Tags: Agents, Books, dogs, family, funny stories, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Writing
AT LAST! I’m back home. The Geezer and Mrs. G got the go-ahead to move back into our house. That’s good for us all. The Chinese drywall and its destructive properties are gone! The remediation contractor did an excellent job. I’m thoroughly enjoying it. My humans … not so much.
The problem is one of those human stupidity issues. It’s things. Lots and lots of things. Things in boxes, bags, suitcases, and just lose. Things that have to be put away. Things that, “Came out of some closet or drawer, but I have no idea where.” Things that my humans don’t remember acquiring, or storing, or using. Things. Things! THINGS! Our house looks like a children’s playroom after a pajama party.
My canine common sense tells me there’s a logical and practical solution. Throw away the stuff you don’t need. It’s amazing how little you have to possess to live. And, if humans were intelligent enough to learn from experience, this should be apparent to the Geezer and Mrs. G. They just spent the last ninety days living out of a half-dozed suitcases, a dozen boxes, and using just a few items that were in the house where they stayed. As far as I could see, they weren’t languishing in misery.
Somewhere in the very dim recesses of their Neanderthal-like minds, the thought of purging the unneeded and the unwanted flickered through the gray-matter. Just flickered. After the two agreed they probably had items they didn’t need, they devised a “system” for disposing of “stuff.” I knew the venture was sure to fail at that point. Committees and systems are the human methods of talking a lot, doing a lot, and accomplishing little. Their “system” validates my opinion.
The Geezer and Mrs. G agreed they’d review every item they were trying to put away and place it in categories. Stack one was the “we need this and use this” pile. Stack two was the “we probably should keep this item for the future.” Three was the “this is expensive to replace” category. The fourth stack was the “check to see if you think we can get rid of” pile. Number five was the “we probably should toss this” stack. The last accumulation area was designated as “trash.” Three classifications would have been sufficient, but even that would tax meager human intelligence quotients.
The out-come – so predictable. Items moved from pile to pile. They’re still doing that. The Geezer saved the left-handed sky hook from the “we probably should toss this” stack, and moved it to the “this is expensive to replace” category. Mrs. G removed the purple, orange, and green Wigwam-lamp from the “trash” elevating it to the “we probably should keep this item for the future” area. Guess what ended up as the area with the smallest accumulation? Trash.
We canines once again prove how superior we are. Human’s should give up on things like TV. They scream at it and complain that it’s not any good. Why keep it? The things they store on shelves, like knick knacks, they look at when they buy and never again as far as I can see. If they need something, they generally go buy it because they have no idea where they’ve stored it. And clothes … what a waste! Put them on … take them off. I realize the frailty of the human body requires protection from the cold, and in some cases to protect human and canine eyes from a disgusting sight, but very few coverings would suffice.
My things consist of my dish, my pillow-bed, my collar, my brush, and my leash. The last three are for my humans more than me. I’m free to enjoy life. Humans are weighted down by things. Oh well … you can lead a human to water, but you can’t make him drink.
* * * * *
Tags: Books, Current events, dogs, Election, Humor, life, Media, Politics, publishing, Reading
It’s another overcast day and the weather guesser is predicting more rain. And, it’s Monday. Rain’s not a bad thing, neither is Monday, but what happens because of the combination … is. My humans turn on TV much earlier than usual. Instead of a few hours in the evening, I’m tortured by having to listen to a full day’s coverage of tube tripe. Tripe? Yes, it’s an election year and the election season. At least, I don’t have to watch it. I can go a couple of rooms away and avoid that, but the sound follows me like stink on a garbage truck. It wouldn’t be terrible if there weren’t all those negative political ads. If the tone of this post sounds a little cynical, disgusted, and a bit pissed, I missed my intent. I wanted it to sound a very, very cynical, disgusted, and very pissed. American politics are as low as a whale turd sitting in the Mariana’s trench at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. I’ve had enough.
I tired of political pundits and advertisements that tell me how Joan or John Doe kissed a frog’s ass three years ago. Or that they stood on stage with Conan the Barbarian. Or they went shopping in the same Macy’s as Jack the Ripper. The political pundits are particularly loathsome. Ever notice how their mouths all look like a canine rectum with diarrhea?
