Boris

It has been a long and dismal few months. Our wonderful dog, Boris, passed away with cancer at 14 years old. Our whole world went dark. I realized that yet again I have lost a treasured part of my identity: Boris’s mom.

With the new silence in our house, we began to contemplate getting another dog. No dog could replace Boris, the sweetest most soulful Australian Shepherd. But I’ve had four dogs in my adult life and loved each one for their unique qualities. So we started looking.

We hoped for another Aussie. For one thing, they are just beautiful, and because we are shallow, we enjoyed the compliments each time we went out with Boris. We also loved the intelligence and loyalty of herding dogs.

We searched adoption pages and found Pepper, a 4 year old Aussie who was described as adventurous, smart, loving, great on walks and in the car. We drove for 90 minutes to meet her at the home of a rescue lady who had 20 dogs inside her sprawling ranch house. Sorry for writing “sprawling ranch house” but I’m in a hurry to get through this story.

Pepper jumped on us and seemed pretty wild but we were assured that she was just excited. We paid $600 for Pepper and signed a contract.

Driving home, Pepper barked and struggled to get into the front seat all the way home.

Once home, Pepper bounced off the walls. She was happy to jump on the couch for affectionate petting, but impossible to control. The next day, she was even wilder. She was supposed to know some commands but wouldn’t acknowledge any. She was an ordeal to walk. She started giving me hard, unblinking looks. She jumped over me on the couch, nearly knocking me over. She attacked her dog-bed, dragging  it around the house and growling.

So we called the rescue lady and said we couldn’t deal with Pepper. On the drive back, Pepper kept jumping on my thighs in her effort to get into the front seat. and we were rear ended by an SUV. The rescue lady could barely restrain Pepper when she took the leash. We felt giddy with relief when we drove off to Starbucks, the bruises blooming on my thighs.

Next, we got Zoey, who was extremely loving but would not stop grabbing our legs and fiercely humping us. Zoey could bark for hours, literally, without a break. She started chewing up the dog-bed. The humping got more aggressive. Luckily, this rescue girl wanted us to spend a couple of days with Zoey to see if we were a good fit. A nice wealthy family came to meet Zoey at our house, and drove off with her, hoping for the best. May god be with them.

We continued our search and contacted the owners of two dogs they needed to “rehome”: Roxy, who was described as lovable and gentle but not good with dominant dogs. And Kora, a 4 year old mini Aussie who was described as sweet and happy to lie around all day.

On a Saturday, we met Roxy in a park with her owners. They were a young couple who had raised Roxie and were now expecting a second child. They didn’t have the time to “give her the attention” she needed. They told us how she barked at animals on TV, including the Charmin cartoon bear! How adorable, we thought.

Tired of this yet? Me too! Roxy was great in the car. Back home, she humped us even more aggressively that Zoey. She jumped on us and vigorously humped our legs. She jumped on the couch and thrust her butt in my face. She became hysterical when a dog barked on TV, and clawed at the screen.

Nevertheless, we kept our appointment to meet Kora, the mini, which was love at first sight. I couldn’t believe she was real! I rubbed her tummy and marveled at her cuteness. She sat in my lap like a baby on the drive home. I was and still am ready to marry her.

Kora, my betrothed

But then. I walked with Kora into the kitchen to give her a dog treat. Roxy barrelled into the room, snatched away the treat and attacked Kora. The panicked squealing and angry growling was terrifying. I managed to separate them with my foot and checked to see if Kora was hurt.  She seemed okay but wouldn’t eat for the next day and a half.

Now our TV screen was ruined and we had to sleep with Kora in our bed to protect her. I texted Roxy’s owners after 2 days of this and said that “aggressive” wasn’t the same as “gentle.” The girl wrote, “Nonetheless, we have said our goodbye’s and are not taking her back.”

Now we are up to date. The two dogs are okay together but have to be fed in separate rooms and Kora can’t have any treats or toys. We are still sleeping with Kora and afraid to leave them alone together, so we can’t go out.

