Tags: Agents, Books, dogs, fiction, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Valentines Day, Writing
My human considers me a wise and knowing canine. He often refers to me as “Dogfucius,” an equivalent to Confucius. For the record, Confucius was a Chinese philosopher born in 551 B.C. that is often quoted by humans today. I’d like to point this out as proof of how little progress humans have made. However, I believe we have a responsibility to be charitable and compassionate to inferiors, so I’ll offer my sage advice on how to handle “V” day. I’ll direct my advice to human males – they need the most help. The following are things NOT TO GIVE. Understand, male humans?
1. A membership to a gym. Are you crazy? Do you know what you’re saying? You don’t tell your love, “I’m tired of looking at your fat ass!” Well, I guess that’s okay, if you don’t intend to use it.
2. Cleaning devices. Hmmmm, do you really want to tell your love her housekeeping skills aren’t that good? I don’t think so. Even if the rats and roaches are leaving your digs pass on that one. Besides, old boys – what do you do to help maintain the garbage heap?
3. “Fifty shades of Grey” May sound like a good gift at first, but think how she might interpret that particular book. She might ask, “Is he sending a message to me? Isn’t he getting what he wants?” The next time you come home late from work, expect the question, “Where have you really been?” Besides, think about how many times she lied and said, “That was great,” after a three stroke special.
4. A month’s subscription to one of those food plans promising to make her look like Marie Osmond. Look at my advice in #1 and double it. Besides, she might come out looking like Dan Marino. That’s not a good thought for you hetros.
5. Sex toys. Delivers one of two messages … or maybe both. Are you really that lazy? Have you lost that much interest? Really! Maybe you should consider an amputation.
6. A fishing trip to “Hog Shit’s Fish Camp and Grocery,” in Boondocks Out, Arkansas, particularly if she don’t fish. That includes a shotgun if she doesn’t hunt, golf clubs, a poker visor with mirror, etc. Women aren’t that dumb. Just go buy something for yourself an have the b—s to own up to it. Would you like it if she bought you Tampax? (PS- I have heard there’s good fishing at Hog Shit’s place. You might want to go there, solo.)
7. That giant screen TV, vibrating recliner, etc. This is one those, “Make sure its more for her than for you, sucka,” kind of gifts. Remember, she’s going to be making decisions based on what she gives and under what circumstances. Sucka.
8. Anything after 7PM on “V” day that isn’t spectacular. Spectacular – that’s a BMW, a week at Sandals, a necklace of four carats or more, that kind of thing. Anything else requires, groveling, profuse apologies, and offers to kiss the body part of her choice.
9. All gifts that aren’t accompanied by legitimate respect, friendship, fidelity and affection. That’s what women really want.
All you human males think about my advice. I know that is particularly difficult for your species and gender, but give it a shot. Oh, if this advice is helpful or amusing, pass it on to others and have them visit my site.
Tags: Blue Ridge Bookfest, Books, dogs, fiction, Hendersonville NC, Humor, life, publishing, Reading, Writing
Have you ever been faced with the dilema of feeling obligated to deliver “bad” news? To a friend? To an associate at work or at another organization? A relative? It’s not a fun experience.
I’ve recently been faced with delivering some not so nice facts in common situations. After a lot of ear scratching, I’ve come up with a few suggestions you might want to try if “forced” to be the harbinger of doom.
Upon having to tell someone they’ve gained a little too much weight–
“Gosh, you need to take pictures with your old camera. The pictures taken with your new cell phone (I-pad, etc.) make your clothes look tight.”
Upon having to tell someone they didn’t make the team–
“You’re lucky. You’ll be able hang-out every afternoon, drinking soda (beer, or whatever) and watch TV while I’m sweating my boobs (balls) off with the team.
Upon having to tell someone their cooking leaves room for improvement–
“Aaaaaa, Aaaaaa, Aaaaaa…Next time we eat, let’s not have you work so hard. Let’s go to MacDonalds.”
Upon having to tell someone a trip to the shower is in order–
“Wow! All that stuff about danger to our environment is true. Did you notice that a skunk and three buzzards died as you passed by?”
More news! I’m going on the Geezer’s and Mrs. G’s trip! They’ll be at the Blue Ridge Bookfest in Hendersonville, NC on Friday, May 17th and Saturday May 18th. It’s held on the Blue Ridge Community College campus. He’ll be introducing his new book Blue Water, Red Blood that was just released May 1st. We’ll also be stopping at some book clubs (like the Lake Sinclair Book Club) and book stores (Malaprops, B&N, etc.) on the way up and back. I could use a suggestion as to what a flat lands, semi-tropical canine should wear in the mountains this time of year. A waterfall close to where I’m going, is shown at the left. You folks who live in or are visiting the area be sure to come see us “a spell.”
Tags: Books, dogs, fiction, Humor, life, literature, publishing, Reading, Writing
The Geezer did it again! I knew something important was happening. Trying to get to the computer to blog has been difficult, if not impossible, for last month. And, the Geezer has been as jumpy as a frog on a griddle. Then he disappeared for four days, leaving me bored…my only entertainment was to do the exact opposite of whatever the dog-sitter ask me.
When he arrived back home, he had a smile engraved on his mug that made the Cheshire Cat’s look inconspicuous. I didn’t have to ask why.
“Guess what, Sandy, ” he babbled, “I won the FWA writing contest.”
“Congratulations”, I volunteered. “What did you win?” Was FWA an acronym for Funky Wombats’ Alliance? I couldn’t remember.
The Geezer got that self-important, smug smile he wears when he believes he’s achieved some important milestone. Like remembering where he stored his Viagra.
“I won the runner-up Royal Palm Literary Award,” he strongly enunciated the last for words, “for my manuscript for Francis’ Flowers. It’s a suspense/thriller genre novel.”
“Congratulations, again,” I remembered…Florida Writers Association, not Funky Wombats.
As I watched him, the Geezer’s head began swelling like a hot air balloon on steroids. “And…and… guess what?”
“What? I complied.”
His chest swelled. “My literary/mainstream manuscript for my novel, The Bully Route Home won,” the Geezer was drawing it out, dramatizing his announcement like a lady telling her husband she was pregnant, “first place?”
“A big congratulations! ” I said, The old boy was soaking up the praise like a bar sponge sucking up a spilled drink. I watched as the hot air building inside him lifted him skywards.
“DL… DL… where are you? Mrs. G called.
“I’m in the bedroom, dear.”
“Come take the trash out.”
The hot air balloon and the Geezer deflated.