Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue

To the canine beast that bit me last night: I am going to sue you, Drooly. You crossed the line, mutt, and you will be held accountable for your misdeed. I spoke with my attorney (the esteemed Len Finklin) and he shares my sense of outrage, for $200 an hour. We’ll see you in court.

What’s that you say? Woof, woof, WOOF? Ha, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your primitive beast language. Like any non-terrorist, I speak the tongue of Lady Liberty. All I’m hearing right now is guttural gibberish. You can object all you want, but I refuse to repeal my lawsuit. Oh, and now you’re playing the old "Crotch-Lick Card," eh? You’re pathetic.

Did you really think you would get away with it? You’re even dumber than you look, which is saying a lot considering you lack the cognitive capacity to see colors. But after what you did to me, you don’t DESERVE to see colors.

I don’t have a perfect recollection of your attack, but my identical twin Terry informed me of the facts. In my festive mindset, I playfully wrestled with you. And yes, I did apply a painful (to sissies) submission move: the figure-four leg lock, popularized by "The Nature Boy" Rick Flair. But I had the decency to break the hold once your cowardly yelping began to drown out the thunderous pop of Def Leppard on the stereo. And how did you repay my act of mercy? By biting my right buttock and making my hiney gush blood. You son-of-a-bitch—and I mean that as an insult, not as an obvious acknowledgement that you’re a male and mother dogs such as your own are termed "bitches" in Webster’s dictionary.

My attorney Len Finklin has informed me that our dispute has garnered the attention of P.E.T.A. At the risk of overloading lame puns: those traders of humanity are barking up the wrong tree. We’ll bury them like one of your precious bones. You consented to that figure-four leg lock; the proof is on tape. Prior to twisting your hind legs into a "4" shape, I had the decency to tell you to bark seven times if you objected to a wrestling match. And you did not. You barked EIGHT times.

What’s more, you were ordered to tap your paw repeatedly on the carpet if the pain became too much to endure. Unlike me, you were not victimized, Drooly. No, you willingly participated in some playful roughhousing—playful, at least, UNTIL YOU BIT MY ASS! That was a bit of a buzz kill, let me tell you. I was awakened the next morning by the searing sting of hydrogen peroxide being poured on my right buttock. Terry then showed me the tape to jog my memory of the incident. (Sure, I had shot-gunned my fair share that night, but I wouldn’t use the words "blacked-out.") What I saw will someday soon chill the jury to the core of their souls. In mid-celebration dance (a number I refer to as the "Pelvic Earthquake"), you took a cheap chomp at my backside and metaphorically peed on my fantastic buzz with your inferior dog pee.

True, there is little precedent for lawsuits such as mine. In cases of dog attacks, the human owner unjustly receives the brunt of the charges. This tendency is an outright rejection of the self-deterministic values that helped found this great nation of ours. There is no denying it, Drooly: dog or not dog, you are responsible for your actions. If you dogs want to eat man’s table scraps and slumber on man’s couches, you better abide by man’s code of justice, too. The doggy door swings both ways, mutt. My grievance is not with your owner and I have no intentions of suing him. Only a complete fool would sue himself.

As a longtime pet-owner, I am fed up with the brash outbursts of the creatures I have granted a home to. For instance, Puzzwhether, the potbelly pig I used to own, once vomited all over my brand new sneakers, all because he couldn’t hold his liquor down. I wasted $120 because that smelly swine has a low tolerance for whiskey. That incident was infuriating, but it pales in comparison to your bloodthirsty rampage, Drooly.

The jury will almost certainly rule in my favor, and in the wake of their noble verdict, you will be ordered to pay restitutions. Now, I am by no means delusional enough to expect you to enter the human work force in order to earn money to pay for my physical and psychological torment. Although your PETA sympathizers might disagree, there is no place for dogs in the human workplace. As penance for savaging my right buttock with your teeth, you will be tethered to the lever of a red wagon and forced to pull me to all my various destinations. For three solid years, whether I require transport from the couch to the bathroom or from my kiddie pool to a back alley cock fight across town, you will act as my flea-ridden chauffeur. During our voyages, I will also harass you with taunts from a megaphone. If this punishment seems harsh, you should consider the retribution my twin brother Terry had in mind. Simmering with rage, he initially suggested we put you to sleep. "Put you to sleep" is a nice way of saying he wanted to suplex you off the top of a parking garage. You’re lucky I’m more merciful than my equally-handsome
counterpart, Drooly.

