OK… far be it from me to ever speak ill of a certain nationality, especially a minority in the U.S., but are these people out of their collective gord?

What's even more worrisome about this is the fact that the mayor agreed to this. Now, I can understand that some people want to vote for one of their own; a person who is connected to his or her roots within the community. Fair enough… but if he's as obviously delusional as you, you may want to rethink that notion.

Now, I say this not because I don't believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life. Quite to the contrary, I believe this universe to be far too vast for us to be the only carbon-based types bopping around in our own little petri dish.

But my thinking dictates that if there are aliens out there, and if UFO's have come to Earth at some point in time, abducted human beings, probed their posteriors, studied their sacks and fondled their fruit, odds are they aren't going to need a landing strip. I'm willing to bet good money that they'll touch down wherever the fuck they please, and then proceed to pillage this planet so viciously that not even Bill Pullman will be able to stop them this time. What a waste of taxpayer pesos.

Yes, I know that Puerto Rico's currency is actually the United States dollar. Pesos sound better. Deal.

In fact, I welcome these strange and exciting visitors, because I am even more rapidly losing faith in the intellectual and mental health of mankind. I suppose next the mayor of Glasgow will pass a bill to manufacture giant swimmies for the Loch Ness monster.

Goodnight and have a spacy tomorrow.

OK, I am currently writing from the confines of my cube in between inputting numbers into stupid little grids on an Excel spreadsheet. After doing something funky to my back last night, I asked a co-worker for some aspirin. Seeing as how she recently tore a few tendons in her arm, and is currently in a cast, she has some of the… shall we say, more "top shelf" pain relievers.

Yeah, I know… I spoke out on the evils of self-medicating last year, but taking two Tylenol with Codeine once for a sore back is hardly abuse. All I was asking for was some Alleve. But I got Tequila instead of a Bud Light, if you would like an analogous comparison. In any event, seeing as how this stuff is kicking in over here, this oughta make for an interesting post. By the power of painkillers, here we go…

I'm not a fan of numbers. Percentages, fractions, formulas, the works. Don't like 'em. Never had. I don't know that it's because I don't have a "head for math."

Wait. Scratch that. I have something of a head for math… I just hate using it. I don't like numbers, or crunching them. It's not that the task is hard… I'm sure that with enough time and effort, I could pull it off. Both my parents are mathematically keen, so I'm sure that genetically it runs strong in the bloodline. It's not just them, either - seems like plenty of folks on both sides of the family fair well with math (finance and accounting majors tend to run abound).

Be that as it may, I just can't stand the concept of crunching numbers to come up with results. It's one of the reasons that while my job pays the bills, I'm not thrilled with it. I make no bones about that. But y'see, the reason I'm not thrilled with it has nothing to do with the workload or the people. It's a number-crunching job in the guise of a multi-tasking position. These formulas, these inventory reports, they drive me absofrickinglutely mental. This wasn't what I had in mind when I signed on for the job, and yet I stick with it because I know that there is potential here for really good things.

Be that as it may, I take umbrage to any one individual who says that numbers determine the pattern of things in this world. OK, to an extent you're right. Numbers are the backbone of basic mathematics and science, both of which have helped us to establish the history of humankind, and the history of the earth (and possibly the future, itself).

Be that as it may, dear bean-counters, there are a great deal of much more important x-factors that numbers simply cannot account for. In fact, I would be willing to bet that there's at least a 50 percent over-under on the certainty of such figures. I suppose making such a statement may ruffle the feathers of some of the online community, but screw 'em. I know in my mind that I'm right on this. There's always that margin of error, because in this world, and for that matter, this universe, nothing is constant, nothing is perfect. Ever.

There's a lot that numbers cannot do. Numbers cannot entertain or engage the mind. I find it very hard to believe that they can inspire creation, or motivate an individual to work harder. I truly believe that those who sink into numerically sound industries such as accounting or finance do so because either A) they have a knack for it, B) they love money, or C) both. I have never met anyone who has beamed about being an accounting major. And of the finance majors I have met, they talk more about their income (or potential income) than their actual craft.

Meanwhile, if you were to speak to a theater or dance major, I'll bet you dollars to dicks that they absolutely gush about what they do, knowing full well that they will probably never make a fraction of the salary of a top tier financial analyst.

