I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Thoughts on killing your girlfriend’s dog (and making it look like a suicide)

Buddy the dog after he killed Santa for his cookies and stole his hat
If you’re a hypersensitive freak like I am, you undoubtedly get really fucking annoyed at things like; people chewing, breathing, speaking loudly, or just being alive and around you. Speaking of chewing, please Kit Kat, end those, nails down a chalkboard, crunching commercials. You know the ones, the overly-exaggerated sounds of people snapping open the bar and shoving it in their mouths and chewing with a ridiculous amount of decibels.

Anyway, the sounds I hate most in the world are that of animals being animals. For instance, dogs licking themselves. It doesn’t matter which part of the dog’s stupid body that they lick, it all sounds like an old lady slurping the world’s hottest cup of coffee.

I know a certain dog, let’s call him Buddy. I know, very inventive name. It’s like naming your son, Son. At any rate, Buddy does whatever he can to annoy the living fuck out of me. If there’s a noise that his dog body is able to make, he makes it. Just for me. He especially loves to lick his chops in the middle of the night. That extra long dog tongue comes out and licks from ear-to-ear. Somehow, Buddy is able to make a “sighing” sound to express his boredom. To wake you up in the morning-on Saturdays, the fucker will scrape his front claws on the door frame.

Suffice it to say, I’ve had many thoughts about killing this beast. My latest theory is that if I make Buddy’s death look like a suicide, I won’t go to jail.

Not to get too graphic here, but my first plan is to put Buddy in the bathtub. Maybe light some candles, put on a little Who Let the Dogs Out?, and slash his wrist. Then I thought, “Buddy hates taking a bath, he’d never kill himself that way.”

We all know that if a dog could wield a knife, it would stab you in the neck for your hamburger. And we all know that chocolate is deadly to dogs. What if Buddy, looking back on his life, felt he hadn’t accomplished any of his doggy goals, and he just couldn’t take it? I readily have copious amounts of sleeping pills lying around. Buddy would wrap like ten of those suckers in Baker’s chocolate, you know, because dogs are too stupid to swallow pills, and start chomping away. Then I thought, “Buddy doesn’t have opposable thumbs, he couldn’t possibly wrap the pills in chocolate.”

Finally, I found the right way for Buddy to commit suicide. Buddy loves rotisserie chicken. In fact, he labors under the delusion that one will just magically appear in the recycle bin every morning. And he’ll scratch at the back door every morning to check for just that. What better way to take care of my “dog issues” than to just leave a whole chicken right on the counter where he can easily reach it. He does get on his hind legs and scarf anything that’s close to the edge. This is fucking perfect. He’d eat that chicken in one gulp and choke to death.

What would his suicide note say? “Sorry, Eric,” and a greasy paw print? Or maybe, “Humans, I know that there’s a barbeque rotisserie chicken on the counter. I can’t control my cravings any longer. Goodbye cold, cruel world.”

There you have it.

*No actual animals were harmed in this post, unfortunately.

DBM music reviews

In my never ending struggle to find music that doesn't suck, I've recently made a few album purchases.

Marilyn Manson:
The Pale Emperor 

Genre-wise, I would call TPE more of a traditional rock album with just a little smattering of Industrial elements. Unfortunately, most of the tracks sound alike. It really reminds me of some of the songs on Marilyn's ex-cohort Tim Skold's Anomie. The more traditional rock tunes that is. I seem to have an affliction to plain old boring guitar, bass, drums and a singer lately. There has to be something extra mixed in there to separate from the past 50 years of rock n roll. Replay value: 3.(Amount of replays before one gets sick of it).

Next up, we have Emigrate: Silent so Long. A side project of Rammstein guitarist, Richard Z. Kruspe. You know the Germans always make good shit. There are also a few guests on the album, most notably, Marilyn Manson. SSL has some really good tracks. Most notably, "Hypothetical" (featuring Marilyn Manson), "Silent So Long," and "Born On My Own."

 This album leans far toward the Industrial Rock spectrum. Replay value: probably unlimited.
Growing up, The Old Man would always impart dumb and sometimes grammatically incorrect life advice to me, such as, "Don't never say can't," and "Stop wishing your life away." I, being the pain in the ass that I am, would say things like, "I can't give birth," or "I wish I wasn't working in this disgusting HUD house with you."

The Old Man has also carried with him through the years, the slang and vernacular of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. You should hear him. He's a barely walking encyclopedia of an era long gone past.

Sayings like, "Boy, aren't you a tall drink of water." I can only assume this means something like, wow, it's refreshing that you're pretty and not a short ugly troll. Or The Old Man using, "Broad" when referring to a woman. Mostly, preceded by "Dumb."

The Old Man is also a master at hitting on waitresses in restaurants. It seems that in the past, women were more susceptible to getting ogled by men. Now, you're just as likely to get maced. For example, this is a standard occurrence:

Waitress: "Hi, my name is Kim. I'll be taking care of you today, how are you doing?"

The Old Man: "Better now!" Our eyes commence to rolling.

Now, The Old Man has a long history of forgetting people's names. He would come up with inventive names to cover for it. The most famous of these names is, Joe Matarotz. No one knows for sure if Joe is an actual person or not. Maybe The Old Man knew him in say, Korea. But here's the usual scenario:

Nameless guy in a store/restaurant/bar: "Hey, Al, how are you holding up?"

The Old Man: Hey, Joe Matarotz, how ya doin'?"

Unfortunately, Sammy thinks this is hilarious and uses the name of Joe Matarotz in every occurrence he can.

The Old Man has spent years speaking broken German to us. As I recall, dad's grandfather spoke German to him. The Old Woman would attest to The Old Man's German heritage. Mom would always say, "He's a friggen' Nazi!" And she always called him a "Nazi bitch" for some reason. Anyway, I have tried to pass on the German phrases I've picked up along the way to Sammy. I would write some of them here, but Craig won't be able to pronounce them. Obviously, my love for all things WWII comes from The Old Man. As far back as I can remember, he would sit there at night with his saltine crackers and sharp cheese watching The World at War. Nothing will make me prouder than someday, Sammy watching Nazis on TV with his son.

So, there you have it. The Old Man is definitely one of a kind. I'm sorry I can't be there, and I wish The Old Man a Happy Birthday.