And how do you show appreciation for my lenient gesture? By getting fed-up with what you might consider a "nonsensical tirade" that is approaching 1,000 words and lunging for my throat with your salivating fangs? Well scoff, I guess that’s gratitude. If I survive this mauling, you can bet the jury is going to hear about this, too.

(Editor’s note: Dogs can’t read, Captain Silly-Pants.)

The Idea Graveyard

According to Stephen King, creativity is the curse of expectations. Indeed. The man wrote and directed "Maximum Overdrive," people, and for that reason I believe everything he tells me.

Mr. King's adage hits home because I feel a tinge of regret for the good ideas I thought of during my tenure as a Lighter Side writer that never made it to print. Seriously, I had a few Showstoppers up my sleeve that, for whatever reason (whole world is plotting against me), were never printed in the Advance-Titan.

These ideas, which will be explained shortly, they're tortured phantoms whose initial promise was squandered by laziness and schedule conflicts. They linger in the mist of the Idea Graveyard. (More noteworthy inhabitants of the Idea Graveyard: a good health care system in America, peace in the Middle East, and the Beatles Reunion Tour, 1981.)

What follows is a somber tribute to the ideas that never really amounted to anything of substance--until now. So please join me as I pour out a 40 oz. of malt liquor onto some of the headstones in the Idea Graveyard.

The Mike Dewar Toss: Mike Dewar used to write for the Lighterside section, a few years ago. Mike D. weighs something like 140 lbs, which is about what I weigh. Nonetheless, I am amused by the sight of a short person being launched in the air somehow. And so I suggested that seven or eight members of the A-T staff pair up in teams of two to heave Mike as far as they can heave. We weren't going to toss Mike onto the cement, or a kiddie pool filled with broken Christmas ornaments or anything harsh like that. The idea was to toss him onto a thick gym mat or a sand volleyball court, which actually sound kind of fun. Mike said he'd be happy to do it.
The problem was, this idea was born just before the end of the spring 2006 semester, about a week before final exams. The Mike Dear Toss had to be postponed until fall 2006. But that was all right, or so I thought, because that gave me a whole summer to smooth out the details of the MDT.

Two staff members would sidle up on both sides of Mike, grab him by the belt and the back of his black Tool shirt, swing him three times for momentum, grunt, and then throw him "Roadhouse" bouncer-style as far they can throw. Four or five teams would compete, and the winners would become office legends and quite possibly national celebrities. (Camcorders are widespread and Youtube has glorified far worse ideas.)

UNFORTUNATELY, Mike chose to drop out of college in August of 2006, a month or so before school started. Then he contemplated moving to Canada, but never did. And after that, he posted a clip of himself on Youtube, "shredding" the hell out of a Buckethead song on "Guitar Hero." This is all true, and mostly lame.

Oh well. The important thing is that nobody got hurt. Because nobody risked injury. Namely, Mike Dewar.

The Beard vs. Mustache Wager: Nick Gumm used to be the B-section editor, and he wrote music reviews, too. In addition to editing and writing, Gumm is known for his trademark beard. One day, retired Lightersider Chris Becker refered to Gumm as "Beardo." Everyone loved the nickname, except for one person (Nick Gumm), and from then on he was called Beardo by several people in the office.

In spite of the childish insults, Beardo kept his beard, because Nick Gumm was simply Born to be Bearded. And he knows it.

Now, in regard to mustaches, I sported a mustache for nearly a month, just long enough to realize: that I can work it better than most, that most women I'm attracted to scoff at the sight of a mustache, and that sideshow experiments such as the mustache trial-run should be done only in moderation. I haven't grown out the old pushbroom since Jan. 2006. I am not Born to be Mustachioed.