It would seem humans could do better casting their ballots for someone who is for something, not simply against the other guy. Since most candidates and their idiot supporting organizations won’t produce an ad or commentary with specifics about what they’re going to do to improve the situation, a vote for me seems logical. I’m going to run for something … anything. At least, I can name ten things I’d support and try to achieve if elected to office. I bet you can’t make the same comment about most human politicians.
My “plank” is –
1. All cars are to be equipped with sensors to activate an automatic braking device if the pope, Billy Graham, or a canine is sensed within fifty yards. The sensor also causes acceleration and aims at all political consultants.
2. Cease the war on dogs. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m for it anyway. That is, unless it means male dogs should have nothing to do with female dogs. I’m not for that. Is that what women want? Do they want men to have nothing to do with them? That would be great contraception.
3. I’d pass equal opportunity laws for canines. For example, the same number of dog movies should be produced as the number of flics made starring humans. Bring back Lassie and Rin Tin Tin. Hell, we already feature complete nudity.
4. All the negative ads about politicians should face a sniff test before airing on TV or Radio. If specific people, places, and collaborating evidence isn’t provided to support a claim, and any possible ulterior motive isn’t exposed, the media should be forced to broadcast the following disclaimer: “No irrefutable proof was provided that the claims in this ad are accurate. The viewer should consider everything in it as bullshit.” That would reduce all our suffering, because there would hardly be any “vote for your local pond scum” ads left.
5. Dogs will have the right to vote. They know as much about the Constitution as most people do. More than some.
6. All dog owners will receive a payment from the IRS of $6000. That money is to all be spent on the dog’s pleasure or returned to the Lois Lerner Defense and Corruption Fund.
7. All “Keep off the grass” signs are to have the phrase “Except dogs” added to them.
8. I’d pass a law that the US Attorney General would be an elected official (without party affiliation) nominated from the prison system. That way we’d get someone who was less of a criminal than the AGs who have served the last two administrations. They’d probably know a lot more law.
9. The passage of the “Anti-hypocrite law.” Part one is that before a person/canine/feline/ etc. screams about, and tries to force others to give up their bones, money, dog bed, property, catnip, etc., so that everyone’s the same – they have to send all their earnings over the average American’s salary and send their property holdings over the average US citizen’s to the Government Corruption Center for redistribution. That’s your yacht Leo. And your villa in Italy George. And your royalty check Babs. Part two is that all those folks who claim everybody has an equal chance yet violate the antitrust laws, engage in insider trading, operate hedge funds, etc. are forced to abide by the law. Our Attorney General doesn’t seem to know what those laws are for. That’s you Mitt. And you Rupert and Warren. And all of Wall Street.
10. Most importantly, I promise to put a two-pound porterhouse in every dog bowl every day. Medium rare with light garlic and sautéed with buttered wine-sauce. I really questioned adding this, but what the hell, everyone else is buying votes.
That’s what I’m for. Vote for Sandy. Write me in. I don’t belong to a party, don’t know any lobbyists, haven’t taken a cent of campaign contribution, and have no preconceived ideas about foreign countries. Oh, I don’t have a penis. That seems to be the most important qualification now-days. That proves I’ll make a great – whatever.
PS. In regard to number ten in my platform listed above. I’m searching for Angus and Hereford volunteers.
Tags: animal tales, Books, dogs, Florida, Humor, life, nature, publishing, Reading, Writing
You’ve met two of my three new buddies, Gofo the tortoise and Tina the rabbit, in previous posts. They’re gentle, laid-back folks that match the area we live in.
Then, there is the Tree Frog Band. I count them as one friend … they function that way. They are natives. However, they’d fit in better on one of the “B” streets, Bourbon or Beale. I can see them strolling Rodeo Drive or 42nd Street.
The Tree Frog Band is a quartet. There’s Gooey Feet who plays guitar, clarinet, and sings tenor, The Mad Hopper pounds the keyboard, blows the trumpet, and sings “Dew-up,” Green Jeans strums base and sucks the sax, and Croaker is the lead singer … and … well … croaks. They were the first folks I met after we moved in. What a group! They can do endless sets, never taking a break. They’re a gregarious group, always ready to hop on the stage and do their thing. Unfortunately, that thing is one song … A Rainy Night in Florida.
