Monthly Archives: May 2011


I was sitting in my Me Only Room trying to write something passing legible and possibly interesting when I heard paws padding in behind me.

Ahem, Cutter said.

I spun around in my Me Only Room Chair just as he was settling himself, sitting.

Whassup? I asked not really caring ’cause this shit goes on all the time.

It’s about the food he said. Tug and I have been talking and we’ve decided enough’s enough.

Whaddya mean? I asked trying to be nice and maybe understanding?

Well, the way I see it, I men WE see it, Cutter said, we’re six years old now and we’ve been eating the same dogfood for our entire lives. I mean, think about it, he said, 4380 cold hard stainless steel bowls filled with Purina One. And a toilet to drink from.

You don’t have to drink from the toilet, I said. You choose to.

Ppppfffffffftttttt, he said.

How’d you do that I said, suddenly interested. You don’t have lips.

He stared at me coldly.

Let’s get back to the point, Cutter said. The food. The endless endlessly uninteresting sameness of it. I, er, I mean Tug and I, crave variety.

So what’re thinkin’ I asked.

Cutter tilted his head to one side like he always does when confronted with an unexpectantly interesting thought and said, I’m, I mean Tug and I, are thinking that when you and Miss Carol make dinner you always have leftovers that you bag up and then never eat. So, maybe I, I mean we, could join you for dinner.

And it’d just be the four of us for dinner every night? I mused.

Yeah! Whaddya think? Cutter said excitedly, his eyes glistening hopefully and full of want.


Let’s think this through, I said.

So far, I said, we share an apple for breakfast and then Miss Carol feeds you carrots and cucumbers and biscuits while she makes dinner and because you feel entitled you bark like an annoying retard the whole time, demanding more.

And soooo if we feed you scraps from the dinner table, I said, we can hope for more of the same relentlessly bad behavior, right?

Cutter said I’m pretty sure I could chill that shit and-

Sorry, dude. I said. Ain’t gonna happen.

Cutter looked at me long and hard and forlornly like I’d just killed his last hope and then he got up and padded back out into the living room.

As he left he said under his breath, fuck it, I’m gonna go pee on the couch.

Don’t you DARE, I yelled.


I’d started this post about the MEN of Deadliest Catch and how I I’d thought that maybe I could maybe dream about throwing myself up against the marathon mountain that is crab fishing in the Bering Sea and how cool it’d be to be able to be one of them.

And so there I was typing along, living longingly vicariously, when I got (ok, received? I get it, Ms. grammar) an e-mail from my father?

And everything dilated and dehydrated.

I hadn’t and haven’t spoken to the man who calls me son in over twenty years. And I’m good with that. I don’t care. I don’t know who he might be or who he might have become. I just don’t care.

I don’t know how he got my e-mail address and I don’t know if he reads my shit.

But if he does? Listen up motherfucker.

We’re done, we’re over, we’ve been waaaaaay over for a loooooonnnng ass time. Get over it.

The bruises will never go away.

It’s all about the pretty.

I mean honestly?

Miss Carol and me went to lunch at a place across the street over the weekend. It’s a place we don’t frequent much for lots of reasons.

One is the bartenders.

They’re kinda scummy and kinda ugly and, more importantly, kinda MEN?

Sorry dudes.

Bartenders should ONLY be cute babes.

I don’t want some tattooed stoner sliding my beer across the counter while he growls out the lunch specials.

I want Trixie in hip huggers or a bikini and a push-up pretending to find me fascinating.

Call me Mr. Dickhead but even Miss Carol agreed. She was all like-chicks rule.

So I sipped my beer and I said, Ya know what? I think if I ever hire people instead of 1099’em I’m thinking it’d be really cool to hire really cool, really good looking chicks.

Whatya think?

Miss Carol heaved a sigh.

Sometimes I think I make her tired.