Gumm has a beard similar to Paul McCartney's on the cover of "Let It Be." And I had a mustache like John Lennon's on the cover of "Sgt. Pepper." And while we're on the subject, the Two of Us are big fans of the Beatles. We agree that the Beatles are a no-brainer personal top-five band. We both know some fairly impressive trivia about the long-hairs from Liverpool, and I've sometimes wondered who knows more.

So, the idea I proposed was a Beatles trivia challenge, a showdown between two music nerds who miss the hell out of "Rock and Roll Jeopardy." And here's the clincher: if Gumm lost, he'd have to shave his thick, trademark beard. If I lost, I'd dust off the old pushbroom and rock the 'stache. Either way, our facial hair (or lack thereof), would honor the wager for a whole month.
The Beard vs. Mustache Wager never happened. I forget why, exactly, but feel free to assume it was all Beardo's fault.

Ex-Pro Wrestler Movie Review: This doozy has been rotting in the Idea Graveyard for quite some time. Let me explain. Pro wrestlers crack me up, especially when you put them in situations where you wouldn't expect to see them screaming and flexing. Sometimes I find myself wondering what retired pro-wrestlers do for a second career. The same theorizing applies to cheesey managers such as Paul Bearer, who would be hilarious as a creepy school bus driver.

In junior high, my friend Matt and I passed a notebook back and forth during History class, drawing a comic strip that depicted the antics of Hacksaw Jim Duggan and the Macho Man Randy Savage. Sometimes the duo chatted about violent guy movies (namely: "Over the Top" and "No Holds Barred"), and years later, in college, I got the idea that it would be funny to see them reviewing films, not unlike Ebert and Ropert on steroids.

A script exists for this bit, but a script without a visual counterpart is basically useless. Once upon a time I was faintly motivated to write a few phony movie reviews from the perspective of Misters Hacksaw and Macho Man. I'd better finish this one in the very near future because those incorrigible pro-wrestlers rarely live past the age of 50.

Robert Goulet Goes to Heaven: If a Will Ferrell impression has taught me nothing else, it's that semi-legendary crooner Robert Goulet was a freewheelin' cocktail fiend. Unfortunately, Goulet passed away not too long ago, and I thought it'd be nice to write him a comedic tribute. All I've jotted down for this bit are a few stage directions and some dialogue between Goulet and St. Peter. It goes something like this...

Recently deceased crooner Robert Goulet materializes in Heaven. He wears a dark suit and sunglasses, and as he inspects his bright-cloudy surroundings, he nods approvingly. Goulet approaches St. Peter just outside of the Pearly Gates.

Goulet: There's the man of the hour. So tell me, Pete, have I been naughty or nice this lifetime?

St. Peter: Ha. Yes, we've been expecting you, Mr. Goulet. Unfortunately a lot of people have died these last few minutes, but rest assured, we will call your name soon.

Goulet: Don't sweat it. Hey, while I'm waiting I could really go for a Tom Collins right about now. All that dying made me thirsty.

St. Peter: I'm sorry, alcohol is not allowed--

Goulet: Whoa! If this place doesn't have any Tom Collins, you might as well press the button for the trap-door, my friend.

St. Peter: But if you'll only let me finish, Mr. Goulet. Certain indulgences are in fact permitted in Heaven...a select few vices.

Goulet: Hey speaking of vices, you know who I always wanted to shtoop down there on planet Earth but never sealed the deal? Suzanne Somers. Is her name listed in the phone book up here?

St. Peter: Suzanne Somers won't be dead for another twenty-four years, Mr. Goulet.

Goulet: You mean, Suazane Summers is still alive? Yikes!

(End Scene.)

Yikes indeed. We just witnessed the exorcism of some harrowing comedy-ghosts, half-funny and half-scary, much like Slimer from "Ghostbusters."

Hey, maybe for "Ghostbusters 3," Slimer could grow a thick beard and join a rough-housing college frat, and there would be an asshole Dean--an evil, fun-hating ghost who enforces conformo rules that Slimer and the gang just ain't down with...

It's ideas like this that keep the Idea Graveyard decaying and thriving.