Designer dogs.  Hate 'em.  What's that?  They're "hybrids?".  Screw you Biff, they're mutts.  Go to the pound, pay your 50 dollars and act like a man.  "This here dog is a pound dog....it eats cockapoos".  That's the kind of gritty Joe Bagadoughnuts, fat-guy off the rack sensibility your humble author can relate to.

Just for the record: I can't stand yer labradoodle, puggle, yorkipoo, hamstershund, chickenbernard, shnoodle, any dog cross-bred with a shih tzu (reigning "Gheyest Dog on the Planet"), shnorkie, maltipoo, antelopoodle, pugapoo, non-descript--tiny-bodied-over-sized-head-google-eyed-freak-of-nature-overpriced-but-you're-willing-to-pay-1000-smackers-because-you're -a-tool dog.

For the record...I own a weiner dog and a yellow lab.  Neither is superior to a mutt but damnit, call a mutt a mutt.

There, I feel better.  As you were.

(note: each line is followed by the classic blues riff "ba da da da dum")

mmmm.. gots some mojo workin'
got a piece o some pie
got a big oozin' chancre
and a case of pink eye
gots the bad butt stank
be a funk in de air
got a small glass of cola
mixed up wid cat hair
I fell off my bar stool
landed right on my head
my lip done swell up
be all bloody and red
my hair all burnt off
in a bad accident
my intestines exploded
wid a questionable scent
got me the scabies
and I gots lime disease
I gots me some rabies
and big holes in my knees
my toenails be yellow
all crusty and hard
my old lady calls me
Jean Luc Retard
got a serious problem
wid de chronic itch
gotta get me some sandpaper
and take care o dat b...
I got me no credit
I got me no bread
I gots halitosis
no teef in my head
bow shoomy da boomy
bow oomy ba doom
bow shoomy da foomy
bow goom ba boom
(fade)

Good evening and welcome to another edition of Larry King Live!  Tonight my guests will be Buddy Hacket, Rhea Pearlman and that guy who used to paint trees on PBS.  You know, that Brillo top could paint a bunch of pine trees like nobody's business.  You can have your fancy European painters but I'll take trees over fuzzy fat naked people laying around eating cheese any day of the week.  Remember how he used to say "fire in!"?  Yeah, me either but that's what's scrolling across the teleprompter.  Let's run down my thoughts for the day. 

• Tires.  Cars wouldn't go far without 'em.
• For my money there's no better practical gift than a can of Slippo.
• I don't like the guy on camera five.  Get 'em the hell out of here.  What, he's union?  I'll see you after the show, you slack-jawed camera monkey punk.
• That reuben I had for lunch is screaming to get out of me one way or the other.  Earth, wind or fire.
• I was all jacked up on hooch at a party at Burt Reynold's place a few years back and had the misfortune of throwing up on Art Garfunkel.  He started crying and I yelled "parsley, sage, rosemary and slime you crooner wimp ".   He can throw a pretty good punch for a pasty, bald-headed singer.
  

Mitt Romney says that crazy cat ladies are "one of the biggest threats to the fabric of our society."

The presidential candidate, who spoke at a Family Research Council-sponsored Values Voter Summit over the weekend, said: "We're not going to beat Hillary Clinton by acting like a bunch of Godless cat kooks,'' reported the Baltimore Sun.

"We have been taught from our youth that single to dual cat ownership is ordained by God, and cats are a gift of the Lord,'' Romney said. "Reasonable cat ownership is the building block of the nation. It is the economic unit of our society. This is not just rhetoric. It is reality.

"One of the biggest threats to the fabric of our society is out-of-control cat ownership,'' said Romney, promising that he and wife Ann "are going to use the bully pulpit to teach America that before anyone owns more than two cats, they should  maybe get a dog or some fish. It really is time to make excessive cat ownership out-of-fashion again.''

"I will look to support the rights of those who eschew a yard full of cat turds,'' he said, saying there is something "fundamentally wrong'' about parents not being able to pull their children from schools where they "are being taught about multiple cat ownership.

"As president, I will work with the people in this room, as I have for the past four years, to champion a federal cat ownership amendment to protect owners of less than 5 cats as pure and good. Every cat deserves a reasonably turd free litter box,'' he said, critical of "simply astonishing'' judicial rulings that have permitted crazy old housecoat wearing ladies named "Sally" to own as many cats as they wish. "Make no mistake on this a federal amendment on this is the only way we can protect Our Great Land from liberal, unelected, cat lady-coddling judges.''

Editor's Note:  Go to Newsmax.com, pick almost any article, change the subject matter from "same-sex marriage" or whatever to something even sillier. Then change a word and phrase here and there and voila! Comedy gold.  Maybe comedy pewter but you get the idea.

My buddy has a grill.  It's a Brinkman.  He paid a goodly number of Benjamins for it and has come terms with the fact that it's a piece of steaming fecal matter. My guess it that it was most likely manufactured by the Brinkman subsidiary "Rust-o-Plenty Outdoor Cookstuff".

Regardless, if I were to come up with a farcical name for a corporation it would definitely be "Brinkman". 

Yeah, "Brinkman"

I bought my dog a trampoline
his bouncing flung him skyward
He landed on a pointy stick
and with a yelp expired

Tom awoke at 4:42 and headed downstairs.  He flipped on the kitchen light and poured himself a heaping bowl of Meaties.  He drank his coffee straight from the pot and contemplated the coming day.  "Today I shall buy duct tape" he said out loud.  His cat Mewpsy (the one with no paws) eyed him curiously as if he were a day old tuna and went back to licking the wallpaper.  The radio was on and Bruce Springsteen was singing about a car and New Jersey and smokes and a factory and some trailer park girl.  Tom hated Bruce but liked the station because sometimes it played artists who weren't Bruce Springsteen.  Mewspy ambled across the floor on her gnarled, footless legs like a clown on stilts.  Her steps made little clunky noises on the bare linoleum,  barely audible but perfect in their syncopation.  In a small ranch house on the other side of town a fat woman was eating mayonaise directly from the jar using her bloated, discolored fingers to scoop the greasy payload into her quivering mouth. 

The End

Those shiny, blackish green nighttime cold capsules go pretty well with a dry red wine.  On the other hand, Sudafed is complimented nicely by a large, strong coffee.  Between these two cocktails and a plugged up head I'm hovering in a state of static  moronitude.  Awash in a sea of muddy, dim-witted half-thoughts and mood swings.  Breathing with an open mouth like a fat man at a doughnut festival.  Hacking phlegm and looking for the Ritz crackers because everything tastes good when it sits on a Ritz.

Have you seen my monkey Claude?

Sometimes when I see someone walking a little fluffy dog with an expensive haircut I wonder how far I could hit it with a nine iron.