The story is Justin Bieber cancelled his remaining 14 tour dates because he is rededicating his life to Christ. Upon hearing this, Christ said, “Thanks, but I’m good.”
A woman who claims she contracted herpes from Usher is suing him for $20 mil. And people have the nerve to say the entertainment business is greedy and sleazy.
Is it just me, or does Anthony Scaramucci look like a guy who has about 30 nicknames for his oft-grabbed testicles? “My babbalukes itch like hell.”
Donald Trump has to be the most duplicitous and obfuscating person who has absolutely no idea what duplicitous and obfuscating mean.
A woman who claims she contracted herpes from Usher is suing him for $20 mil. She must be really itching to sue him.
Press Sec., Sean Spicer, is leaving the White House. He wants to spend more time hiding in the bushes from his family.
Is it just me or does Anthony Scaramucci look like a guy who starts every sentence with, “Can I be honest with you?”
After two years of restoration, the oldest ship, the USS Constitution, returned to Boston. The ship had so much work done, its nickname changed from “Old Ironsides” to Caitlyn Jenner.
Some guy accused me of using big words to sound smart, but he underestimated my inherent ability to lugubrious.
We have a neighborhood mean dog. Two doors down, this 65-pound, tall, brindle Doberman/Greyhound/German Shepard mutt growls and barks incessantly like a chained rabid junkyard watch dog from behind their fence. (It gives you a measure of the dog’s unfriendliness that I do not know - or care to know - his name)
One day the beast got out. So I walked out my front door to be neighborly let it back inside its gate. (Sort of fancy myself a bit of a dog whisperer, I do)
Cesar Millan my ass. The dog started growling at me and slowly started stalking towards me like I was prey on the Serengeti.
Not going to lie to you, the hairs on my neck stood up and I slinked back inside the safety of my house a little unnerved by this crazy animal’s naked aggression.
Mental note: we have a mad dog two doors down.
From the safety of my upstairs office, I observed the dog sniffing around his front lawn. Two lady power-walkers came up our Cul-de-sac and the dog chased them off with loud growling barks. The ladies scurried off dialing their cell phones with alarm to, I assume, alert authorities.
So it was with no small amount of concern I answered my door this morning after it was manically rung repeatedly by our tall neighbor. He looked shaken and pointed to the very escaped neighborhood Cujo wandering unleashed in our street.
When he asked whose dog it was, I then pointed at the second house down while blocking my partially open door with my body so Wally would not get out and get viciously torn apart.
Just then, Wally bolted from between my legs almost knocking me over and took off after Cujo. Instinctively I started screaming,
“No, Wally, no. Get back here now.”
Like the time Kasey was about to be crushed in the street by an oblivious woman in her Mercedes, I could not watch the inevitable carnage, but yet I had to. (Somehow Kasey managed to have the car drive right over her without a scratch)
It is stupefying how the brain goes into hyperdrive during a panic, like a volcano spewing images, and I could, in less than a tenth of a second, envision sweet, big Wally getting his throat ripped out by this feral hell-hound of the Baskervilles.
What happened next had me doubting my eyes, like Kasey being missed by that car.
Cujo turned tail and took off like somebody lit a fire under him.
Wally chased him back into his open garage and Cujo disappeared inside the house, tail between his legs. Wally stood there in their garage taunting Cujo as if to say,
“And stay there.”
In a victorious prance reminiscent of the white Lipizzaner horses, Wally strutted back into our house with a genuine look of smugness on his face. As he strode past me still at the door frozen in my state of shock, Wally looked up at me and appeared to say,
"See?"
Cujo was not the Cujo I thought he was. He was as much or more of the chicken I thought Wally was. Wally apparently read the room better than I did and knew a bully/imposter when he saw one.
There is no living with Wally right now. And, candidly, he deserves to be putting on airs after bravely defending us the way he did.
After gloating today, I am sure Wally will go back to running between my legs after he scares himself at the front window with his bark.
But for today, Wally is the Sir Walter, King of the Corbett Cul-de-Sac.
Some guy accused me of using big words to sound smart, but he underestimated my inherent ability to lugubrious.
The Super Dog Afraid of His Own Bark
We have a neighborhood mean dog. Two doors down, this 65-pound, tall, brindle Doberman/Greyhound/German Shepard mutt growls and barks incessantly like a chained rabid junkyard watch dog from behind their fence. (It gives you a measure of the dog’s unfriendliness that I do not know - or care to know - his name)
One day the beast got out. So I walked out my front door to be neighborly let it back inside its gate. (Sort of fancy myself a bit of a dog whisperer, I do)
Cesar Millan my ass. The dog started growling at me and slowly started stalking towards me like I was prey on the Serengeti.
Not going to lie to you, the hairs on my neck stood up and I slinked back inside the safety of my house a little unnerved by this crazy animal’s naked aggression.
Mental note: we have a mad dog two doors down.
From the safety of my upstairs office, I observed the dog sniffing around his front lawn. Two lady power-walkers came up our Cul-de-sac and the dog chased them off with loud growling barks. The ladies scurried off dialing their cell phones with alarm to, I assume, alert authorities.
So it was with no small amount of concern I answered my door this morning after it was manically rung repeatedly by our tall neighbor. He looked shaken and pointed to the very escaped neighborhood Cujo wandering unleashed in our street.
When he asked whose dog it was, I then pointed at the second house down while blocking my partially open door with my body so Wally would not get out and get viciously torn apart.
Just then, Wally bolted from between my legs almost knocking me over and took off after Cujo. Instinctively I started screaming,
“No, Wally, no. Get back here now.”
Like the time Kasey was about to be crushed in the street by an oblivious woman in her Mercedes, I could not watch the inevitable carnage, but yet I had to. (Somehow Kasey managed to have the car drive right over her without a scratch)
It is stupefying how the brain goes into hyperdrive during a panic, like a volcano spewing images, and I could, in less than a tenth of a second, envision sweet, big Wally getting his throat ripped out by this feral hell-hound of the Baskervilles.
What happened next had me doubting my eyes, like Kasey being missed by that car.
Cujo turned tail and took off like somebody lit a fire under him.
Wally chased him back into his open garage and Cujo disappeared inside the house, tail between his legs. Wally stood there in their garage taunting Cujo as if to say,
“And stay there.”
In a victorious prance reminiscent of the white Lipizzaner horses, Wally strutted back into our house with a genuine look of smugness on his face. As he strode past me still at the door frozen in my state of shock, Wally looked up at me and appeared to say,
"See?"
Cujo was not the Cujo I thought he was. He was as much or more of the chicken I thought Wally was. Wally apparently read the room better than I did and knew a bully/imposter when he saw one.
There is no living with Wally right now. And, candidly, he deserves to be putting on airs after bravely defending us the way he did.
After gloating today, I am sure Wally will go back to running between my legs after he scares himself at the front window with his bark.
But for today, Wally is the Sir Walter, King of the Corbett Cul-de-Sac.
posted by Alex at
1:38 PM
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