It's like me with writing. I do it because I love it. It goes way beyond a past time or hobby. It has fully cascaded into a passion, pure and simple. And I just cannot fathom how anyone could be passionate about mathematics. Think about it. Do you remember any of your math teachers ever being terribly excited about their craft? I sure as shit don't.

Now let me make one thing clear, here… my quarrel is with mathematical institutions as a lifestyle and cornerstone of busines. I have nothing against science. While science relies mainly on fact, it is still 50 percent analytical, 50 percent theoretical. The latter half requires a certain type of mind to think outside the box and really grasp concepts. That goes way beyond carbon-dating and the like, and I'm sure not everyone can get into that.

I look at it this way: raw numbers, in my mind, equate to facts. Facts are boring. Anyone can look them up in an encyclopedia or online. Retaining facts is simple. You pound your head against something long enough and it'll sink in and make sense. But concepts are something that raw numbers cannot conceive.

And still, 18 hours later after my codeine-induced writing fit, I stand by everything I wrote here. I just cannot get behind the use of mathematics as a way of life. I understand it, but I don’t agree with it. To me, it’s only a part of the puzzle, and is all too often overly relied upon. You don’t know how many times those Excel formulas don’t work, or how many times the projections come up dead wrong. Like anything else, it’s imprecise, plain and simple.

Maybe I should recant and take pain-killers more often. At least it got me motivated enough to write. But then I’d just be putting the “hip” in “hypocrite,” and I don’t wanna snake the Republican Party’s next great slogan.

That’s right. I zinged the Party. Deal with it.

But to summarize, true believers... you go ahead and plug those digits into your Texas Instruments calculator. You go ahead and have faith in your precious numbers. Meanwhile I'm going to read a book and postulate on my own personal theories of existence... sans formulas.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

As much as I hate to admit it, America just doesn't get it.

Let me set the scene for you… as I've made mention of before, every time I cruise I-95 en route to work, I see many of the same drivers day in and day out. Hard to believe that amongst the hundreds upon hundreds of motorists, I would be able to pick out maybe a dozen or so that have repeat sightings attached to their being. But it's true. Normally, this is discovered by way of whatever bumper sticker adorns their ride. Example: I've encountered a fellow Skidmore alumnus several times while braving the deadlock. When you kill this much time in bumper-to-bumper traffic, you just notice these things.

Now, there's this one car that I've seen many a time during the morning and evening commute. Make and model are unimportant… in short, this car has a French flag sticker on the bumper, and in the rear window, there's an upside down American flag.

Now, Connecticut is quite a liberal state, wealthy population notwithstanding. So this character is, more than likely, making some thinly veiled political statement at the current state of the union. However, in his perhaps anti-American (or possibly anti-administration) display of zeal, he did bring to light something that I have been dwelling on for far too long.

That is the fact that we as Americans are short on happiness, high on stress, and lost in life. One recurring theme throughout this blog, especially over the course of the last year, has been the fact that society places extreme pressure on us to succeed. I don't know enough about economics to put that blame on capitalism per se, but I think it's clear that America thrives on commerce, and commerce thrives on the blood, sweat and tears of the average human being just trying to make ends meet. That being said, it is often quite difficult for said average person to really enjoy life to any meaningful extent.

I was, for quite a long time following my last post, going to write a lengthy piece about America's pursuit of happiness and how seemingly elusive it really is. The catalyst for that post was the fact that I had a conversation with a close friend who had just started seeing a really great guy that made her happy. However, she was uncertain that her parents wouldn't accept him, and because of that fear, her ability to enjoy the relationship was hindered. Similarly, I had just found a great place to live by myself, and despite this fact I was burdened with mortgage red tape, payments, and the inevitable process of moving itself. And yet here we were, two reasonably intelligent, capable 20-somethings with really good things in our lives… and yet we were unable to enjoy them.

The thrust of this piece was going to be the fact that our society, for whatever reason, simply prevents us from attaining happiness. However, as time went on and I planned the piece, I notice something happening… I was putting it off daily. This alone took me over two weeks to write, which is very uncustomary of me. See, I normally like to follow a single thought once it hits and see it through to the end. However, with a recent shake-up in my division at work, my workload has increased dramatically, and I myself have been so overwhelmed that even regular trips to the gym are becoming a chore.

