Running at the Mouth

Happy Easter!

Actually, not really.  Because the Easter Bunny hates you.

A Picture Worth Seven Words

This is what pure joy looks like:

You can read the full story behind this meatstrocity (the burger, not the guy) here.  [Links via Obscure Store.]

Boxer's Punch Drunk Writing

Mouthbreathing California Senator Barbara Boxer (who, to continue the Robert Byrd theme, referred to the former Night Rider as "the love of her life") apparently writes bad novels in her spare time.  (I had no idea.)  Anyway, NRO's John Miller has read her latest, so we don't have to (thank Christ):  Boxer Shorts.  [Link via Power Line.]  John humorously excerpts some great (by great I mean awful) bits, and one really disturbing bit in which a guy watches a stud trying to bang a mare who's totally not into him, from this largely autobiographical crapfest.  See if you can spot the cognitive dissonance by comparing these two paragraphs:

It had been a particularly intense day in [Senator Ellen Fischer's] D.C. office, with a steady stream of meetings, e-mails, and phone calls from organizations and constituents, all urging her to step up her opposition to Professor Frida Hernandez's nomination to the Supreme Court. There was little time left for any attempt to block the confirmation of the ultra-conservative professor. ... Ellen, a member of the [Judiciary] committee, had sought to challenge the nominee's strongly suspected bias against Roe v. Wade. ... Ellen knew that, once on the Court, Hernandez would help turn back the clock on Court decisions that Ellen believed were vital to the people.

(Emphasis mine.)  And:

That was a defining moment, when Ellen knew how she'd spend the rest of her life — that she'd been put here on earth to save its endangered children.

(Emphasis again mine).  Huh.  She must mean saving only those endangered children lucky enough to not have been killed in the womb.

How to Deal With an Aggressive Dog . . . If You're a Pussy

Finally, Runner's World on-line posts a piece that combines my two favorite things (besides heroin and tranny hookers):  running and dogs.  Unfortunately, it's only useful if you're some kind of namby-pamby pantywaist:

What can you do to protect yourself from canines on the run? For answers, we went to dog training expert, Karen Peak, owner of West Wind Dog Training in Prince William County, Va. Below are her tips:

IF YOU ARE CHASED . . .

Slow down. Slow your run to a walk. "The prey instinct dogs have is triggered by fast movement," says Peak. "Slowing down to a walk makes you seem less interesting."

Walking sounds like a great idea.  I want to make it as easy as possible for the dog to catch me and chomp my ass.  Walking makes you seem less interesting, all right.  In the same way it's less interesting to buy a Thanksgiving turkey at the grocery instead of hunting it, shooting it, and cleaning it yourself.  Sorry, but that dog's gonna have to earn me.  I think the best idea is to get out of the dog's territory as fast as possible.  As soon as you leave, he'll leave.

Turn around. Turn and walk in the opposite direction of the dog.  Don't stare. "Staring a dog in the eyes can be interpreted as a threat by some dogs," warns Peak. "Keep the dog in sight, but avert direct eye contact."

Don't avert your eyes; you'll lose the dog's respect.  Let him know that you're the one with the cerebral cortex and opposable thumb, and you're not about to take any shit.  And what's this walking in the opposite direction nonsense?  If you let the dog tell you where you can go, the dog has won.  And so have the terrorists.

Be boring. If the dog approaches you, stop and stand very still. The more boring you are, the less you'll interest the dog.

See "Slow down," above.  The only thing worse than walking is to stop entirely.  Yeah, let the dog size you up, get a running start and really take aim at your crotch.  Sounds like a great plan.

Report it. If an aggressive dog continually threatens you on a run, choose a different route and file a report with animal control.

Once again, you follow this advice and you've let an animal with a brain 1/4 the size of yours (it's science) tell you what you can and can't do.  And you're a whiny tattletale to boot.  Man up, Nancy!

This is my favorite, though, because it's straight out of A Christmas Story:

IF YOU ARE ATTACKED . . .

Hit the ground. If the dog attacks, cover your head and curl into a ball. "Your best bet in an attack is to minimize access to the soft tissue areas such as your throat, face, and belly," says Peak.
Start yelling. But scream something that you know will get people's attention, such as "Fire!" "Help" may not do it.

Remember when they get ambushed by Scut Farkus ("So help me God, yellow eyes!") and his toadie Grover Dill ("In our neighborhood, you were either a bully, a toadie or among the nameless rabble of victims."), and the little brother who can't put his arms down plays dead? "Andy lay there like a slug.  It was his only defense."

Don't be such a fuckin' Mary.  Laying down only gives the dog easy access to your throat, face and stomach!  He's on four legs, man.  Unless it's an Irish wolfhound or a mastiff (in which case you're dead no matter what, so you should spend your last moments praying rather than walking away or stopping), the dog won't be as tall as you.  And will respect a well-placed kick to snout or ribs.