Roxy and Kora

We have contacted a million adoption places but no one will foster a dog who needs to be an only dog. Who can blame them? A lady who was excited to meet Roxy changed her mind when I informed her about Roxy’s “resource guarding.” I sought to rehome Roxy on a neighborhood Facebook page, where everyone scolded and lectured me for not “doing my research on Aussies” etc etc. Their grammar was terrible.

No one wants this fucking dog and neither do I. I have come to hate this poor innocent dog whose owner fucked her up by not socializing her early on. I can’t help it. I just hate her.

Walking Kora in the neighborhood yesterday, I stopped and chatted with a new neighbor. She weighs around 250 pounds, displayed in a tiny sundress despite her advanced age. She told me about her popularity with men, “because I’m sexy.”

Because I’m Sexy will haunt me forever. Who says stuff like that?? Because I’m a monster, I’m planning to take Roxy to an animal shelter, still wearing the original owner’s  dog-tags. Let them pick her up or explain that they’ve already said their goodbyes.

Did you know that a Senate rule was changed JUST FOR KYRSTEN, that allowed her to show her bare arms on the senate floor? Kyrsten is a triathlete, so she needs to show them. I’m not making this up; Amy Klobuchar helped pass the new rule on this basis.

Would it be a cheap shot to denigrate those arms? Or to say that she’s no Michelle Obama, armwise? Fine. I won’t say it.

Ordinarily, it would be wrong to judge political figures based on their clothing choices, but Kyrsten is demanding that we react. With the denim vest, she is openly trolling us. She is saying, “You think I’m a piece of work? Ha, try THIS!” So if she’s failed to capture one single person’s attention, now she has it.

This bitch is a mean one. Why won’t she let us move ahead…she doesn’t live in a coal state for fucksake. The Dems are wringing their hands about her but it’s not like she was a Trojan Horse. Look at the red flags!

Here she is at her swearing in.

She is clearly a Dom. She will hurt you. She wants to hurt you.

Here she is…I don’t know, you tell me.

Below, at the impeachment hearing. Caped crusader? Flying nun? Mighty Mouse?

More recently, at a couple of infrastructure meetings, she turns to florals, as if saying, “Fuck you all, next time I’ma wear pj’s.”

In case anyone is thinking sexism, no. Jim “gymnasium” Jordan is another outfit troll and he too is either a Cunt or a Nutcase. Cunt, actually. If a man pursued attention via wacky get-ups as strenuously as Sinema does, we would ridicule him as well. In fact, I’d love to see some guy try it. (calling Lindsey!)

Once a member of the Green party, Sinema was ranked by GovTrack.us, (a nonpartisan organization that tracks government data and statistics) 47th on a conservative-to-liberal scale, which is based on lawmakers’ 2019 legislative records. Her response? Her decisions are “based on what’s right for Arizona, not on party politics.” She is to the right of Mitch McConnell! Jesus Christ with this woman! I can’t even can’t.

Okay, Cunt or Nutcase, you decide. And enjoy her hair flipping below.

Dear stupid cunt from Texas,

Will you get a fucking grip on yourself and stop harassing me after almost ten fucking years?

What will it take to shut you up? Why don’t you have anything better to do? Do you read my blog when you’re feeling bad about your life? I understand those feelings, but not the depths of your malice toward a stranger.

HOW CAN YOU BRING UP THE LOSS OF MY SON??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Your other comments about what a piece of garbage I am, how much you hate middle-aged married white woman, all that crap is fine. Even though I’m actually an elderly jew, close enough.

But my son is off limits. My grief is too. I want you to own up to triggering my god damn fucking PTSD. I’m talking to you, Ariella C. Villa or Monique L. Roberts of Texas.

Both of you have tormented me enough. Whichever one of you fucking lunatics is responsible for this latest, just be the big Beyonce-loving piece of shit you are and admit it.

Thanks, you fat dumbass coward.

Love, Sister Wolf.

I’ve nurtured an irrational hatred for Amal Clooney since I first heard of her engagement to George. The portrait of Amal in the current issue of Vogue magazine is a cornucopia of enraging new tidbits. I love how she invites a traumatized Syrian refugee to visit her English palace on the day of her interview with the fawning Vogue journalist.

