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Pathetic Bob’s new book is out. Buy it today for Christmas.

Pathetic Bob’s Guide to LIfe (practical advice from a dead dog) is out on Amazon. Filled with 25 chapters of history and advice on subjects as diverse as wine, sex, television, business, and many more more offer yo great insight to a dead dog’s mind. We’ve already sold a few copies and expect many more in the coming weeks, We feel we must warn you that the book is R rated. It’s funny as hell, but nor real suitable for anyone under 18.

December 2 is the day the book officially launches, with a big book signing party. In about a weak, we will have matching t-shirts and dog bandanas at the new store on the website.

If anyone buys a copy off Amazon, I would appreciate a review–good or bad. Anyway, we’re pretty excited here at Pathetic Bob central and hope you enjoy reading it. If you have trouble finding it on Amazon, check with the in week; we hope to have copies for sale by then.

Please support my dead dog.

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Pathetic Bob’s Car Talk

I haven’t talked to Pathetic Bob in a while, and I wanted to tell him about my new car, so I rustled the leaves on the potted plant next to my desk. In just a few moments, he came channeling through.

“Hey Em, you been on vacation or something. I haven’t been able to get ahold of you?”

“Sorry about that,; I’ve been a little despondent because I haven’t been able to drive since they suspended my license last year. Bur, good news, I got my license reinstated, and I bought a new car,” I said.

“That’s right, you blacked out and totaled your Mercedes, and they snagged your license til your docttors would sign off on you being able to drive, right?”

This kinda irritated me, but I said, “Yeah, but now I’ve been cleared by the Department of Public Safety’ medical review board.”

“Well, good for you, although I’m not sure how good it is for the other people on the road.”

“Thanks Bob, for the vote of confidence. Anyway, I’m cleared so I went and bought a car. To be honest, it was Mrs. Em who bought the car. It wasn’t the one I wanted, but she was determined that it was.”

Bob sighed. “How many car dealers did you go to,” he inquired.

“One,” I replied.

“How many cars did you test drive?”

I sighed this time. “One.”

“An this is the one you bought, right?”

“It’s the one.”

“Well just what kinda car is it, an Infinity, a Lexus or another Mercedes?”

I said, “No, none of those, although I did see an Infinity I liked, but Mrs. Em said I didn’t. I had originally wanted a truck, and they had a Toyota Tundra at a pretty good price, but Mrs. Em told me I didn’t like it either.”

“So, she can read your mind?”

“I certainly hope not. Anyway, she pointed to a little white coupe with a spoiler on the back. ‘This car you like’ she told me.”

“So, it must be one of those sporty Italaian jobs?”

“You’re not even close. It’s a 2006 Nissan Sentra.”

I could hear Bob giggling, “I know Mrs. Em drives a 2014 Nissan Alttima, which is a way cool car. Now, you’re driving it’s 11-year-old brother that looks as appealing as a frog with pimples. How did you let this happen.?”

“It’s complex Bob, very complex. Mrs. Em is very complex, and gets the better of me all the time. But, hey, it’s got a spoiler on the back.

“No Em, you had a spoiler right in front of you. I know, Mrs.Em is complex.


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Medicine Dog and the High Cost of Living

It’s been a while, but today my dead dog, Pathetic Bob, channeled himself through the potted plant next to my desk.

“Hey Em, what’s up. I haven’t talked to you lately?” he asked.

“Yeah, sorry about that, but I’ve been a little depressed, and now I’m pissed off.”

“You sound it. What’s the problem?”

“Well, my psychiatrist prescribed a new medicine for me. It’s called Vraylar, and it’s just come on the market. My doctor had to get ‘prior authorization’ before he could even write the prescription. So, that’s fine, we get the authorization, and I go down to the pharmacy to get it filled. They hand it to me and say, ‘Your co-pay will be $386.’ I say ‘WTF’ and hand it back to them. I mean, come on, $386 to feel a little better. It’s robbery.”

Bob barked. He does that when he’s upset. “First of all, you should stop being depressed, it gets me depressed, and I’m dead.”

