The Dog has lost his mind

Ordinarily, I try to avoid posting more than once about any given topic. I might be wrong about that, but then again, I don't really care.

So last night I am flipping through the channels in search of something worth watching. This is Olympic style channel surfing, not your average click click ahhh fuck there's nothing on. 10th dan Ninja Style Olympic quality uber-surfing requires near lightning reflexes and a sadly encyclopedic knowledge of everything that's been on, will be on, could have possibly been on and in some (most) cases, should never be on.

I've talked about the Dog before. My last post even received some sort of weird attempt at a flame. I chose not to hassle the gimp who dropped me that line because if you can't get sarcasm, then there is something wrong with your brain anyway and I don't really like to make fun of the handicapped. Not because shit ain't funny, but because God has a sense of humor and I am already going to come back as a mutant albino flipper baby. (Don't ask.)

The Dog and his family have become caricatures of themselves. It's bound to happen when you get ordinary people and put them on television. Ultimately they will come to believe their own press, imagine themselves greater than they are, envision themselves to be on top of the world. What they fail to recognize is that we are a society that will take geeks like that asian kid who can't sing and catapult them into the stratosphere, not because we think they are cool, but because we think it'll be cool to see them fall. There's a word for it. It's schadenfraude. It's a neat word, and I think sums up this and all my blogs pretty decently.

First off, Dog insists on calling his eldest kid 'youngblood'. This is so immensely, patently ridiculous I can't even find the words. I'd have to invent an entirely new language to point out how fucking retarded this sounds. If I am ever called youngblood more than once, and am not drunk when it happens the one time, there is going to be a serious conversation involving pointy objects and soft throats.

Then, there's the wife. I think she has gotten somehow shorter, and her breasts have gotten larger. Oh! And her fingernails. Her fingernails are definitely longer. She's so hot, it's like looking at the sun. A midget sun that's had too much plastic surgery. I think her breasts are as long as her arms now, which makes me wonder how she wears a bra. Probably doesn't have to, though, because of the iron struts put in there.

Then, then, there's the Dog himself. I don't know what kind of delusional world he is living in, but it's a pretty goddamned good one. He's cast himself in center spotlight, of course, because that is the only place a megalomaniacal solipsist belongs. He's got some kind of metal weave thing coming off one side of his hair. At first I thought it was some kind of mistake, that I'd missed something in the previous ten minutes of delicious air time, but no, it was there on purpose. Some kind of fashion accessory to enhance the already delicious mancandy aspect of the Dog. They're all busy chasing this suspect, of course, but this time they're having to deal with the police, who have to be pissing their blues because it's like the Keystone Cops have shown up in the form of Hawaiian hillbillies. Eventually the police decide they're not going to catch the guy so they bugger off, and then the Dog really kicks into action.

He takes off his bullet proof vest.

Meh, you say. Big deal.

Dog is not wearing a shirt.

That is right. Seminaked Dog running down highways and through bushes.

With bitchlets. (You might think of them as old man boobs.)

And that weird hair thing that I am now convinced is a Borg implant gone awry.

And youngblood beside him.

Now, I didn't know this, but Dog's dad wasn't a bichon frieze (heheheheheh look it up). NO! He was, in fact, some kind of ancient warrior from beyond time and space who taught Dog how to hunt, how to track, how to be one with the nature. Why is this important? Because Dog is going on and on about how his old man taught him how to hunt deer, and how to follow the tracks, and shit like that. Without his shirt on.

Ahhhhh, I can imagine it now. Dog and Dad, sitting in the soak tent, sharing the pipe, the uncomfortable tension of two super macho men building to a point that is unbearable, so powerful that it can't be broken but can be changed. Their eyes meet through the steam ...

GAH. The Dog and his weird group of Hawaiian hillbillies need to not be on television. I need to take some kind of mental diuretic to rid myself of giant boobs and little boobs, of youngblood and of hunterDog doing his thing without a shirt on....