Overworked with not enough sleep under my belt on a daily basis, I began to come to grips with the fact that no matter what job I take, as long as it's big business, it will always be like this in some way. There will always be extreme amounts of work, late hours, new and challenging tasks, frustrations, stresses, and not nearly enough compensation or appreciation. Now I recently received my six-month review, and I did OK for myself. I seem to be grasping things well, and received a decent little raise for myself, but… that is not nearly enough to make me want to stay with this outfit for the rest of my days. No, dear reader… I cannot see myself doing that.

And this is after I moved 30 miles closer to my office… before that, I was literally up every morning at 5:30, out the door by 7:15, in the office between 8:30 and 9:00 (depending on traffic), out of the office between 5:00 and 5:30 (depending on the workload), and back home around 6:00 and 6:30. I was so beat, that I would take daily naps in my car during my lunch breaks. I'll even go so far as to spare the time I spent at the gym from being factored into this equation, and do the math that by the time I finish my day, from the time I woke up to the time I touched down, it was on average about 12-13 hours. That's freakin' disgusting, and I know for a fact that I'm not the only guy who has made such a commute. Hell, for that matter, there are folks who have commuted even further to their offices. Chew on that.

I remember when I was looking for work, and so many people told me, "Remember, you've got the rest of your life to work." That is so sadly true, and a fact that I abhor. And I know that I would probably not have to endure such a tedious routine if I did not live in this country.

Now I'm not sure how it is in more rural areas of the nation… truthfully, I've never been to such locales. However, in the northeast, northern Midwest and other areas of major commerce where there are large cities and companies to boot, your livelihood is predicated on your output within the cube, plain and simple. And the company dictates your life.

It's funny, I spoke with a co-worker earlier today who got reamed out because she took half-days for the rest of the week to be with her son who is home alone. Her husband travels a lot, so it's difficult to always be there for him. She actually agreed to bring work home with her so she wouldn't fall behind. She came in a half-hour late today and got the business for it. A half-hour. Think about that. What gets accomplished in that small time frame to begin with? The answer is probably not too much. But that is business for you… the company over the individual.

I spoke to an acquaintance not too long ago who recently got his review, and the one glaring item on it was the fact that in terms of his ranking, he put the customer first, then himself, then the company. That was their only complaint. Imagine that. Putting yourself above the company… How dare he! Heck, I don't even think I would put the customer above myself. It's not that I'm selfish, but how can I put someone I've never even seen before on a higher plateau than myself? To me, that's not a question of company loyalty, that's a question of common sense. If the company is so much more important than the individual, why do upper-level managers get more vacation time? Why do they use that vacation time? Why is it that some of them only work partial weeks? I'm having trouble figuring that one out.

Another very close friend (the aforementioned individual with the boyfriend "crisis") works in New York for a PR firm, and for a week straight, she worked every night past 10:00 PM. You're talking a 14-hour marathon every day discounting her commute. That, my friends, is just exquisite bullshit. No one should have to put in those kind of insane hours, ever. Even if they're willing.

But like I said… this is the American culture. Put in your 40-plus a week, earn your keep, and always reach for the brass ring. Well the brass ring doesn't always have to be a faster car or bigger house… I believe the real brass ring lay within. Cliché as it may sound, I really feel that there is something altogether internal that we as Americans miss out on because of the madness the culture dictates. I could be wrong, but chalk it up to one man's opinion.

Now Europe, however, is a completely different scene. The people over there, while perhaps overly nationalistic, still "get it." They know how to live, man. You go over to Greece, Spain or Italy, and those folks work a few hours, go home and take a nap, finish work, then go out all night and party. Wake up, lather, rinse, repeat. And those people are living longer, healthier lives than us Yanks. Don't kid yourselves, folks, it goes way beyond just the diet… it's the lifestyle, the daily routine, the culture itself that is keeping those people in healthier states than us. I would be very interested to go so far as to compare the numbers regarding people in therapy and/or on medication between the U.S. and Europe. I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers reveal that the U.S. has a greater population (per capita, of course) of people in treatment. I mean, c'mon, what do people in Europe have to get stressed out over or worried about?

