Public Safety Announcement: Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Try To Turn Your Pet Into A Dragon

I know! A dragon would be the ultimate family pet, just on account of the fact that they're the stuff of legend. I agree on the point that the whole "dragonz r kewl" thing has been disgustingly played out, and if I meet people who talk about dragons I usually beat them with a whiskey bottle until either they shut up or I black out. Still, though, come on. "Oh, that's a nice little kitty cat," I'd say. "By the way, here's my fucking sweet-ass dragon."

Still, I have to warn you. The first time you try to staple those wings to your pit bull, well, you'd better be wearing extra pants. Those dogs seem to have groin-seeking laser vision. I went through two dogs and countless pairs of jeans like this until I realized that I should probably practice on chihuahuas first.

Of course, right after I got Paco, I decided I'd play it safe and hold off on the wings until I got the whole firebreathing thing out of the way. One time I was wandering through the park, looking for girls to throw mud at, when I saw what was possibly the gayest thing the world has ever seen. There were all these people in shorts, and there was this guy breathing fire, and there were hackysacks, and everybody was dirty and smelly. I felt like I needed to scrub my eyes.

"What are you extremely gay faggot queers doing?" I asked politely.

"We're having a drum circle. You know, a little weed, a little music."

After the police finally pulled me off of the last gay homo I was trying to kill with the power of my mind (also knife), I asked the firespitting guy how he did his completely queer firebreathing trick while the cops were writing out the papers that said I wasn't allowed at parks anymore. Confident I could do the same thing with my tiny, tiny rat dog, I pried its jaws open and gave it a whole bottle of tequila. The trick is to get one of those sports bottles with the bendy straw and stick it way, way back in the dog's mouth.

Unfortunately, Paco fell asleep, and didn't seem to want to wake up. It was really full of tequila in the middle, so I figured it would only take maybe half an hour for him to get up and start shooting fire and being generally awesome. But Paco didn't wake up, and I got tired of waiting, and when I woke up and looked for Paco the next morning my wife told me he flew away to dog heaven, and that's why I couldn't find my papier-mache dragon wings anymore. It just figures that as soon as I invent an awesome flying fire dog it decides to be completely ungrateful and fly off.

So now I've got this goldfish and some Lee Press-On Nails, and I'm thinking about making this one not have any wings so he can't fly off. But generally, you shouldn't try to turn your pets into dragons, because you have to go through a lot of animals before you find one that works. Also, you never get to play on the swings anymore.

Traditions

Young Me: You gotta help me out here, the dogs are attacking each other!

Mom: That's not "attacking".

Young Me: ....oh.

---

We never had a very strong sense of tradition in my family, because traditions are corny, like a mountain of corn. Still, there's things that happen in your childhood that stick with you until you're older - sunny days outdoors, a race your mother let you win, a funny uncle who always pats your ass and wants to see your underoos. Those concepts help to mold and shape you, becoming your own joie de vivre, your flair, your latent homosexuality, if you will. And one day, you'll be looking lovingly down at your own missed abortions and passing those fruits of knowledge down to them. Or, more succinctly:

Boy: Why are we at the morgue?

Future Me: Because I'm dissecting this corpse.

Future Wife: That's not "dissecting".

Absolut Peach

I'm totally not above shilling a product I believe in. For absolutely no money, I will extol the virtues of self-administered HIV tests, flea and tick spray, and fingerprint removal kits, as they've all been godsends to me at some points during my life.

Absolut Peach Vodka may not have been as useful to me as those other things above, but those are the things you buy during the "oh, shit" moments. On the other hand, Absolut Peach is something you buy when you want a little decadence. When you open the bottle and smell it, it's not like they waved a peach over the top of the bottle. It smells like the entire state of Georgia uprooted itself and came over to your house to get totally wasted. With a little orange juice, it's like a brief taste of divinity.

The only thing I hate about it is that there's no "alcoholic-sized" bottle option. With a little determination, you can polish the whole thing off yourself in just a couple hours. Dirty pool, Absolut. Dirty pool indeed.

An Ode To Rockstar Energy Drink

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

One of these days, I'm going to go to Sam's Club

And buy a whole bunch of Rockstar

And set the cans around my desk

To drink, whenever I choose.

I will be like a Rockstar pimp.

Surrounded by my cadre of sleek black metal hos.

OMG OMG OMG,

Just a few minutes ago

I felt like absolute crap.

Then I drank this horrible tasting liquid abortion

And now I feel seventy thousand feet tall

And capable of pleasuring an army of robot strippers

With lasers.

WTF WTF WTF,

I hate this stupid drink.

It only lasts for like fifteen minutes.

And now I feel hopeless, wan, and empty,

Like this empty can,

That cost me four fucking dollars.

Blitzedkrieg

So, our friend Jacqueline was tending bar on Saturday night, and I headed there with the intent to test her skills at a Long Island Iced Tea. It just so happens, I tested her skills at two Long Islands, half a pitcher of Newcastle, an Electric Lemonade, and a rum and coke.

Longtime fans of this series know what happens when the main character meets up with friends at a place that serves spirits: I do incredibly stupid things. An evening that started with polite political debate (fuck watching porn, nationally a black man is beating the ever loving shit out of a white woman) turned into the psycho circus when Jacqueline's intensely competitive boyfriend, Jacob, showed up with plans to show off his alcoholic superiority, like some kind of whiskey gestapo.