I’ll never forget meeting them for the first time. I was walking down the stairs intent on finding the right patch of grass when a voice crooned, “She has natural rhythm.” It was Croaker.
“Yeh, man, a maxed-out, cool bitch,” Green Jeans offered.
“Look at that tail swing. Dig that for a drum beat.” Gooey Feet was right in there,
The Mad Hopper added “Dew-up.”
Croaker asked, “Have you considered the stage, Golden lady. New York? Maybe Vegas? Picture you in a bikini with feathers in your fur.”
I said, “I ha—
“Hows about Hollywood and the flicks? You’d wow them in Caan.” Green jeans said.
I said, “Well—”
“She’s a natural for Nashville,” Gooey Feet opined. “Let me hear you yodel.”
The Mad Hopper added “Dew-up.”
“What a beauty,” Croaker said – “What a body,” Green Jeans said – “What a voice,” Gooey Feet said – “Dew-up” The Mad Hopper emphasized. In unison they declared, “She’ll make billions!” “Dew-up,” The Mad Hopper finalized.
About that time the rain started. “OUR QUE!!” Croaker screamed. “One, two, three … It’s a rainy night in Florida” – and so it continued. I was forgotten in an instant.
It’s the same routine every time I go downstairs after or during a rain. The lines and lies are identical. I know it’s all just frog poop … they’re spreading their bologna … except for the Mad Hopper … he’s a square up guy … but I enjoy it. A girl just can’t get enough flattery.
Tags: animal tales, Books, dogs, Entertainment, family, Florida, funny stories, Humor, life, Rabbit, Reading, Writing
In my last blog I mentioned how living out of my home while its being re-mediated has allowed me to meet new friends like “Gofo” the horny old Gopher tortoise. I thought I’d introduce you to two more new acquaintances. You’ll meet “Shudder” this time.
Shudder is Tina the tiny rabbit. I’ve nick-named her Shudder because when she first met me she shook and shuddered when I got close. Tina lives in a huge asparagus fern in the front yard where we’re staying. The first time I saw her, she was hiding from the Geezer who’d walked around the house one way while I went around the other. Shudder was less than half the size of other rabbits I’d seen. She had to be very young, not much more than a baby. I walked up behind her and got within two feet before she realized I was there.
I said, “Hi, I’m Sandy. I’m a Golden Retriever. I want to be your friend.”
Shudder earned her nick-name right then. She vibrated like a banjo string, her ears stuck out at odd angles, her eyes were wide and her nose and tail twitched. She said in a terrified voice, “You’re not a Golden Whatever, you’re a dog! I know about your kind. Go away or I’ll hurt you!” Tina covered her eyes with one tiny paw and pitifully swung the other in my direction.”
“A Golden Retriever is a dog. It’s just the type dog I am. I’m not a rabbit dog … I’m a duck dog. You don’t have anything to worry about. Let’s play.” Each time she’d head for the fern I’d get between her and her home. I call the game block the other animal unless I play it with humans. Then I call the game block the dumb butts. Finally, Shudder tired of the game. She froze, put her paws up in a prayerful manner, and implored, “Make it quick, please!”
“Make what quick?” I asked.
“Aren’t you going to eat me?” She asked.
“No. I don’t eat my friends! Where did you get such an idea?” I laid down in the grass and rolled to let her know I wasn’t going to harm her.
“My momma told me dogs eat rabbits, cats too. She told me not to trust anyone.”
I reflected on that for a couple minutes, before saying. “Generally speaking, she’s correct. But, hey, I’m Sandy, the most unaggressive, but protective dog in the universe. If I’m around, I’ll keep you safe. But if I’m not, you better hide if you see some other animal. Besides dogs and cats, snakes, racoons, eagles, owls, hawks, all would make you lunch. You’d better hide if I’m not here. By the way, where is your mom?”
Tina began to cry, “She left one morning and never came back.” I consoled Tina and promised to look out for her. I hope she grows fast enough to be safe on her own. Anyway, we play every morning when I go out for my constitutional. I sure do love little kids.
Tags: animal tales, Books, dogs, family, Florida, funny stories, Humor, life, nature, Reading, Writing
In my last post I told you about the Chinese drywall problem that has caused the Geezer, Mrs. G and me to temporarily leave our house. Of course, Oreo came too. Oreo is my feline friend. Or as he might be called if he were of native American heritage … “He who has smelly pot.” He and it stay on the screened porch.