I love how a nanny produces the Clooney infant twins for Amal to coo at, in between outfit changes.

I love how Amal had to put in a veritable forest of trees to obscure the view of her palace from the riffraff. I love how unapologetic she is about her consumption of couture fashion. And I super love how she manages to look awful no matter how much money she spends. If she would only eat!

But reading about her noble support of refugees, my thoughts turned to George, who just sold his Tequila company and reaped over $200 million for his share in it. We all know what a humanitarian George is, so I googled his name along with the word “refugees.”Lo and behold, George Clooney started The Clooney Foundation For Justice with his wife…

to advance justice for marginalized and vulnerable communities targeted by hate; justice for displaced children deprived of opportunities to learn; justice for refugees seeking to rebuild their lives abroad.

George is not just talk, no sir. In fact, he has been subsidizing a Yazidi Iraqi immigrant who’s been living in George’s Kentucky house while going to college! The guy’s name is Hazim. He seems really nice. If you google George Clooney, you will see that ten thousand news organizations have run the touching story of Clooney’s big heart in helping Hazim to succeed in America.

Why Kentucky instead of one of Clooney’s other properties? Because the Clooney’s don’t live there. And George’s parents are nearby in case Hazim needs anything! How nice for George’s parents to have access to their own immigrant, as it were.

On the foundation’s website, under the Refugee Resettlement Project, we learn about Hazim, followed with this:

To support our program and/or to refer participants to it, please send relevant details to us at info@cfj.org.

So, send some money or help them resettle refugees ONE AT A TIME, according to merit.

George cares deeply about the state of the world, so he gets $40 million for being the celebrity face of Nescafe. Nescafe, of course, is a subsidiary of Nestle, one of the world’s most egregious corporations in terms of child slave labor, privatizing water, international health threats, etc.

If George wasn’t so busy positioning himself for President (or Ambassador?), he could do his homework. He could be mad at Amal’s Lebanese family for their antisemitism and arms dealing.

Why can’t  he just settle down with a nice guy he genuinely loves, like his pal, ahem, Randee Gerber, instead of this silly charade with Amal?

Wait, I strayed too far from Amal. Last week, she infuriated Tom Ford and Anna Wintour by electing to wear a crazy outfit by It-Boy Richard Quinn on the Met Gala red carpet, instead of the gown Ford made for her. The last minute change of dress was taken as a huge insult to Ford, who asked that she return the dress to be used for another red carpet event. But no. Amal changed into the Ford dress during the gala! Having got the attention with Quinn’s goofy costume, she could now relax.

I think George Clooney has made a deal with the devil who won’t wear Tom Ford. This bitch will run through his money in five years if he doesn’t up his corporate shill game. And if you think the Clooneys are a real love match, I don’t know, take it up with his exes, who describe him as “more like a father.”

If you’re going, “But remember George’s tireless support for South Sudan!” read this.

Cunt.

Thoughts, complaints, counter-arguments?

He will dismantle public education, health care, environmental protection, voting rights, public housing, and then he will blow up the whole world!

Great choice, republicans.

Now, we can duck and cover, take to the streets, call for impeachment, pray he has a fatal heart attack or pretend this is all a dream.

Moving to Canada won’t help.

Every day, all day long, what a fucking cunt.

Follow the corruption here.

It’s childish looking because I was pretty stoned and I decided to use what I had at hand: sharpies, nail polish, and some little holiday stickers that came with some junk mail.

I think it’s pretty good! Here’s a close up:

I went with Amanda’s suggestion, but all of them were great. If things escalate, I’ll choose another one your entries (unless I’m in an internment camp somewhere.)

Thanks!  XOXO

I was just recoiling from the word “lady”when used in neologisms like ladyboss or lady-parts, when I came across this horrifying tidbit about the Vagina Monologues:

Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologue “Reclaiming Cunt” spells out every letter and encourages the audience to see the word as beautiful, powerful and sexy rather than disgusting, degrading and ugly. In one of the most powerful pieces of theatre I’ve seen, the audience is invited to chant the word “cunt” back at the person delivering the monologue.