Let me tell you something, my one surviving Grandparent is straight over from Greece. He is going to be 92 years old this coming January, and he's healthy as ever. He walks 5 miles a day, eats well, and has always been a workhorse. I'm convinced he'll live to see 100 just because that's how tough he is… but the secret to his long life has come through his lifestyle. He's been a man of a strong work ethic and a low stress level. Since day one, he has called the shots for himself, whether it be on the farm in his native village, behind the wheel of an ice cream truck in Waterbury, or slaving over a hot stove in the restaurant in New Haven. He has been the master of his own destiny since day one, and that is why we as Americans miss out on life so much. We let others govern our paths rather than take charge ourselves.

What I'm getting at is that the condition of our society itself will not allow us to easily select our lot in life… no matter how hard we work.

Dear reader, if you haven't already, I urge you to see Office Space. Trust me, you'll be a better person for it, and you'll also get a peak at corporate America at its finest. This film is frightfully accurate in its portrayal of the utterly absurd "office dynamic." Granted, some things like Milton and the stapler may be extreme, but for the most part, this film captures the mundane at its best, and is able to depict life in the corporate environment with razor sharp wit and precision. In short, the big dogs don’t care about the drones. They don’t give a shit about the cogs that make up the machine. So long as they make their money and get their eight weeks vacation time, they’re fine with whatever goes on.

In my division alone, three people have vanished in the last month. One has been transferred, two have up and quit, one of them without any prior notice. Doesn’t exactly make me look at things with enthusiastic candor, decent review notwithstanding.

So while this French motorist may have been making a strong political statement, he was also right about something else… America is in distress and needs help, but from within. While it may seem impossible, I feel that there are certain aspects of our culture, certain norms that need to be turned inside out, or else we will simply implode under the strain. It’s that simple, people. Either our nation takes it easy a bit, or we drive ourselves mental because the boss told us to.

So the question is, do I plan on staying with this outfit forever, dooming myself to bitching about my stapler and ordering stamps for an eternity? Hell, no. For that matter, do I plan on staying in business forever? No dear reader, I think for myself, I will be pursuing other more creative options as means to earn a living and be happy. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’ve seen what I don’t want, and that is only going to lead me closer to what I do want.

It reminds me of my father’s blurb in his high school yearbook… A line that said he “believes life is meant to be lived easy.”

This coming from a man who ultimately spent the bulk of his life working as a foreman in factories. As much as I love my father, I think for myself, I will try to live by that mantra, and break away from the chain of madness our society has adopted. God willing, either America will wake up (which it needs to do anyway) and stop beating itself up just to be #1 in everything, or I’ll be able to earn my keep comfortably and still be able to be happy and content with myself and my life. Hopefully I’ll be able to bring a little slice of Europe into my world, and get by each day with a nap under my belt and a smile on my face.

Crazy? Maybe. Plausible? Why not? Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

This may come as a shock to most of you, but I take pride in my stupid little blog.

Don’t ask me why, but I do. Beyond my way of just venting my frustrations about this ricockulous world we live in, I also like to think that it’s my way of enriching the masses. And by “masses,” I mean the half-dozen people that actually read this thing. Be that as it may, I never intended for this to be a personal extension of my everyday life, which seems to be the average blog these days.

Now admittedly, in the early days of LSS, way back in the fall of ’02, I would gripe a lot about the situations I encountered at graduate school, and I suppose that in a way, that could be considered a source of pointless bitching. I’ll concede to that much, but I’d also like to point out that on the flipside of that coin, my frequent complaints were often used as anecdotal segues into more elaborate rants about the pitfalls of our modern education system, and the troglodytes that inhabit both the administrations and student bodies.

And that's the thing. Even when I was on about how '04 was a miserable year for me, I was still able to extend that feeling of discontent with my personal life and apply it to the big picture of what was (and for that matter, still is) going on in the world. When I do lengthy posts, if I can't apply my sad little existence on this rock to something infinitely bigger and uglier, I'm wasting my time.

No, I truly believe that my intent in creating this blog was, and always has been, to offer a podium for myself to preach from. Call it the “soapbox” effect. That’s where I stand on my soapbox, offer up my opinions with my own brand of logic and uncommon sense, and you either agree or disagree with me. And yes, not everyone that reads my stuff is in agreement with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never claimed to be the end-all, be-all fountain of information. I can only talk about the things I believe to be true or unsettling about life, plain and simple.

