Man Bites 776-Pound Dog…and Crosseyed Tadpoles.

Someone told me that I should write a happy blog for once.  Personally, I don’t think I write angry blogs.  They’re just passionate.  But I’ll give it a try in this one.  So here’s my attempt at writing a happy blog.  Here goes.  “A happy blog.”  There.  I did it.  That didn’t feel that bad.

Not long ago, I saw this girl get off a bus.  She must have been about 16.  Next to me was a guy who was probably in his mid 30s.  My man kept trying to get her attention.  Being a masterful communicator, he decided to yell out phrases like “Aaay!  You!” and “C’mere, gurl!”  Seeing that she smartly wasn’t repsonding to his mating calls, he dug into his shallow bag of intellect and pulled out the mother of all random salutations.  He zeroed on what she was wearing.  He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Orange coat!  Orange coat!”  I love the connection you feel when you share a laugh with perfect strangers.  Thanks, Orange coat caller man.  I’m dedicating this blog to you.

Twice in the last few months I have been exposed to folks that I really want to murder.  Murder in a nice way.  Still want to show them that I care.  Once again, this involves public transportation.  First, I was on a train for about 2 additional hours one afternoon.  One of the trains ahead of us hit a car, which caused ALL traffic to be backed up.  A boy and his older sister were riding on the same train car with me.  After about an hour and a half, the boy sprang from his seat, ran to the corner of the train car, and proceeded to use the it as his personal urinal.  Yeah.  At first, I didn’t realize what he was doing.  It didn’t hit me until the smell hit me.  I should’ve hit him.  We all should have hit him.  Little boy, I know was probably hard for you to hold it, but that’s your problem.  It was so nasty that the bum that already smelled like piss was shaking his head in shame.  Moreover, on that same train route, on a different day, as I entered the train, I was greeted by the smell of feces and Pine Sol.  This hybrid I can’t explain.

In the vending machine, I noticed that Quaker Oats makes Express Instant Oatmeal.  First of all, how the hell do you get faster than instant?  Is the instant oatmeal not fast enough for you?  And exactly how fast is express instant?  According to this logic, by the time you open the instant oatmeal package, the oatmeal’s already cold.  So that’s why you need to get your instant oatmeal expressed!  Right?  What’s next?  Spontaneous Express Instant Oatmeal?  You-get-yo’-oatmeal-right-fu*kin’-now Express Instant Oatmeal?  If oatmeal becomes any faster, then you’re gonna have to get all Marty McFly and go back in the past to eat it hot.

Why do fugitives put so much effort into dying their hair, cutting their hair, or changing their hair when they’re on the run?  You have the same face!  This isn’t Metropolis where everyone can’t tell that meek, bespectacled Clark Kent is really Superman.  Folks ain’t that retarded.  We still know it’s you.  I can understand plastic surgery, even self multilation.  But just dying your hair black or red?  You’re better off just walking around with the ski mask that you wore when you robbed the local credit union.  Try that.  Technically, you’re still hiding your face.  That’s was your original goal anyway, right?  Go for it.  I’ll see you on the 6 o’clock news.  Don’t forget your perp walk music. 

I almost got mauled by a German shepherd.  Again.  I grew up around a multitude of stray German shepherds.  They don’t like me for some reason.  The feeling’s mutual.  They must think I’m down with Michael Vick.  Anyway, I walked past this woman who couldn’t control her dog.  Just as I went by them, the dog went bananas and tried to attack me.  If it wasn’t for my cat-like agility, rabbit speed, and dangerously dashing good looks, it would have definitely gotten me.  I say that to say this.  If you weigh 76 pounds and your dog weighs 776 pounds, then you need to tell your dog to go “sic ’em.”  In this scenario, “’em” means you.  That’s right.  Command your dog to eat you.  Why?  Because you’re not thinking.  I understand the notion of having a dog for protection.  But if you can’t control your dog, then it’s not protecting you.  Nothing is.  If your dog charges me for no reason other than your failure to control it, then kiss that dog goodbye because I’m biting back.  True, that dog might kill or maim me.  But you know this.  If I’m cornered and I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose, your dog is fu*ked.  I’m taking an eye, a tail, some hair, or an aorta with me.  I’ll be in heaven but other dogs will be laughing at your lame, limping ass dog, Mr. Patches.

I met a good guy who’s getting married to a good woman on Independence Day.  Too bad he’ll be losing his independence.

To the surprise of many of you, I think that having a baby is a beautiful, life changing event…but acting like your baby is the most important and only baby that matters in the entire world while looking down on other people’s babies is wrong.  Now that I think about it, your baby ain’t all that damn special.  Next time you’re in a public place, look around at all of the people.  Yep, they used to be babies, too.  That thing called pregnancy…that $hit happens all the time, in case you didn’t notice.  What makes your kid so remarkable?  Can your baby recite Chaucerian poetry straight out the womb?  Can that munchkin walk on water?  Maybe not, huh?  Hmmm…let’s see.  Here’s an easy one.  Can your baby sign an international peace treaty?  Didn’t think so.  Your baby’s just a regular, Gerber chomping, uncontrollably pooping, goo goo gaga-ing crosseyed tadpole.  Just like we all were. 

Oxygen bars.  Never heard of them until recently.  Apparently, what you do is go to one of these bars, pay some sort of fee, and breathe in scented air through some sort of breathing apparatus.  You can smell air like strawberry oxygen, chocolate oxygen, etc.  I’m not sure exactly what the prices are for this is, but paying anything to breathe air is too much.  Ammonia and bleach has a distinct smell.  You can mix that for free.  Spray some 409 or Febreze in your living room, and catch a whiff.  Or if you’re into the natural, more organic stuff, then lock yourself in a small room and let a few rip.  Save yourself some damn money, and use it to buy some turkey this week.  Happy Thanksgiving, ya bastards!