with the same.
- Smile and bare your teeth, if any.
- Make menacing sounds. Farts are best.
- Spray the dead dog with pepper spray. Or the enraged woman. Or both.
- Back away offering soothing words, like, "Go Fuck Yourself!"
- Heave the dead carcass and run like hell.
Why You Should Never Dedicate A Book to Your Wife
People write me all the time and ask, “Suckmeister, I’m writing a book and want to dedicate it to my loving wife.” [Insert first mistake here, which would be her first name, or worse yet, her first and last names.] Being a polite and considerate person, I always ask these losers, in polite but distracted conversation the topic of their book. Invariably they tell me something like, “I want to swim with the dolphins and write a book about it, but that’s already been done. What do you suggest?”
I always suggest something doable. Like swim with the piranhas, crocodiles, hippopotamuses, or those Amazon fish that will swim up your pee-pee hole if you piss in the water and cause excruciating pain. The last one is akin to having dozens of porcupine quills shoved up your ass. But worse. Then, I tell them that a four-foot, six-inch, white dwarf stands a better chance of playing in the NBA than they do of having a book published.
If they say, “But I’m only a four-foot, two-inch, white dwarf," or "I’m a white midget like Minnie Me from the Austin Powers flix.” I reply, “Would it surprise you to learn that there are guys in the NBA with bigger dicks than you are tall? And I’m talking flaccid here.”
But they always whine and say, “My lifelong dream is to write a book. Give me advice about how I can dedicate it to my loving wife.”
To which I always say, “I knew a fool who dedicated a book to his ‘loving’ wife. Then she ran off with the local mortician leaving their ‘loving’ affair dead and embalmed. Being thusly cuckolded, he was easy prey for his next ‘loving’ wife, who hounded him and his dedication relentlessly after she discovered the book in question was dedicated to Esmeralda, and discovering soon after that her name wasn’t, thereby ending that marriage, carving the financial pie again, and sending both hers to Palm Springs and the only him to a pauper’s grave, widely thought of as a pet cemetery. So the dominoes fall…”
If you have to write a book and presumably it’s publishable, your choices for dedications are on this list:
- Your loving wife (NO NAMES).
- Your hateful ex-wife, may she get what she deserves. (You could mention her by name, but consult an attorney first.)
- Your attorney or your ex-wife’s attorney. The language may be different or not.
- Your kids. (And yes, you can mention them by name. They’ll always be yours, as the child support payments prove.)
- Your pet(s). Other than Duke from the Bush’s Baked Beans commercial, Mister Ed (dead Mister Ed), and an assortment of birds, none of them can talk about your misdeeds and transgressions. Dedicate with impunity.
- Your church, but what has your church ever done for you?
- Your favorite charity, be it a fund for three-armed Chinese babies or whatever.
- Your ex or current wife’s breast implants. After all, you should have a receipt that proves payment and ownership.
That’s it. My best advice is not to write a book. But if you do, choose the safe route; dedicate it to the Suckmeister and his current wife’s breast implants, which are currently named "eennie" and "meennie" (but not on Southwest flights).
Dateline: June 8, 2006
Scientists have discovered a new syndrome to blame your rage on and 16 million Americans may have it. It’s called intermittent explosive disorder. It involves multiple outbursts that are disproportionate to the situation in question. Think road rage. Think bringing a bazooka to a spitball contest.
These angry outbursts include threats or aggressive actions and property damage. Although it sounds like the disorder was discovered through a large, well-designed study, you would think people could assume some responsibility for their actions. Think assholes.
Can billion-dollar drugs be far behind? I think we should give affected people sugar pills and not tell them for two or three years. They’d be so pissed off they’d get a real disease like a stroke, heart attack, or high blood pressure, potentially eliminating themselves from the gene pool.
According to an article in the Kansas City Star:
In June, according to police in Shreveport, La., Jared Gipson, 24, entered Blalock's Beauty College looking to rob the place, but left, according to a Shreveport Times reporter, "crying, bleeding and under arrest" after the 20 students and teachers, almost all women, wrestled him down and attacked him with their fists, curling irons, chairs and a table leg.
Manager Dianne Mitchell led the charge, by tripping Gipson as he headed out the door, then yelling, "Get that sucker!"