“You know, Bob, people who tell me that or to ‘get over it’ make me want to shove a hypothalamus down their throats. It’s a dumb thing to ask. It’s not like I want to be depressed and could get over it if I wanted. It’s a fucking disease, of course, I’d like to get over it. Now, I don’t want to hear that shit anymore.”

“Whoa, back off. I’m sorry. The second off all, medicine is so expensive because of advertising. Advertisements are expensive to make and very expensive to buy time on TV, radio and print. In the past, it was up to doctors to tell you what medications to take. Now, the pharmaceutical companies are marketing direct to you, on the dumbshit television.What’s worse, are the warnings of possible side-effects you can get. ‘Take our wonder drugs and you’ll be as happy as these assholes romping around in our ads. But, just so you know, you could get shingles, bad breath, crippling arthritis, a boner that could explode, rapid heartbeat, thoughts of suicide and, of course, death.’ They spend as much time and money telling you their shit might not work. I think all drugs come from plants, petroleum, and cane-toad gall bladders. Dogs have known this for centuries. We get sick, eat a leaf or lick a toad. It’s not that hard. Big Pharma is full of pussies of death who would rather someone die than cut the price on their merchandise. I don’t mind them making a profit, but Jesus Christ, show some mercy to mankind. Fuck ’em.”

“Bob, Bob, calm down, I get your point. You dead, remember, and none of these medicines will help you. And, all I’ve got is a little depression. We’ll  get through. And if we don’t, we’ll show Big Pharma what side effects are all about.”

Bob was huffing and puffing. “OK, Em, I’ll calm down if you go eat a leaf.




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Children’s Birthday Parties–Hours In Hell

For the most part, I like kids. What drives me crazy are children’s birthday parties, four hours of forced fun where toddlers don’t give a shit about anything but candy. Give ’em a rock, a stick, gold nuggets or anything that doesn’t have candy that goes with it, and they go batshit.crazy. Actually, they are already batshit crazy because they are little children, adding sugar just puts them in a state where they could frighten the Taliban. I bring this up because yesterday I went to a two-year-old’s birthday party. In fact, the party came to me, it was held at our house so the little hellions could swim. But the joke was on them; it rained. That didn’t stop the birthday boy; he fell in the pool, and his dad (my semi-son) ruined a $100 pair of Cole Hahn loafers hauling the little sucker out, none the worse for wear.

I tend to get anxious in groups. In groups of two-year-olds, I tend to get batshit crazy. While most of the “fun” was going on outside, I retreated to the den to watch hockey on the 70″ TV. I hate hockey, but my son loves it. So, to stay out of harm’s way, I watched three hours of Hockey, leaving the room occasionally to go lie down and pretend I was asleep.

Soon, the birthday party feast was laid before kids and their parents. Hot dogs, chili, queso, and tiny-sized bottles of gin. When they were good and drunk, the toddlers began screaming for the pinata. If you’re not from an area with Hispanic cultural, you may not know what a pinata is. Good for you. It is an attempt to let little ones to take a stick and blindly try to smash a paper mache toy filled with–you guessed it–candy. Since the kids are blindfolded and turned around a few times, their aim sucks, so at least one father usually, has his balls crushed with the stick. Howls of laughter ensue from the non-crushed parents.

After the pinata is finally broken, there is a wild dash for…candy. About that time the rain started, so the party was moved inside, and I tried to move to the bedroom. My wife insisted I stay and watch the “opening of the presents.” The birthday toddler usually has no idea what is going on, only that good shit is being handed to him. Clothes are automatically thrown to the side in favor of plastic shit and…candy. The little attendees look on with jealousy in their eyes, and they sometimes try to swipe the good stuff…like candy. After the presents are all opened, the parents mill around a bit, and begin heading for the door; hoping to get home and watch hockey.

If you have experienced one of the parties, I’m sure you said to yourself, “No more birthday parties until the kid is 13, and no booze will be served–only candy.

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The Priapism That Wouldn’t Die

So, I was chatting with  Pathetic Bob through the potted plant yesterday, and he blurts out “What a priapism?”

