I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Keep Your Enemies Close, And Your Dog Closer.

Dogs can do amazing things. Every day the internet extolls the virtues of some incredible dog or another. The news is full of the exploits of heroic, dauntless canines. Man's best friend. Well, I got news for you; not all dogs are that great. You know how dogs can sense cancer? And then they let their owners know that something is wrong by dialing 911 or spelling out YOU HAVE LYMPHATIC CANCER with Scrabble® tiles or something. Hell, I think I even heard about some valiant pit bull that performed a mastectomy on her doting owner. Well, I just got diagnosed with advanced skin cancer on my buttocks and crotchal region, on account of how I never wear pants, (if God would've wanted us to wear pants he wouldn't have given us special parts that love to swing around in the breeze,) and guess what my dog did?! Nothing. Not one damn thing! Didn't try and alert me to the growing menace in my loins with a series of morse-codelike barks, and during our weekly charades game didn't even take the time to hint that I might be soon losing some of my favorite parts. He didn't even try to hook me up with one of those hokey psychic healers down at the flea market. That ungrateful bastard! I mean I've loved that dog since I found him guarding the local meth lab/chop shop and stole him away from his abusive owners who terrorized him with Porterhouse steaks and fluffy pillows, and this is how he repays me? The only sense that I got that something might be wrong is that he, if possible, spent even more time than usual licking his own private areas. How am I supposed to take anything away from that, dammit?! Now if he had spent more time than usual licking my areas, that would be wrong, but I could've gleaned something from that. But no. And now I'm on butt chemo. And all of my crotch hair has fallen out, and I have to wear a little pubic toupee to cover up my shame, but sometimes I just don't have the energy to make it look natural, so I put on a little bandana and it looks so sad down there. And what is all the more tragic is that all of this could have been avoided if my selfish jerk-face of a dog would've just done his doggy diagnostic due-diligence.

   And dogs can sense earthquakes right? You heard about that, haven't you? Well I live in Southern California and my crack-head of a dog didn't give out one little peep to warn me about the recent "Big One." He didn't wake me up in the middle of the night, or drag me under a doorjamb, or outside where it was safe. Nope. He just left me passed out in the bathtub. Stupid dog. You only hide in the bathtub for tornados. And alien invasions. And, I'm pretty sure, droughts. But not earthquakes. G'ah, everybody knows that. The Earth starts having an epileptic seizure and he just lay there at the entrance to the bomb shelter and gave himself some, apparently, much needed pelvic grooming. (Oh great, we're gonna be buried under six feet of rubble, but at least your twigs and berries will be all presentable.) That dog is just no good, I tell you.

   And the final straw might have been when he failed in some of the most basic and ingrained of doggy abilities. Recently my friend Tony "The Drug Dealer" Medellin, came over to my house to sell me some, uh... Girl Scout Cookies. And my, so called, loving dog allowed that dirty crook, low life, double dealing, sneaky thief of a scumbag, cookie dealer to just march into my house and sell me counterfeit cookies made with oregano instead of, um... other stuff that is also green. And he sold me some other cookies that were made with ground up aspirin and not pure columbian coc..a-nuts like I was promised. And then when I discovered that I had been duped, Tony "The Drug Dealer" Medellin pulled a big damn gun out on me and one thing led to another, (those things mostly being that I cried, I wet myself, I cried some more, I changed my pants, I got scared and accidentally wet Tony, I got shot in the leg, we both cried; he's very sensitive, he told me he had to run because he had a brunch date with that weird guy from that show, you know, that guy whose all nerdy and bald and he likes heavy metal and he looks like sasquatch with dork glasses, and anyway) I was laying on the floor bleeding. And did my BEST FRIEND at ant point stop taking inventory of his nether regions long enough to offer assistance? Nay. Did he, as dogs are known to do, alert me to the facts that there was a dangerous man in our humble abode? Nay. Did he sniff out contraband or lack thereof in Tony's cookies? Nay. Did he sniff out the gunpowder on Tony's Desert Eagle 44 Magnum and let me know the whackjob in my kitchen was packing? He did not.

   So you go ahead and read all that feel-good crap on the internet about dogs and their fabulous feats. You go home and look at your dog at believe that he has your best interests at heart. Your friend will never let you down. Yeah right. Until he just doesn't feel like saving your life. And then he'll just sit there, smugly tongue bathing his unmentionables as you suffer and die. Just like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, but with a tongue instead of a fiddle. And another thing instead of Rome. And also he's a dog. An evil selfish dog.