Tails from the BIG Illustrated Book of Cat and Dog Poetry
Punk Pink Poodles
Ring’s on our toenails, pins in our ears
Spiked, purple haircuts, faces with sneers
Barking in rap, tattoos on our nose
We ain’t gonna win no best of shows.
The Business Poet
Things not to do: Cowboy Poet
I’d been a large-animal vet for almost 30 years, but only recently had I begun to think long and hard about trading in the four-wheel drive truck and hanging up the calf-pulling chains. The career defining moment came one day when I was out on a call.
Large-animal vets treat livestock that don’t generally live in the house, though some people play hard and fast with that rule. One of the services we provide is pregnancy-checking cows. I was heading out to do that for this old bachelor for whom I had done some work before. He said he had 200 cows to run through, so I was planning to spend most of the day.
Now “preg checking” is an interesting service. Basically, you insert your arm up a cow’s ass and check her uterus to see if she’s pregnant or not. Usually, those cows that aren’t pregnant are sent to slaughter. Now, over time, preg checking cows can produce some interesting anatomical changes in veterinarians. The arm you use for palpating tends to become more muscular than the other one. So, towards the end of the preg-checking season, your palpating arm looks like Popeye’s after he’s had an ordeal with Brutus and felt compelled to ingest some spinach to assist in conflict resolution. Your other arm kind of atrophies by comparison, like something you’d see on one of those anorexic super models. I’m sure some of the town folks thought I probably was a chronic masturbator due to my unique conformation. If you think that’s funny, try buying shirts sometime to fit such a physique. Easy care cotton won’t help a bit.
Since there aren’t a lot of career opportunities for someone who can arm wrestle NFL linemen with his right arm and lose to a super model with his left, I started thinking more and more about that feller Baxter Black, who was also a large-animal vet and then became a cowboy poet. He had written several books and even had a regular segment on NPR. You have a lot of time to think as you drive to farms and ranches. Anyway, we’ll get back to Baxter in a bit.
On that fateful Friday, I loaded up the truck with everything I thought I would need and headed out to make the call. I arrived at 8, the agreed upon time. Right from the start, it looked like a typical call. The cattle were still in the pasture and the client, Tommy Joe Fox, had other “vetnary” work he wanted me to do before I would have the pleasure of helping him round up his cows.
First on the list was Bob, who needed his shots. Bob was the ranch dog who was known throughout the county. Hell, he was known throughout Denver. Bob was kicked out of Denver for menacing several cops a few years back. I’m told that they even had mug shots of him. And paw prints. He probably had a rap sheet. A classic canine evildoer. The story was that Bob was given the ultimatum of leaving Denver or else. In veterinary medicine, “or else” usually means euthanasia. I’m thinking the meaning is probably the same in other avenues in law enforcement.
If you look at Bob wrong, he will kill you. If you just look at him, expect to spend some time in the hospital. Well the perp, er dog, needed shots, which quickly got reduced to rabies, because in the words of the client, “Bob didn’t need one of those temperament or Pavlov shots.” I assumed he meant distemper and parvovirus, but who knows? Tommy Joe said and I quote, “Bob’s temperament was plum okay.” And whatever Pavlov might have to do with it, well let’s just say you don’t hear his name spoken out here in the country too much. I know he got dogs to drool, but I’m not familiar with his livestock work. I’d kind of like to know what he got his wife to do, but that’s another story.
After an hour of pursuit, we finally cornered Bob in the machine shed in the grain scoop of Tommy Joe’s old John Deere 720 tractor. I vaccinated Bob with my four-foot “wild-animal” syringe, while Tommy Joe applied restraint with a large piece of plywood. My professional opinion was that Bob probably didn’t need a rabies shot. I couldn’t imagine that any animal, even in the final throes of full-blown rabies, would lack the brains and common sense to get near Bob under any circumstance. Except, of course, for a large-animal vet trying to scratch out a meager living.
Then we had to look at the chickens. What I know about chickens can be reduced to white meat and dark meat. The primary complaint for the chickens was “they weren’t laying good.” Well, what do you know about that? I prescribed a new rooster for heightened sexual tension and oyster shells and if those two didn’t work, euthanasia. Sunday stewing hens.