“Jesus Bob, are you nuts? You just don’t talk about priapisms on a blog. People don’t want to hear about them, they’re deeply personal and should be talked about in whispers, behind closed doors.”

Bob laughed. “You’re kidding, right? We talk about all kinds of stuff here, what’s the big deal with priapisms? And, now you’ve got my curiosity up, and I demand to know.”

“Demand? You demand? Who are you to demand anything?”

“Me? I’m your dead dog; I’m your spectral companion; I’m the one who listens to your shit. So give, what’s a priapism?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you if you stop saying that word.”


“Okay. You see when a man–especially older men–can’t get a woody….”

“A ‘woody’?” Are you kidding me? Just call it what it is, an erection.”

“Look, Bob, I don’t want to have this conversation anyway, so let me explain in my own words.”

“Touchy aren’t we?”

“Shut up. So, sometimes a man can’t get a woody and resorts to medication to help things along.”

“You’re talking about erectile dysfunction, aren’t you?”

“I’m warning you, I’ll stop right here if you keep interrupting.”

“Fine, fine, fine. Go on.”

“So, a man might take an erectile dysfunction medication such as Viagra or some other pill or whatever. If he gets a woody, then he makes the beast with two backs with his partner, and when he’s finished, the woody goes away, and he goes out to paint the fence or something. Sometimes, the woody doesn’t subside, and that’s called a priapism.

“You mean like on the TV commercials, ‘if you have an erection lasting more than four hours, get to the hospital or it may fall off.'”

“It’s not gonna fall off, but serious medical bullshit can happen.:

“What do they do at the hospital?”

“How would I know. Remember we’re just talking hypothetically.”

“Come on, Em, you know.”

“Well, I’ve heard that they might come in with big fucking needles and numb your thing and then drain off the blood that’s trapped in your woody.”

“Jesus, you’re making me sick.”

“If that doesn’t work, then they shoot you full of morphine, and boom, it reverts back to its normal condition…hypothetically”

“Em, I think you know way too much about this for not knowing anything about this.”



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Snorting The Ferret

I know, I know, I’ve been a little grumpy and cranky and given to using language reserved for a  bitch fight. I’m feeling better today though, and I attribute my slight increase in bliss to the fact that I have been inhaling the ferret, otherwise known as Lily.

Attribution may also be made to my doctor, Dr. K, the kindest doctor I know. I had my root canaled, and the day after, I came down with some kind of crud that included fever, ache, cough, whining, no appetite, increased whining and sluggishness. Over the past two weeks, I’ve felt like a bowl of ambulatory, rancid pea soup with a bad cough and a thick crust of bacteria growing on me. I’ve been utilizing potions, balms, nards, compounds, elixirs, pills, lotions and talismans to alleviate my dis-ease, all to know avail. Finally, I went to see Dr. K. and she spent a good amount of time prodding, poking, questioning and listening to me. After her preliminary investigation was complete, she sat me down and said, “Em, you’re fucked.” Actually, she may not have used those exact words, but that is what I heard.

“First off,” she said, “your lungs sound like a bug zapper at a mosquito convention.”

“So what’s that mean?” I asked, somewhat nervously.

“Well,” she answered, “it means you smoke too damn much. It means you have a lot of crap in your lungs. You have an infection. You definitely have bronchitis; you probably have pneumonia and you could have some really nasty shit that I don’t want to speculate on right now.

I cringed and said, “Are you going to hurt me?” That’s a question I ask most women, doctors or not.

“Not today. I’m going to give you some strong antibiotics, an inhaler, some cough syrup and some other stuff that will help replace the good bacteria that the antibiotics are gonna kill. Then, I’m going to set up two appointments for you; one for a chest x-ray, the other for some blood work. When I get the results of those tests, I’ll call and tell you how long you have to live.”

I blanched but recovered nicely. So this stuff is gonna make me better?” I asked enthusiastically.

“No, I just like screwing with patients. I know you’re not going to stop smoking, but will you cut down a little, I mean, you are so friggin’ dense.

“Yeah, I’ll try. Say doc, hethis stuff I’m gonna be inhaling, will it interfere with inhaling Pathetic Bob’s ferret?”