Being jerked out of the only home you’ve ever known is an unsettling experience. The only place I can remember living is at the Geezer’s place on the canal. My humans made me queen of the realm when I was eight weeks old and I don’t remember much prior, other than snuggling up to my mom. There, everything is where it should be, smells right, and I know the best places to hide, sleep, and aggravate the Geezer and Mrs. G. The place I’m in now has things like sliding glass doors which always seem to be closed when they should be open. Ouch!
I’ve made friends with most everybody around our home. The humans call me the “neighborhood greeter.” I miss all my friends in the Canine Chowder and Ham Bone Marching Society, Matilda the manatee, the night heron families that nest across the canal in the mangroves, Pete, Pedro, Pauline, and Petulla the pelicans, and a bunch more. Hell, I even miss Hiss and Sneaky B the black snakes. I’m sure they’ll all be there when I return, but…..
There is one good thing about being in a different place. It gives you the opportunity to make new buds. Take one fellow I met last week. The home we’re living in has a canal in the back yard just like ours. The Geezer and I were sitting near the seawall, boat-lift, and dock. The Geezer had dozed off and I was sleepy myself when I heard this old baritone voice saying, “Gofo it, gofo it, gofo it, gofo it.” It was coming from a large Gopher turtle that was waddling down the seawall. He looked and was old. I said, “Hi.” The old turtle nodded and kept repeating, “Gofo it.” He trudged down the seawall, out on the dock to the tip end, looked around some, and retreated. It was obvious he was trying to get across the canal.
I was curious, so I had to ask. “Say old timer, you trying to get to the other side of the canal”
He answered, “Un-huh. Gofo it. Gofo it. Gofo it.”
“You’re gonna have to go all the way to the end and walk around.”
He nodded continuing to walk and talk.
“What’s with the … Gofo it? You stuttering or trying to remember something?”
“Remember. Gofo it.” He resumed his ritual.
“What are you trying to remember?” I asked.
He said, “Youngster, when you get older you have to stay focus to remember. About 35 years ago, them damn humans built this canal. My girl friend lives on the other side. That makes for a long walk to visit. So, to keep focused, I keep tellin’ myself … Gofo it!”
To all my regular readers – I’m back and I hope I’ll be posting on a consistent basis from now on. I have excuses … but……. I’ll rephrase one of my human’s favorite comments: “Excuses are like rectal apertures, everybody has one.” Since this post is about one of those excuses, I guess it makes me a … you know.
Have you ever heard of Chinese drywall? I heard about it when I was a young pup, but paid little attention. The Geezer and Mrs.G talked about a friend of theirs that had the problem. It sounded like a disease to me. Turns out I was closer to being correct than I ever imagined.
Hurricane Charley came calling at my humans home on August 13 (Yes, it was a Friday) 2004. The storm devastated the part of Southwest Florida where we live. Winds reached 162 miles per hour as the eye wall passed over the house. Our neighbor’s anemometer broke and froze at that setting. Though the Geezer’s roof stayed in tact, the houses’ roof across the canal didn’t. It tore through the side of our house! The raging winds’ flooding the interior blew steel doors off their hinges, “bellowsed” one of the walls, and treated the inside of the home like an eggbeater does eggs. The result, a two year nightmare featuring insurance, FEMA, the SBA, county building departments, contractors, and snakes that shed their skins inside the house. (A story for another time.) The house’s rebuild was complete in time for me to be born and join the family.
What does any of this have to do with my blog posting delinquency? You say nothing? Au contraire, mon amie! This is where the Chinese did their thing. The builder installed Chinese drywall during the house repairs. The product was made from material that gives off a gas that corrodes just about anything with which it comes in contact. Four AC coils, five DVD players, two computers, three TV’s, etc., etc., later, the Geezer discovered he had the horrible stuff in his house. Ever since August 2012 when he confirmed he suffered from the malady, it’s been a miss-mash of lawyers, time waiting, settlements, time waiting, postponements, time waiting, rail-car loads of documents, time waiting, scheduling, time waiting, and finally – evacuation of the house so it can be “re-mediated.” That was a month ago.