We spent the next two hours rounding up the cows. I hadn’t experienced such job satisfaction since the last time I was kicked in the knee by a horse. These cows made Bob look as docile as a newborn kitten. As we looked over the fence at the skittish creatures, Tommy Joe suggested that we have dinner before beginning. Sounded good to me, as would any other excuse not to start something I wasn’t sure I could complete.
Four or five mangy cats were eating from a skillet as we approached the house. Tommy Joe shooed them away, picked up the skillet, turned it upside down, and whacked it against the house to clear it of residual cat food. He then proceeded to put several heaping tablespoons of Crisco in the pan and place it on the stove. Sliced, but unwashed potatoes and several slices of bologna found their way into the pan. Although Tommy Joe called it heart healthy eating, I was thinking the Surgeon General might disagree. To this day, I don’t know the effects of cat saliva as a culinary ingredient. I didn’t die so it’s probably not fatal, at least in trace amounts.
After lunch we preg checked the cows. We finished at 8 that night. The temperature was 20 degrees and a 15-mph wind whipped snow around. I nearly broke my palpating arm three times and took a square kick to the testicles from one riled up cow that tried to vanquish my manliness. As one last little indignity, Tommy Joe complained loudly about the $260 bill. For twelve hours of work. As I headed home I listened to one of Dr. Black’s tapes: Hey, Cowboy, Do You Want to Get Lucky? I resolved to get out of practice, too.
So I sold my practice and headed for Las Vegas. I knew I had to have a different shtick than Dr. Black. Besides, NPR wasn’t exactly beating down my door asking me to tape some segments. As I headed toward Vegas it hit me. I’d be a street side cowboy poet and get one of those organ grinder monkeys to beg for money as I recited my poetry. So, I took out an ad for a capuchin monkey and busily worked on a mission statement. I have to admit it was a good one: “Me and the monkey shall write and recite cowboy poetry in exchange for fame and fortune, but we wouldn’t say no to sex, except not necessarily with each other.”
I found a monkey! He was a cute little devil named Dilbert, after the cartoon strip engineer, but if the truth be known he looked more like Mary Worth, also from the funny pages. You remember that painting of General George Washington crossing the Delaware River during the Revolutionary War? Dilbert’s owner taught him to walk just like General Washington. I couldn’t have been prouder. Here was a monkey with civic pride, at least equal to that of most politicians in Washington, D.C. Dilbert even had a cute, blue, three-cornered hat like The Father of our Country wore. I couldn’t resist. I plunked down $2,000 and I had my monkey. What I didn’t know was that I had been horribly duped.
We set up shop outside the Stardust on the Strip and began our act. Unfortunately, Dilbert was an embarrassment from day 1. I only looked like a chronic masturbator; he was one. He humped every leg in sight. If he wasn’t walking like Washington he was humping like Clinton. God dang. And he took more sick days than a truant officer. First he came down with anthrax, then blindness, scours, and footrot. It would take an insane person to concoct a sorrier string of maladies. I couldn’t bring our respective value sets into alignment despite numerous episodes of counseling, putting Dilbert in timeout, and countless sessions of tough love. You ever try tough loving an organ-grinder monkey? It doesn’t work, or at least it didn’t for me. The final blow to our short-lived career came one Friday afternoon, when Dilbert, in a bold move involving illicit, cross-species fornication, mounted the Shih Tzu belonging to a rich woman.
Needless to say, Dilbert was banned from Las Vegas, just as Bob had been banned from Denver. Dang the luck! To make a long story short, I ended up back in the practice from whence I came. My career as a cowboy poet with his faithful organ-grinding monkey was over before it began. No books, no NPR, no speaking engagements. My first call in practice came from Tommy Joe Fox. In seems Bob had tussled with a porcupine and had a snoot full of quills. Could I come right out?
As I trudged to my truck I wondered if Bob had mellowed? Maybe read up a bit on the human-animal bond? Maybe better understood his role in society? Nah, it was too much to ask for. He was born a heathen and would die one, too.
If your kids ever want to follow in my footsteps as a cowboy poet, have them committed, and never, under any circumstance allow them to walk like General George Washington.