Dr. K. looked at me like I’d chugged a bottle of narcotic-based cough syrup “Wha…what the hell are talking about?”

I explained to her the whole story about Bob’s ferret Lily, who isn’t a ferret but a puppy. “Snorting the ferret makes me feel better. She’s got this aura of sweetness, of innocence, of goodness about her, and when I snort her, the world seems better, I feel like a nicer person. Is there any medical reason I should curtail my ferret snorting.”

“Has she had all her shots?”


“then I’d say go for it. However, you might want to put some sort of filter over your nose until we get this crud cleared up.”

I gave Dr. K. a hug and turned to leave when she stopped me. “Hey Em,” she said, “you might want to think about exchanging the cigerettes for the ferret; you’ll feel better…longer.”

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Pathetic Bob Introduces me to My Dead Mom

I came into the office and Bill the Cat was babbling. Pathetic Bob was trying to get ahold of me, and he seemed excited.

“Bob,” I said, “What the hell is going on, you seem so damn excited.?”

“Hey Em, I got somebody I want you to meet, and you might want to watch your language.”

“Jeez Bob, you got a girl there or something?”

“Sort of; she’s a girl and she’s my friend.”

“OK, quit with the mystery, who is she?”

“Alright, but you’re gonna be in for a surprise.”

“So surprise me.”

“Em, I like you to meet your mother, Stella.”


Just then another voice chimed in, a honey-soaked, Southern-accented voice I knew by heart.”

“Michael, it’s your mom. I’m so happy to hear from you in kinda person. I love you son, but I see how you’re hurting yourself, and I can’t stand by anymore and I can’t let that happen. You’re too vital and talented to spend years lamenting my death. It’s taken something out of you that you can’t afford to lose.”

“She’s right Em, and you should listen to your mom, your beautiful, hot mom.”
“He Bob, watch how you talk about my mom.”

“So, mom, I’m glad you’re there. Bob says it’s a wonderful place, and all your needs are met. You deserve the best; you were a great mom…the best.”

“Well thank you, sweetheart, you were a pretty goog kid yourself.”

“Alright, let’s knock the touchy-feely stuff off for now. Em, ask your mom what’s she’s been doing here.”

“Yeah, ma, what have you been up to?”

“Oh son, this is s marvelous place. While I’ve been here I’ve taken lots of classes such as mud sculpting, Yahtzee, Greco-Roman wrestling, languages, which is good cause now I can talk to my new boyfriend, Kukko. He’s from Cameroon, and just the sweetest man?

“Wait, wait,” I sputtered. “You’ve got a boyfriend? What about dad? Did you just dump him?”

“No , no, no honey, I didn’t dump your father. With eternity ahead, we thought it might be nice to meet other people. He is off fishing with a beautiful English lady.”

“Uh…uh…do you…uh…uh….”

“Do we have sex. No, no  one does up here.”

“Jeez mom, don’t say that word. I worked hard to never hear you and dad talk about stuff like that when I was a kid.”

“My dear child, where do you think you came from? Like Bob said, I was pretty hot back then.”

“I’m not listening…nah…nah…nah I have my fingers in my ears.”

“Grow up Michael…Oh, you already did. Then, grow smarter. Grab the rest of your life by the balls and do something great, or at least wonderful.”

“Jeez ma, do you have to say ‘balls’?”

Bob butted in, “Hey mom, he says balls all the time even worse. It’s him, not me.”

Mom raised her voice, “Bob, you’re a magnificent dog, but take ownership of your words.”

Bob lowered his voice and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned her attention to me. “Now baby, no more crying about my death, you’ve done enough. It hurts you, and I don’t want you hurt. Now, I’ve got to be off, Kukko is waiting, and we’re going sand-skiing. Bye son, I love you.”

I fought back tears and said, “Say hi to Kukko for me. Tell him I’d like to question…I mean, talk to him sometime.”

“Will do, I love you.”

And, then she was gone, and I could hear sniffling in the background. “Bob? Are you crying?”

“Crying is for pussies; I just have a little cold.”

Sure. I tell you what, let’s be pussies together for a while, and then you can find my dad.”





