Anarking

Lactose Intolerance

So I have this friend who shares similar opinions about this fantastic government of ours as yours truly. He’s more of a corpro-anarchist than I feel comfortable being but is a lot more realistic then most of his fellow voting constituency. Well he has been out on assignment for this past week so as I favor I took over some of his duties like moving his car during alternate side parking days, feeding his cat, watching his house and delivering his special milk. While he is not a milkman he is a die hard libertarian who thinks little of the FDA. Who can blame him? I mean what good is a agency that is supposed to protect us from belly aches while at the same time allowing measurable amounts of rat shit and rat hairs to be in food. Look I don’t really care if there is poop in my food I usually wash it and if I don’t whatever but I do care that the government creates seemingly arbitrary rules and decides what we can or can’t consume. I don’t need a mommy or a nanny anymore and I sure as hell don’t want a nanny-state. So if i want to buy and eat cheese that has not been pasteurized that should be up to me and my wallet.

So because this milk is rare to say the least certain types of people get it. Many of these people tend to be ok but then there are those who feel entitled. Entitled to piss me the fuck off.

Here is a sample of people who are drawn to this silly endeavor:

Old Lady Save a Nickle - Last time she came to pick it up she was short $2 so I loaned it to her knowing fill well that I would never see it again, but I figure oh well I can help out a kindly old lady. Well little did I know that this old bag was cheapskate out to save herself some bingo coinage. She came back this time with a story of her being owed $0.50 from last time and so that is why she didn’t have it. Again I gave her the milk but also reminded her of the time I dropped $2 out of my own coiffures so that she can get her vitamin D fix. She claimed not to remember. Funny thing about old peoples memory, it seems to falter when they need to pay up but is sharp as a tack when the social security check comes up light.

Grumpy old bastard - This guy always complains and makes it difficult for me to do math in my head. It’s like he can’t comprehend that I just don’t give a fuck about his milk going sour or his order being wrong. He insisted on letting me know that he has been a patron for 3 of his miserable yeas and I continued to not give a rats furry balls about it.

The Converter - This guy will not stop talking about the health benefits and how it cured him of aids and stopped martians from setting up a colony in his anus. ENOUGH I GET IT! You love this milk so much you go home paint your self up too look like a cow and pour it over you body while massaging it into your pores. It usually ends with them asking me if I too love it, and that’s my cue to make him storm off like a dumped prom queen. “No I never touch the stuff it smells too much like goat shit, I much more prefer generic brand soy milk.”

Then there is the well to do skank who arrives after the pick up cut off and gets all huffy when I don’t break my neck going down the stairs to take care of her bottomless needs. Sorry, I figured you weren’t coming so I indulged my self in a bit of deification. She also gives me a hundred like I’m some sort of goddamn change machine so I have to run around looking under couch cushions for change then when I come back with a fistful of nickles she makes a face like she walked in on me getting it on with her Yorkshire terrier.

Is February Over Yet

Man, for being the shortest month it sure drags on. I’ve come to far to stop short now and not fulfill my obligation to Blog History Month. Although finding interesting/funny things to write about on a daily basis is almost impossible. No wonder family circus sucks so much balls.

Speaking of comic strips, I have been told by a recent pestering friend that I don’t draw as much as I should. He’s right, I don’t, he’s also a cock for bringing it up because now I will have to do a comic per week in March just to prove him wrong. What you think I would draw a comic per day? God Lord, have you lost all your senses? Drawing a comic a day would require a full days work and I already have that. Writing a blog entry is usually no more than an hour and even that is eating into my hulu/porn time. So I pronounce March, I Draws Stuff Month.

Other random thoughts I had today:

• why am I not living and an island yet?
• pandas are such fucken pussies
• What makes people that do yoga think they are hot shit when gymnasts can do all the same stuff but higher in the air
• dogs are the perfect pet why would you domesticate cats, pygmy goats I get but cats, give me a break
• why do I live in an area that won’t let me own a pygmy goat?
• I would name it Pentagrammy and teach it to attack Mormons
• am I coming down with S.A.D. cause if I was that would really bum me out?
• I think life is pretty short so do I still live in a place not even the denizens of Hoth would frequent
• will artists be replaced by robots. I ain’t buying no goddamn robart that’s for sure.
• is denying robots certain jobs racist
• snow is prettier when you can just look at it and not interact with it.
• I wonder how may pounds of bugs do Americans unwittingly consume per year

Back to watching hulu/dirty girls in provocative poses.

It’s about the music, MAAAAHN!

The weird thing about grieving is that it makes you feel strangely immune to most people and there conversations. It gets kind of comical to hear somebody bitch about something work related that frustrates them all while thinking to yourself, “motherfucker my dog just died and you are pissed off because you don’t agree about how people are talking about a product.” It almost makes you feel superior like you just reached nirvana while the guy next to you is flipping out because the salad bar is out of Kalmata olives.