There's some defining moments in one's life, and one of them is realizing that you and big Jacob are grasping each others elbows, creating a forearm valley into which a smoldering cigarette is being tossed. At that particular moment, I was so full of besotted fortitude I could have let the thing burn a swiss-cheese network throughout my whole arm before I let go. We all woke up the next morning with lymph-engorged blisters. It was like my body's physical testament to machismo and stupidity.

But damn, those were tasty Long Islands.

The Quest For Television

Since I don't have cable anymore, the means to free mindless entertainment has been a constant quest. Until now.

See, yesterday, out of boredom, I checked out ChannelKing (ads might be NSFW). What I found was a hilariously surreal set of low-budget channels.

Under Information > Wild Life TV, for example, I ended up watching a show that consisted of a group of wildlife photographers (off camera) who pretty much just giggle about wildlife. Meanwhile, the camera points dutifully towards different animals and birds, while the announcer names the species which is onscreen. The truly hilarious part is that, while the announcer rattles off names and displays a fetish for tanagers, the other crew members are talking about much more exciting animals they see, which the camera never points towards. Instead, it flits around to different tanagers. It was quite possibly the most amazing television show I have ever seen.

There was also New Tang Dynasty Channel, which is all Chinese. I watched some claymation Changs lie in bed, complain about food (I think... I know a few Chinese food words and they seemed to be in there), and go to a merchant of some sort, who had only one goat (in a fenced enclosure, inside his store), who left the screen to fetch a bowl of something I could only hope was goat milk. The couple takes this bowl home and waves it around. At another point, a woman dresses in a deer pelt in order to try and nurse from a doe. It was fantastic. It was like Crouching Davey, Hidden Goliath. I strongly urge you all to go and watch channelking until you reach enlightenment.

Okay, I'm A Fucking Geek

SGrDDyPiMP: i was thinking about setting up a board game ebay site
SGrDDyPiMP: send me things that you people want to find
Teleolurian: CARABANDE
Teleolurian: the holy grail of games i can't find
Teleolurian: i have merchant of venus. OOP, that I got for a song on eBay
Teleolurian: also RoboRally with the pewter bots
SGrDDyPiMP: ok, i can't find carabande
SGrDDyPiMP: are there other people looking too, or just you?
Teleolurian: i didn't know they re-released it
Teleolurian: BITCH. stephenson's rocket is OOP. i shouldn't have traded it
SGrDDyPiMP: we're in that show again (Editor's note: he means The Big Bang Theory)
Teleolurian: board games are the shit
_____________
Teleolurian: as soon as one of these website payments goes to something other than equalizing accounts i am probably going to blow a grand on board games
SGrDDyPiMP: you say that about a lot of things
SGrDDyPiMP: board games doesn't sound like a good one
Teleolurian: i need a new crokinole board
SGrDDyPiMP: you're just planning on dominating the retirement home

Getting In Shape

Yoga
On one hand, it would be pretty damn cool to be able to walk on my own shoulders. On the other hand, people who do yoga are part of some secret yoga club where one day you're doing "The Buffalo Transcends The Mosquito" and the next day you eat yogurt parfaits, drive an SUV, and engage in kinky menage a trois with disgustingly flexible Swedes. Then again, I do like yogurt.

Calisthenics
It's pretty easy to get into a calisthenics program, because you don't really need much to do pushups and pull-ups and all that jazz. It's pretty boring, though. It's kind of like the missionary position of exercise. Also, with my feeble, feminine arms, I have never done a free-hanging pull up in my life. When I was in high school, my gym teacher got so annoyed by me just dangling and struggling on the bar that he made me wear a peach taffeta dress for an entire week. I am stunning in taffeta.

Boxing
Although I always thought of boxing as a pretty boring means of fighting, mostly because there's no biting or kicking, it seems like when a boxer gets into a scrape with somebody who knows something showier and more exotic, the boxer ends up beating the juice out of the other guy. The down side is that you have to drink raw eggs and scotch, you have to be pretty stupid, and at some point in time you will get into a fight with a Russian who looks exactly like Mr T. If I were Mr. T, I would learn how to strangle people with all that bling.

Pilates
Pilates was invented a long time ago, but nobody knew or cared what it was until suddenly the indie rock generation revived it. Nowadays, people who do Pilates are also eating sushi, driving Nissans, and listening to CocoRosie. Actually, I do all those things, but I'm still not doing the exercises.

Karate
Karate was "totally rad" in the 80's, after Enter the Dragon and all of that, but nowadays every asshole you meet has a black belt and is into Zen Buddhism. I think the Zen Buddhist thing is really just a way of getting out of fights. I'm pretty sure a swift kick to the yin-yang is about all you need to protect yourself from these guys if you actually get into a fight. The problem is, they like to talk about all the things they've learned. I've had to listen for hours to a boss that just blathered on and on about how during a tournament he had some guy in this position or that position where just a little more pressure would have totally shattered all his bones into fine dust. It sounded like he was talking about gay sex. Ever since then, I've been totally off the whole karate thing.

Heavy Alcoholism
On the other hand, I might be in perfect shape, since I have to go to the store to buy two more bottles of gin about every other day. If you get the glass Seagram's half-gallon jugs, you're totally feeling the burn by the time you finally get your first drink of the morning. Once they're two-thirds empty, you can just take out the flameguard, fill the bottle with grapefruit juice, and you're all set to commit to a grueling afternoon of hurling sexual insults at your local boy scout troupe, lying naked on your lawn in a pool of your own stomach juices, or staring lasciviously through the living room window at the kids getting off the school bus across the street.