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The Guilt Trader on the Train

Brian Flugler was depressed. His head rested on the soft pillow the porter had given him; his eyes searched the monotonous Kansas landscape as it rolled by the window. He sighed.

Eddie and Patience Spalding finished their iced tea in the club car and began their search for the compartment to which they were assigned. Patience carried a large, Prada handbag, and Eddie gingerly toted a muslin sack the size of a bowling ball bag.

No longer able to stand the numbness of Kansas, Brian dug out a Sudoku puzzle book out of his knapsack and tried to fill his head with numbers. It was useless; the only number that kept coming up was one–one out of 187. One, the number of patients he had killed. One equaled Kerry-Ann Spinoza, the hot-air balloon pilot who had come to him for help for her disorder, for her chaos.

As Kerry-Ann’s pale, dewdrop face began to float behind Brian’s closed eyes when he was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of the compartment door banging open. “I think this is it Eddie,” said the stunning woman in the doorway. She was tall, five-foot-ten inches at least, with Slavic cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and she was rounded with child.

Brian sat up a little straighter. “If you’re looking for 5B, then this is it,” he said with a smile.

Patience swung her laser blues around until they landed on Brian’s face. “Oh…uh, thank you,” she said, momentarily startled.

A voice behind her said, “Come on Patience, go have a seat; I need to get out of the way, there are people trying to get by.”

To Brian, the voice had a slight Asian accent, Chinese perhaps, no, more Vietnamese or Cambodian. Patience moved to a seat opposite Brian and stowed her bag in the overhead bin. Eddie entered, all three-foot-nine inches of him. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, light-blue shirt, and crimson tie. “Hi,” he said turning towards Brian, “I guess we’ll be traveling together for a while. I’m Ed, and this is my wife Patience.”

Patience smiled again, and Brian introduced himself to his traveling companions. Eddie placed the sack he was carrying under the seat and sat, legs dangling. “Sweetie,” Eddie told Patience, “You need to get some rest. Why don’t you lay back and try to sleep?”

(Bored yet? Don’t be, the monkey will soon make an appearance.)

Brian offered Patience his pillow. She accepted, and when he leaned over to hand it to her, his nostrils filled with the odor of roadkill. The smell, it seemed, was coming fro the sack at Eddies feet.

The rocking of the train soon lulled Patience into a deep sleep, and when Brian noticed her unconscious state, he moved over closer to Eddie and asked, “So, Eddie, what’s in the bag? It has a rather unpleasant odor.”

Eddie, who’d been writing in a small notebook, looked up at the sound of Brian’s voice. He quickly glanced at his wife to make sure she was asleep before answering. “Well, Brian, there’s a dead monkey in the sack, a dead spider monkey named Victor.”

This bit of news startled Brian. “Jesus Eddie, what the hell are you doing carrying around a dead spider monkey?”

“Yeah, I know, but it can’t be avoided. I doused it in cologne before we left, but that hasn’t seemed to work. Patience and I are taking Victor to California to be buried at Primate Paradise in Reseda. We promised her mother we’d do it; Victor was her companion, and she wants him interred in the same place as Bobo, the movie monkey. Her mom is nuts, but are you gonna do?”

Brian asked, “How did the monkey die?”

“I killed it,” said Eddie. “The little bastard wouldn’t stop screwing with my ears; it was driving me crazy. He’d stick those little spidery fingers and wiggle them around. I warned him several times, but he wouldn’t listen. When Patience and her mom went to the grocery store, I broke the monkey’s neck. I guess it’s the least I can do to see that he gets a nice send-off. What about you Brian, what’s your story?”

Eddie’s confession made Brian uneasy. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could be so blase about admitting he killed a pet monkey, but being a therapist, he knew people dealt with their lives in many different ways. Brian decided to deal with this by telling his story.

(Still bored? Eddie is close to revealing his past.)

“I killed someone, too, although neck snapping was not the mode of dispatch. You see Eddie, I’m a psychotherapist, and I gave a patient of mine some bad advice, and then she ended up diving off a hot-air balloon without the benefit of a parachute.