My advice is, don't let some dog be Alpha.  You be Alpha.  You're a grownup for chrissakes.

Don't Kill Me, Honey. I'm Worth More Alive Than Dead.

My wife may have tried to kill me tonight.  I was on my evening run, and she was returning from work.  As she passed, she came within a hair's breadth of clipping me.  I practically had to jump in a ditch to avoid the sideview mirror.  Afterward, she claimed that she wasn't paying attention and just didn't see me.

I would like so much to believe her . . .

Damn You, Burton!

I had my Festivus post all ready to go, rife with links and insightful commentary (yeah, right).  Then Don Burton Instapunditted me completely.  So just go read his post, and have a happy Festivus. 

Win or Lose, at Least They Never Posed Greased Up and Shirtless

In advance of tonight's Notre Dame-USC game, my buddy Dan, a '93 (or '92?) ND grad, sent me this picture as reason enough to hate USC:

Maybe, unless you're a fan of homoerotic art (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Nothing Says "Thank You" Like Puerile Poetry

Britney Spears must truly be gifted; it takes special talent to write a poem as abominable as this one about her honeymoon:

A honeymoon at last, to get away from it all
My assistant Fe gave me the call.
I remember it well, as she was smilin'
She said it was called Turtle Island.
I packed my bags light and quick,
Then grabbed my pink dress & favorite lipstick.
We hopped on a plane and took our flight
I slept really well, all through the night.
As we arrive, I turn and look out the door,
People are greeting us right at the shore.
A meal, a shower and some ice cream
Then I threw my man down, you know what I mean!
Magical nights filled with stars
Silence is golden, no running cars.
Private dinners, romantic fires
Little piece of heaven, whatever your heart desires.
Friendly 'hellos' and never goodbyes
When you're having fun, oh, how time flies!
As we sit and prepare to make our part
I thank you, Turtle Island, with all my heart!

Wow.  Just . . . wow.  You know, she's just a few anti-semitic verses away from becoming New Jersey's next poet laureate.

That Ain't No Bulletproof Vest!

I don't know what to say about this now-famous Dick Cheney photo other than "holy camoly."  Since the Vice President's health likely precludes a career in the presumably-lucrative geriatric porn industry, perhaps Spinal Tap is looking for a bass player that can get through an airport metal detector.

How Stereotypes Become Stereotypes

I usually file stories like this under "Dogs.  Is there anything they can't do?":  Pooch Pounces on its Master to Alert Him to Fire.  But, seeing as how the story pretty much confirms every stereotype about trailer park America, there's just too much comedy gold in the story to let it go at that. 

The first time the dog jumped on his chest Tuesday, Joseph Favre tossed the tiny pooch across the room and went back to sleep.

But Gizmo would not give up. He jumped on Favre's chest again, barking and scratching at his face. Favre cocked his arm for another toss, then inhaled a noseful of smoke.

So, right away I have one more reason to favor dogs over people.  Who could have blamed Gizmo had he let the guy burn to death.  Skip ahead:

Gizmo belongs to Favre's fiancee, Wendy Smith, who shares the mobile home off Belcher Road with him, the dog and their three children.

Unmarried. With three kids (one of whom seems to be named after a porn legend).  Living in a trailer.  I'm not judging, I'm just saying. 

Also, check out the picture of Gizmo.  He's one of those froo-froo toy dogs that yap all the time, like the dog Christopher sat on and killed on The Sopranos.  The dog, of course, was foisted on the guy by his girlfriend, as no man would ever have a dog like that.

Gizmo and Favre got along fine when he and Smith first started dating. But Favre thought the dog had too-frequent accidents in the house. He also trained the dog to be protective of Smith and the kids.

The dog weighs about 3 pounds.  What's Gizmo going to protect against, leprechauns?

The result was a love-hate relationship between man and dog. Though Gizmo sleeps with Favre, he also frequently growls at him and even bites. In fact, Gizmo, who is about 8 years old, only has three teeth left in his mouth. The rest have come out from biting Favre.

"They've all been imprinted in my hand," he said. "He hates me, but we have an unconditional love."

More evidence that the dog is a better person than most humans I know.  And I'm still trying to figure out that quote from Favre.

He said Gizmo normally stays away from his face, but persistently jumped on him Tuesday after the fire started.

"It was like he was talking to me," said Favre, who claims Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre as his third cousin.

No word on whether Brett claims otherwise.

When he woke and smelled the smoke, Favre said he bounded off the couch and ran for the door, accidentally stepping on Gizmo on the way out, causing the dog to squeal. They both emerged safe, though Gizmo's snow-white coat was colored a smoky gray.

Just so we're clear:  the dog wakes Favre up to save him from the fire, then Favre tramples him on his way out the door.  What a prince.