The other day Diana and I were walking the dogs on the usual route: from our house down to the riverfront trail, along the river to the dike and back home again. You run in to all kinds of people. A couple of weeks ago I happened upon three native Indians. Two were in full ceremonial creep-the-hell-out-of-me dress, complete with staffs with what looked nothing short of shruken heads with staw hair impaled atop the sticks, and the other was dressed in street clothes akin to a union rep. As I approached, the union rep acknowledged me but the satan worshippers turned their backs to face the river. I have no doubt they cast evil spells on me and my dogs so we are set to be exorcised next Thursday.

Anway, this particular walk with Diana we came across off-leash dog people. When you say that in your head think, “smokers”, or, “child molesters”. Now you must remember (or be informed) we have a new puppy whom we found via That’ll Do Border Collie Rescue. Bandit came from a bad situation in Montana but that is a whole other story. The off-leash dog people don’t know this, nor do we expect them to, nor should they assume everyone elses dogs are as perfect as their flea-bag mutt. As we approached, Diana attempted to keep Bandit under control as she can be unpredictable around other dogs (she loves to play). The guy (there was a guy and a gal) assured us his dog was friendly. He knows this because he speaks dog and regularly communes with other woodland creatures in the region. As half predicted Bandit lunged and barked at the off-leash dog. I don’t recall what the guy said, something like, “hey hey hey”, as though he was Fat Albert or something. Then he lectured Diana on how we’d never train Bandit to be as perfect as his off-leash angel and how we should want our dog to be friendly. Bandit is very friendly, we’re just not interested in seeing her get injured by a strange dog in a play fight gone wrong. Diana told the chain smoking child molester Bandit is our dog and we’ll train her how we like. The whole exchange was awkward but ended with both parties muttering to one another as we continued on in opposite directions. I silently wished the witch doctors were there to cast spells on them or at least put them on a picket line with no strike pay.

Diana and I grumbled about this for a couple hundred yards and then for some reason I remembered being at a restaurant and asking the server how the lamb special was.

“Oh, I don’t eat meat” she responded.

“Kindly step down off your soap box and lie to me about the fucking lamb you hippie”, I replied (or would have if I had a time machine).

The point is, I’m constantly amazed how people feel the need to inject their personal politics into every encounter with a stranger.

How dare they when only my personal politics matter?

Via Fark:

To the tune of Candle in the Wind:

Goodbye Vickie Lynn
Though I never knew you at all
You had the face to get the guys
While those around you crawled
They sat in “sniffer’s row”
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the dance pole
And they made you change your name

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a ho in a trailer park
Always knowing who to cling to
And who to fark
And I’d have really liked to have boned you
But I have my pride
You drank and drugged WAY too much
You hurled and then you died

Loneliness was tough
So you opened up your legs
Playboy created a superstar
And the old man paid and paid
Even when you died
Oh the press still hounded you
All the ‘net had to say
Was that Anna Nicole had choked on her spew

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a ho in a trailer park
Always knowing who to cling to
And who to fark
And I’d have really liked to have boned you
But I have my pride
You drank and drugged WAY too much
You hurled and then you died

Goodbye Vickie Lynn
From the man behind a keyboard
Who sees you as a dirigible
More than just our Anna Nicole

(by a random Farker with the handle The Onanist.)