“Whoa, suicide. Bummer. You didn’t really advise her to jump did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I can’t tell you exactly what we talked about, but I badly misread her situation; now she’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

“You’re probably being too hard on yourself Brian, she may have killed herself even if she saw another therapist.”

“I don’t think so, no, it was my fault, and now I’m having a very hard time living with the guilt.”

“It will get better. I’ve killed 17 people, and after the first one, the others were not too bad.”

Brian was shocked and moved a further away Eddie. “You…uh…you kill people?”

“Only 17, and I don’t do it for a living. I did it for revenge. You see Brian, I’m Cambodian, and when I was s small child, the Khmer Rouge slaughtered my family in a  particularly nasty way. I vowed I would find the guys who did it and punish them. I did, and they are all dead. I haven’t killed anyone since…except Victor.”

“Jesus Eddie, that’s hard to believe.”

Eddie looked at Brian with steely eyes and said, “Believe it.”

(Still bored? Then bite me, this is a good story. Read on.)

Brian did believe it. Despite Eddie’s diminutive size, he sensed this was a man you didn’t want to cross. “Don’t you ever feel guilty about what you’ve done?” he asked.

“Well, I do feel a little bad about Victor but the other guys, not anymore. Look, Brian, I can tell you are really agonizing over the death of your patient. If you’re interested, I got a deal for you that I think may alleviate your burden.”

Warily, Brian asked, “What sort of deal?”

“If you’re interested in putting that girl’s death behind you, we can trade guilt. In my old country, it is believed that people can trade guilt burdens to help each other move on with their lives. I’ve done it before, and it works. If you take my guilt for what I did to poor little Victor; I’ll take responsibility for the death of your patient.”

“I don’t know Eddie,” said Brian. His Western mind couldn’t quite grasp such an alien concept.

“It’s a good deal,” encouraged Eddie. “The guilt you accept from me won’t bother you much, a monkey, even though you accept the responsibility. You can easily live with that, although you might feel a bit sad about Victor now and again. I’ll be a little bummed about your patient, but, what the hell, I didn’t really tell her to take a flying leap. It’s a win-win situation, Brian. What do you say?”

The more Brian thought about it, the more sense it made to him. Guilt swapping, it beat Freud. What did he really have to lose? “Hell, why not. Let’s do it. Victor’s death is now on me, and Kerry-Ann’s pale face is yours.”

“Deal,” said Eddie as he handed the muslin sack to Brian. “Now, Patience and I have to get off at the next stop, be sure the monkey gets a proper burial.” He put his hand on Patience’s knee and jostled it. “Come on sweetie, we got a dead girl to trade.”






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Pathetic Bob Questions My Liberal Politics

Pathetic Bob was using Bill The Cat as a channel into my office. “Yo, Em, weren’t you once a ’60s liberal?”

“Yeah Bob, I guess I was a ’60s liberal, now I’m a ’00s liberal. I am also a Libertarian,  a conservative, an agnostic, a mammal, a damn fine dancer, a platonic animal lover and an occasional asshole. I’m also an anti-Trump, common sense kind of guy. You can still have common sense and be liberal.”

“Whoa Big Em, what about your stance on the Viet Nam War?

I was in the military, and I hated the war. It was a war we should not have fought. Too many young men and women were killed, including some friends. Now I do admit I was for laying down our arms and living peacefully, but I realized that if we lay down our arms, what would happen? More war, that’s what, and this time it would be on our shores. If everyone laid down their guns, it would work, but everyone wouldn’t do that. So, I was wrong, but does that make me an Un-liberal? Today, my mantra is Bomb the fuck out of North Korea and the Taliban, Isis, and any other fucking group that wants to kill us.”

“Jesus, man, what do I know, I’m just a dog.”

Now, I felt bad. I’ve always told Bob part of the way to understanding a thing is to ask questions. “Look Bob, I’m sorry. I overreacted. You know I’ve supported liberal causes since before your grandma was a pup. I was one of the first people to support a cat’s right to be blasted into space when only chimps and dogs were allowed to do so.”