What saddens me is that I find my personal brand of writing on the web to be something of a lost art. And that’s not to sound pretentious and say that I’m the daddy of the mack-daddy when it comes to editorials and the like. More accurately, I find these types of blogs or forums to be a dying breed. People on the Internet don’t seem to have opinions anymore. Have you noticed this? Unless you happen to be a Star Wars fanatic who is more than content to bitch about Jar Jar and the fact Revenge Of The Sith offered no explanation as to how Darth Vader goes to the bathroom with that suit on.

My theory is that he has a pee-latch.

But seriously… unless you’re the beloved kind of übergeek that prowls message boards trying to unravel the mysteries of Lost and Lindsay Lohan’s weight loss, the fact is that most of us who do post anything on the Internet in any type of forum pretty much kvetch about the mundane goings-on in our meager little lives.

Not for nothing, but I really don’t want to know what’s irking you.

I don’t care who your friends are, I don’t care what you’re listening to right now, I don’t care what your mood is, I don’t care how Von Goethe and The Crow changed your life, I don’t care what you did (or didn’t do) this past Saturday night, and I certainly don’t care to hear about all the so-called “drama” that permeates your wretched existence, capice?

I’m sure you’re probably wondering what brought on this diatribe to end all diatribes, and I’ll tell you. Several months ago, I was dating a girl who shall remain nameless. My blog inspired her to create her own. I seem to have this effect on people. Difference being that her blog is a window to her life, whereas I prefer to think of our blogs as a window to our thoughts. There’s a big difference.

We have long since broken up, and while I have nothing against her personally, I also have no interest in seeing her again, plain and simple. But I have noticed that over the last few months, her posts have gotten increasingly personal, and downright pig-headed in their arrogance. Now chalk this up to hubris, or just being a moody girl in your early 20’s, but trying to read these things without stabbing myself in my scrotum is like trying to sit through an episode of Fat Actress without stabbing myself in my scrotum. Damn near impossible.

To begin with, this sparks the entire, “what-the-hell-did-I-ever-see-in-you” curiosity factor, where I am forced to question my own judgment since at one point I dated such a unbelievably conceited, petty excuse for a human being.

But that’s just the tip of the irritable iceberg. In having perused this person’s blog, I have also browsed the comments left on her posts by others. Naturally, these third parties are friends… but the bulk of the comments in response to her words all pertain to overly-hyped, overly-dramatic situations of the 90210 variety.

That’s right. Not only are these posts regarding incidents that are highly personal, and better left unknown to the Internet community, but all parties involved are now getting in on the action, so eager to share their side of the story, making for one mother of a clusterfuck.

This is what pisses me off. Y’know, journals are not meant to be shared, which is probably why I never opted to do this thing on livejournal.com. I want my personal problems and relations to remain as such. They’re in my hands, and I’m more than happy to deal with them either by myself or with the assistance of a select circle of friends and family. I don’t see the need to share such woes with a few billion people.

By that same rationale, I really don’t care to know what’s going on in other peoples’ lives. At least not at that deep a level. Nor do I see the reason why anyone would want to read such drivel. I suppose to some extent, it’s the same innate, sick curiosity that draws the masses to reality television. And I’m sure that for the writers’ relations, it’s an even stronger pull considering that the main party is known to them.

But seriously… I really don’t give a fuck.

I don’t expect what I do to become the norm. I accept the fact that I’m a minority in this tangled worldwide web, and not only do I acknowledge that notion, but I embrace it. I like being the castaway content to run my own little gravy train, and I openly invite anyone who likes a good read to give my stuff a looksie.

But as welcome as you all are to partake in my opinions, ramblings and perspectives, I simply do not want you all to know how so-and-so went behind so-and-so’s back, or how John Doe, Mrs. Butterworth and I all went to see Kung Fu Hustle last Tuesday and some guy in the front row streaked the place.

I should mention that at one point, I was heavily considering posting a link this individual’s blog just to give you an idea of the sort of rot I’m talking about. But I’ve since reconsidered this. Now that's not because I'm trying to be the bigger person post-breakup or anything. After all, you do know how I love to burst the bubble of big bullshitters, and this would've been a prime opportunity to do so.

No, I simply rethought things and figured that since she already seems comfortable sharing this crap with so many… why vindicate her misgivings?

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

It’s been a while since this has happened, but I encountered something this week that truly disgusted me. No exaggeration, it turned my freakin’ stomach.

Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.

Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.

A Chihuahua.

It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.

Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…

Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.

Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.

Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.

You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.

Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.

So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.

Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.

Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.

People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.

And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.

So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.