The poor wretch above. The wailing child has apparently been traumatized for life by a heartless mom who abandoned him to the care of some big red and white hairy monster who, for all the child knows, is on the verge of killing and eating him. I mean like, really, you know? Time for a smoke break. And maybe two fingers of something stiff. And if those don’t work? Ain’t nothing he’s gonna do gonna help calm this wild beast and just think, this is the first kid of the day—there are several hundred more nervous and terrified children right behind him. Times is hard.
Did my stupid bit for Michelle and the “Blessing of the Dogs” Saturday. Yup, your retarded blogger conned into another fine kettle of fish by a pretty face, a flattering word, a free lunch, and let’s not forget his own low intelligence susceptibility for falling into such tar pits in the first place. Any who. . . .
I played Senile Santa yesterday for a good cause, I guess—a pooch photo op in Port Charlotte. With the beard loops cutting off ALL circulation in my ears, with the beard itself itching me near to death, and with my fat belly (big pillow) shifting under my belly, over my butt, around my hips, everywhere but where it should be on Struggling Santa’s ho-ho-ho, some of the first friggen dogs to come in for their photos with Surprised Santa were pit bulls/rotts and their loser owners! Yep, full-body tats, mono-syllabic vocabs, sloping foreheads, dragging knuckles, the works! Little did I imagine when I meekly acquiesced in this humanitarian nonsense that some of these critters would be these hundred-pound killing machines. I naively thought I would be dealing with just poms, poodles and peeks. It just sorta kinda lowered the bar for the next FIVE HOURS!!!! Tho a pit growled at me (“That %$#@& dog bites me I will kill him, right in this store,” Satantic Santa whispered to Michelle), it was a cute little Corgi that came closest to biting Startled Santa. . . .
Pit bull owners are not like me and you and a dog named Blue. They are way down there on that evolutionary ladder. One might imagine that after so much bad press—daily, even hourly here in Florida--about pits or rotts mauling a man in Michigan or killing a kid in Kansas, that owners would be a bit skitterish about showing their mugs anywhere with such monsters for fear of public opprobrium, stoning and/or lynching. But noped-de-doped-de-dope-dope, in saunters families--the fat moms, the tattooed dads, the spikey-haired soon-to-be-dead kids--without a care, or thought, in the world with their four-legged murder mutts straining like oxen at the leashes. One woman, after I admired her cocker spaniel with a Mohawk haircut said to me quite proudly, “We have a 14 year-old pit at home,” as if it were some kind of great feat or badge of honor or something. Okaaaaaay. . . cut! . . .end of conversation.
As one young pit defender told me, “I have seen Chihuahuas more vicious than pit bulls.” How do you respond to someone like that? Or should you waste your precious oxygen responding? I chose option “B,” of course, and let it go, since stating the obvious would have zipped through that vacuum between her ears without making contact with one other solid thing. Had I said the obvious it would have been, “I don’t doubt that there are smaller dogs more aggressive than a pit bull, but the distinction so totally lost on knuckle-draggers like you is that when a Chihuahua goes postal and gives you his best shot, at most you might lose a few drops of blood from a finger; when something goes terribly awry with your basic passive, pastoral, angelic, loving, great-with-kids pit bulls, odds are someone is going to lose a helluva lot more than a drop or two of blood, say a hand, perhaps an arm, or how about a life?
With the rise of Morbid Obesity (not to be confused with Horrid Obesity and Oh My God! Obesity) and with the fall of the economy, poor folks who want to get rich should consider meeting the "large" market head-on by investing in:
1) Companies that make Lard Mobiles, Walmart Blob Scooters and perhaps even fork lifts. One sees the electric cart things more and more on the back of cars, trucks, SUVs, and increasingly, as the United States of Gluttony becomes more obese, these contraptions are being used by the young and fat rather than the old and frail. At some point, with the increasing Obesing of America, one might also think of investing in Caterpillar, Allis-Chalmers, John Deere, or any other company that builds dump trucks, fork lifts, cranes, industrial elevators, and other movers of gross tonnage for in the near future it will take more than mere Walmart battery operated scooters to move the incredible loads that we will see shortly.
2) With the shuttering of Twinkies someone will restart production of a similar product. Virtually all the “ample” folks I have known eat their weight in Twinkies every month (that averages out to about a quarter ton—500 lbs.—for every man, woman and child in America). That's a burgeoning market anyone would like to get in on, I'm certain.
I’m sure smart money will find other opportunities to turn a buck on the lard epidemic. Being big has become big business and it's an American market that will truly remain bullish for the next few months, at least, or until we finally tumble over that much-discussed fiscal cliff and the starving survivors start sticking wicks in the "ample" folks among them and use them to light and heat their caves.
One More, For Fun . . .