The last six months have been extremely disruptive. From day to day nothing was certain. The computers (most of them) were in a suspended state since February when we thought we’d be moving out. My computer priority rank, being third in line behind the Geezer and Mrs. G, made my trips to the computer keyboard non-existent. Now, at last, the computers are back in operation and I can squeeze in my turn at the keys. Those Hotspot gadgets are wonderful!
For the present, we’re living in our same neighborhood in a friend’s home who goes north for the summers. Talk about princely people, N & C – R certainly are. Anyway, though it’s less than a quarter mile away, I’m meeting a whole new group of friends and acquaintances. Gofo the amorous Gopher Turtle, Tina the Tiny Rabbit, and the Tree Frog Band are a few I’ll discuss in my next blogs”.
Tags: animal tales, Books, dogs, funny stories, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Writing
Ahhhhh, our Southwest Florida mornings are back. It was 68 degrees with a zephyr rattling through the palm fronds as we made our morning Bokeelia Beach walk. The Geezer waved to a man walking on the other side of the road and we crossed the street to talk. Of course, the first thing they did was shake hands.
What gives with this ritual? Two humans approach, square off in front of each other in a challenge position, then extend their right hands, grasp the invader’s palms, and grind up and down like they’re operating an antique water pump. Are they trying to see if water comes out of their fellow humans’ mouth or ears?
The males seem obligated to perform this action. Many females do engage in this ceremony, but are less obsessed. My guess it’s just another example of the females superior intelligence. That’s a universal trait we gals of all zoological types share. Of course, I don’t discuss this with the Geezer. Naturally, he has a different take.
Curiosity about this fetish had me burning. I wanted to ask the old boy why this slavish devotion to a convention that makes no sense to me. However, I’m too much of a lady to rudely interrupt a conversation. I decided to wait to pose my question. The other gentleman yakked on incessantly. Eventually, I rolled my eyes and paced back and forth trying to get the Geezer moving. He was too busy talking about some stupid political thing. In desperation, I tugged at my leash to break up the gab-fest. The old boy broke off the babbling immediately. Who says you can’t teach old men new tricks!
After we’d gotten out of human hearing range, another deficiency of the species, I asked, “Geezer, why do humans shake hands when they meet each other?”
“It’s a universal greeting. It’s like saying, ‘nice to see you,’ without using the words.” The Geezer dismissed the subject by pointing out what was obvious. “Isn’t it great weather? It sure beats the hot mornings we’ve had the last few days.”
I hate it when the Geezer does that! It pissed me and my sarcastic side popped up. I growled, “Oh, nicer weather? Gee, I’d have never noticed. I guess my paw pads have lost their sensitivity and my skin doesn’t recognize temperature differences.” Before the old boy could retort, I added, “That stuff about shaking hands because you’re glad to see someone is Toro Caca. You shake hands with that Irving guy from down the street and you despise the sniveling little bastard. I know you’re not glad to see him.”
The Geezer’s anger flashed for a split second before he saw the wisdom in my comment. After the time it took to get his ancient brain in operate mode, he said, “Well, Sandy, that wasn’t a complete answer. It’s a custom that’s origin is from long ago. It’s more a “I’ll do you no harm,” than “glad to see you.” If I remember right,” I thought he probably didn’t, “Shaking hands goes back to when men carried weapons and you weren’t sure of a person’s intent when they approached. By showing an empty hand and accepting the other man’s empty palm you mutually agreed not to try cutting off the other fellow’s head.”
“I guess you’re going to tell me that’s why you always shake right hands?” I couldn’t help smirking.
“Very good, Sandy. That’s exactly right!”
The smirk continued. Either Geezer was blowing smoke up my food vent or I had another bit of proof the human race was playing the game short a few cards. “Come on, Geezer. What about lefties?”
“Since most people were trained to do everything with their right hand, I guess it didn’t occur to them.” The Geezer surprises me at times. “Anyway, Sandy, it’s just the best way to get acquainted.” Best way, I thought? I hate to admit MY human can be so simplistic.
I wanted to point out all the obvious superior points that the butt sniff has over the hand shake when greeting, but I’ve learned in my young life that discussing such issues with intellectually inferior species wastes my time. However, let me explain the differences to you.