” Well, I wish you’d been more effective, ” said Bob a little forlornly

“And another thing Bob,” I added, “I was a supporter of gay rights in the ’60s. Why, when I was 18, I became a lesbian.”

“Is that why you sleep with the lovely Mrs. Em,” Bob asked.

“Uh…Yeah…but that’s not the point, Bob. The point is, I have always tried to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Power to the people! Right on.”

Bob looked a little confused by my use of the popular ’60s slogan. “what people?” he asked.

“Hmmm, you know, the people without any power…poor people.”

“Are you poor?” he wanted to know.

“Well, not exactly. I mean I’m not rich…actually…it’s all kinda relative, Bob.”

“If you have rich relatives, couldn’t they send you some money to give to the poor?”

“I don’t have any rich relative, BOB.” I was getting a little frustrated.

“You could give some of your money to your relatives,”

“Look, Bob, we give plenty of money to causes in which we believe.”

“Like what?”

“Like animal welfare groups, like underfed kids in Africa, like Gay Baby Seals for Christ. There’s more but, I’m gonna stop here. I’m kinda busy Bob. Why don’t you find Kieth the Duck and romp in the lake?”

“Romp? Jesus, you’re such an old fart.” he said as he was ready to shut down communication, he paused and said,”You know, Em, I think I’m a lesbian, too.”






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Why Dogs Aren’t Racist And Some Of You Are

When I got home from giving blood today (well, I actually wasn’t giving it, they were taking it), Pathetic Bob was channeling Bill The Cat. I was going to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee when Bob yelled out something racist: “Hey Whitey, drag you honky ass in here for a minute.”

I could have ignored him but my curiosity got the better of me. “Wazz up dog?” I said entering the office and playing along with Bob’s street-lingo serenade.

“Jeez Em, you gotta stop trying to act cool. Cool left your house back in the ’70s.”

“Fine Bob, I was just going with your flow. Why were you talking to me like that?”

“I was just practicing some racial epithets,” he said

“Why? They are offensive, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna have to cut the Bill the Cat connection.”

“Hell Em, they’re all over the place, the internet, movies, books, everywhere. They are not only offensive, they are defensive as well, a counter-verbal insurgency if you will. It is amazing how much words can inflame people.”

I nodded my head, “That’s true Bob, we tend to give way too much power.”

“No, we don’t. Humans do. The whole word power thing would be highly amusing if it weren’t for the tragic consequences that could arise from using one of them. I mean, if someone calls me a dog, even in a negative tone, I really don’t take offense. I am a dog, but the negative way they say it is supposed to make me believe that being a dog is somehow inferior. I don’t think that therefore it doesn’t get me pissed. Actually, the person that calls me a dog and tries to make it sound derogatory is the inferior one.”

“I know what you mean Bob. I’m an asshole, and it really doesn’t bother me when other people call me one. But, you know Bob, humans aren’t like the rest of the mammals; they don’t seem to know what they are, so they’ll listen to anybody who has an opinion, even if that opinion is based on fear, misunderstanding, and insecurity.

“It’s just weird, “said Bob, “homo sapiens pretty much hold dominion over every other species on the planet, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for them. First of all, they learned to kill animals to survive, and now they enjoy killing themselves because they don’t all look the same. Humans keep trying to live outside of nature, and it keeps screwing them up. If that wasn’t bad enough, you fuckers got the bright idea of selective breeding of my species so you could try to split the canine world apart. Luckily, it didn’t work. We are still nature-based creatures and realize whether you call us Poodles, bulldogs, or Italian greyhounds, we are all the same inside. Bullshit names have no meaning for us.”

“Are you saying that humans should embrace their inner mammal and not worry about labels and stereotypes?”

“No, you ignorant bi-pod, that is not what I’m saying. I am saying that unless all of you honkies, niggers, spics, wops, slopes, rag heads, hebes, mackerel snappers, Zen-hens, redskins, frogs, chinks, limeys, and fags quit dicking around and realize your need and wants and physiology are basically the same, and you need to work together, or your species is doomed.”

“Damn, Bob, that’s a pretty bleak assessment.”

“You are a pretty bleak species if you keep up with this racism crap.”