This weekend is the best example of one of these experiences when I heard a 45 year old dude say, “you know, maybe I should become a yoga instructor”. I’m all for career changes but the reason he wanted to be a yoga instructor was because his band was failing, and his band was failing because he couldn’t book any gigs, because he couldn’t draw a crowd, because he doesn’t think he should put on a performance, because he is a musician. It was like I was forced to witness some sort of aging hipster circle jerk.

Ever since my friends in high school started having bands I wanted to be a band manager. I couldn’t sing or play the guitar very well so I felt a bit left out when my best friend would go off and rehearse a shitty local high school band. One of these bands had a lead singer who worshiped prepubescent nasally sounds of Getty Lee and thought of himself as a little Jello Biafra. He was neither so I had sex with his girlfriend, yeah I guess there was some teenage anger there I suppose.

Moving on. I was enthralled with Malcolm McLaren.

He wasn’t a great person or a particularly good one but he made people want what they never heard of. He took a bunch of snot nosed kids and created not only a legendary band but an entire movement that propelled this band without the aid of radio or corporate backing. And once corporate backing happened he took the money and ran, he was one of the few people to flip the tables on the music industry and bend them over the recliner. It’s usually the other way around and the band is not only raped by a huge music monster, like Warner or EMI, but also forced to pay for the lube. I wanted to be him, I wanted to take these local shitty bands and make them huge not because of their talent or good looks but because I wanted to be a grand conductor in the spectacle that is the live performance.

It’s too bad most musicians don’t realize that what differentiates a good show for being a legendary show is the raw energy and ridiculousness of it all. So when this aging hipster told me that he hated the industry and did not think that concerts should be a flamboyant extravaganza, well that’s when I realized that he just didn’t get it, never would, and maybe teaching bored housewives and bartenders how to transition from Upward Facing Dog to Swaying Fart Knocker might not be such a bad idea.

Morning

I’ve had better weekends. I was pretty numb to most of the world, just sleeping, sleeping helps. I kept hugging Caesar, Caesar also helps. I did have some fellow non-breeder friends come by on Saturday with pizzas and their awesome dog, that helped as well. Other things that helped were boxing, wine, caffeine, chocolate and music:

All in all I was a huge downer for most of the weekend but I guess that’s grief for you. I don’t really feel like writing, you understand.

I think I can start moving on. the wife and I talked about adopting another dog.

Bad thing: Conclusion

While writing my blog post last night I kept looking over at Jet who was on the foot stool next to me. I was really starting to worry he would not make the night but I figured he would make some noise when the time for him to join the great dog park came. The thing with dogs is that they don’t show pain unless it’s really bad. This may be residual from days long past when the roamed in pack and would get left behind if the pack leader decided they were slowing them down. So while Jets stomach filled up with blood from the ruptured tumor he held a stiff upper lip. Ever stoic Jet he was fooling me the whole time but one of his glances at me betrayed him. I saw what could have been exhaustion or pain or something that triggered me to wrap him in a blanket and take him to the local emergency animal hospital.

He was limp in my arms. Breathing shallowly and vomiting occasionally. I lied to him, I kept telling him to hang in there that everything will be okay, but is it really a lie if we both the truth. As I carried him into Animal 911 snow started falling and there was calmness inside and out. The vet looked at him and with out saying a word rushed him to the back where I was not allowed to follow. So I sat in room 1 looking at my sister cry and the awful pet themed photos and paintings. This was the end game.

We were given 2 options operate or euthanize. Operate would mean he would be in pain recovering for about a solid month, part of his liver and most of his spleen would be removed and the chances of him lasting more than a week after the operation or even surviving the operation we slim at best. I did not want him to be in pain any longer, he was a brave dog so I had to return the favor. We got to say goodbye one last time. I told him that he was the best dog anyone could ask for and as the vet injected the overdose of anesthetic I just kept petting him and telling him he was a good dog. As I was petting him the vet took out her stethoscope, I knew what that meant and became deaf and numb for a little while.

As we left the snow really started picking up and I wondered where he was. Even though I question religion, I’m glad it exists because it really helps to think of his puppy soul mingling with other puppy souls somewhere in space. He loved meeting new dogs and was on his way. His one last escape proved to be his most successful.

It still hurts. I see Caesar and think that Jet should be right behind him, but he is not. So I just hold on to Caes, and that helps a little.

Goddammit.

Bad thing

There is a very good chance my dog, Jet, may have liver cancer. I will find out more tomorrow but currently he is not doing too well. He won’t eat and drinks water the whole time but then vomits it out. He is too weak to stand, breathing heavy and looks at me with knowing eyes. Like he is trying to tell me to be strong. We got a x-ray done which has revealed a large mass in his lower abdomen and the vet said the prognosis is pretty bleak.

Jet has been my first real dog although he is really my sisters. When we first got him he was pretty much all black and my sister wanted to call him Shadow and then Secret but luckily for him I suggested Jet and it stuck. As she grew up so did Jet. He was there for her when I couldn’t be and for that I am more grateful then his little puppy brain can comprehend. When she went to college he stayed back with my parents and was spoiled rotten by them.

I am going to another vet tomorrow to get a second opinion and maybe a biopsy.

This is turning into a spectacularly shitty weekend.