What do you learn from a handshake? Well, you see the other person has a right hand, he can move it, and not much else. Oh, you find out the person you’re meeting is willing to smear his germs all over you. That way you can’t say he’s never given you anything. Geezer says you can tell how assertive an individual is by his shake. I won’t dispute that, though I have my doubts, and for sure, that’s a one time thing.
Now, let’s consider the butt sniff. To paraphrase old Shakey, “How do I see thee better, let me count the ways.” Right from the first, a butt sniff says, ‘I’m willing to follow behind you,’ not ‘I’m right in your face and space to challenge you.’ What’s the friendlier greeting? Walking around your new acquaintance gives you a better chance to check them out. A 360 degree view so to speak. From a ladies point of view, it lets you size up your competition and, more importantly, the male contingent. If humans adopted butt sniffing, just think how many women wouldn’t waste time on men with, shall we say, deficient virtue! I’m assuming the clothes will go, that’s the natural thing that follows. Mind you, that’s just the visual.
The sniff! Talk about information! Let’s take sexual promiscuity. It jumps out and beats your nose like a baseball bat. Not that that’s my first interest. Lets’ get right to the social aspects. A whiff gives you a great clue to a dog’s socio-economic status. I can tell an Iams, Nutro, or Science Diet canine from a Kennel-ration mutt after sampling two parts per million. Coupled with their grooming, you can see who the social climbers are, the snobs, the down-on-their luck types, etc. I could expound on the superiority of the butt sniff for hours, but I’d sound preachy and I detest that.
I do see hope for the human race. Orientals bow to greet each other. Their’s is a much longer established culture, and I see this as proof of Darwin’s theory. I’m sure the bow is the first vestige of the human species evolution to the butt sniff as a universal greeting. It’s comforting that they’ll soon be thinking like I do, which means they’ll finally be getting it right.
PS – Geezer tells me over 20,000 of you have visited my humble jottings over the last few years. He thinks that’s great. So do I. Thank you for your visits and the hundred plus plus universally kind comments. It sure makes a dog want to do more.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,300 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 22 trips to carry that many people.
Tags: Books, Current events, dogs, funny stories, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Writing
Recently, I’ve observed signs when on my walks with the Geezer or traveling around with him in the truck. Some were funny, some not so funny, some head nodding true, and some needed explaining. I’ll categorize.
Signs for businesses—
“The Olde Cock Inn.”
“Harry’s Hairy Waiter Lounge.”
“Greenwald’s Pet Shop & Taxidermy Service”
“The Oar House.”
“Futures Red – Madame Frig”
Signs in yards—
“Horse for sale, with harness, hay, and shovels”
“House for sale, lease, rent, or whatever”
“Stay off the **ass.”
“Go around to my back and knock”
“Bad dog! Bites everyone but cute women”
Political signs and bumper stickers—
“Vote integrity, vote Obama”
“Vote for proposition 7 – (added) girls”
“Romney = Health Care Chaos”
“Court Spacie for County Clerk”
“Larry, Curly, Moe for President in 2016″
Signs in windows and miscellaneous places—
“Hiring, must be able to….”
“Special, all deserts, friendly waitresses on sale”
“Park in my rear. Honk for service.”
“No fishing for bridge.”
“Alterations made, men’s or women’s”
“Male, neutered, take anything in trade”
“Corn, eggs, milk, fertilizer”
The one I barked at most was, “Wanted, Big Dog, Little Appetite”
Tags: Books, dogs, funny stories, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Writing
My human confounded me the other day. In the middle of a conversation he said, “Sorry Sandy, I have to go to the White House.” That excited me. My human … going to the White House … WOW. After thinking about the Geezer’s penchant for selecting horrible wardrobe for crucial events, I decided to hunt him down and share some of my impeccable taste in clothes with him. I expected to find the old boy in his bedroom, packing. However, as I passed the bathroom, a malodorous breeze invaded my nostrils. The Geezer was perched on the pot, a bored look on his face.
I asked, “Is this what you’re calling the White House now?”
“Yes, Sandy. Isn’t it a creative and fresh referral? And so appropriate.”
“Geezer, shame on you. Your being partisan!” I exclaimed.
“Oh contraire, my friend. Every alternative time I take a dump, I call this place the Capitol.”