God. I had no idea.

That’s theater, yelling ‘cunt?’

Not a day goes by that I don’t yell Cunt, several times in fact, either at the TV or my computer. I can’t believe that cunt is still such a big deal. But it is, according to the Guardian:

“Cunt” is still regarded as the most shocking word in the English language. Its consonants are acerbically hard, its meaning unequivocal.

Its meaning is unequivocal?? Not at all. Often, it just means “dude” as in “some cunt took my parking space.” Other times, it might mean bitch, like “Look at what that cunt Hillary just said about Bernie.”

If the Guardian thinks it means “vagina,” that’s just stupid. No one uses ‘cunt’ that way. And if they did, so what?

Why is ‘cunt’ worse than”pussy?” I guess I’ll never understand the negative power of a word I find so useful and even fun!

Getting back to “lady” though, ugh, horrible. Remember ladyboner? Horrible. Ladyboy is kind of cute, though, because it’s confusing or because Amy Winehouse used it, but otherwise lady-anything is just grating to my ear and somehow repulsive.

Here are the other words that have bothered me this week:

jettisoned (used by a blogger who meant ‘threw away’)
China (as enunciated by Donal Trump)
crossbody (a type of handbag)
sneaks (for sneakers, ew!)
substantive (quick. try saying it 3 times)
intersectional ( pc gibberish)

Your turn, if you’ve got anything.

The schlonging finally got me.

It’s just too much. The schlonging and the taunt about Hillary Clinton going to the bathroom. The Wall Street Journal calls it ‘potty talk.’

Potty Talk, from a Presidential candidate???

How can we take this, every day, more and more, and still feel like decent human beings? Or even semi-decent?

Every politician and news person who doesn’t object to this shit is complicit somehow.

They need to stand up as one and say, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU MORON!”

The immigrant hating, woman fearing, lying, egotistical stupidity is part of it but not all.

It’s like there’s a hidden factor that elevates Donald Trump from a standard cunt to an actual monster.

What is it, and is it the ‘secret’ to his appeal?

I don’t think his appeal is a mystery actually, it’s just the number of Americans who respond to infantile stupidity that comes as a surprise to the rest of us. We’d like to think that racist, hate-filled, drooling cretins are a small minority, but no. Trump is like a mirror of their own ignorance and repulsiveness, and they are mesmerized by the reflection.

The schlonging sent me looking for Yiddish words to throw back at him but nothing seems adequate to describe how deeply objectionable this cunt is.

‘Traif’ is the best I could come up with, but now I’ve discovered ‘vyzoso,’ a Yiddish word that means both idiot and penis!

If you know a better word, in any language, please, let’s hear it.

Death Cafe is sort of a coffee klatch for would-be coroners. At present, it’s more of a movement than a physical space, with pop-up Death Cafe’s in 31 countries.

Here’s how Death Cafe defines itself:

At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’

How nice! Because, who doesn’t like death? You can never have enough death, evidently. But here’s what Death Cafe isn’t:

It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.

It’s not a spelling class either, but that’s okay. What isn’t okay for me is the concept of death as something cool because, you know, it’s so dark and transgressive. It’s like one big memento mori festival, full of arty skull motifs and and Victorian post-mortem photos.

Death Cafe is a ‘social franchise’. This means that people who sign up to our guide and principles can use the name Death Cafe, post events to this website and talk to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe.

Yay, we can all host a Death Cafe if we follow the guidelines. I like this one: The main qualities of a host are enthusiasm for talking about death and dying and high ethical standards. That rules me out, since I have ethics but no enthusiasm.

I’m aware that a fetishistic interest in morbid things has long been a feature of hipsterism.  Taxidermy, Day of the Dead artifacts, the Morbid Anatomy Museum, zombies, all those tumblr pictures of dead girls in bathtubs. I get that it seems cool to embrace the taboo.

But this Death Cafe thing, no. A big No.

What a bunch of fatuous fuckers.

Cat Cafes, fine. *Baby Cafes, even better (*as soon as I get the idea off the ground. Contact me if you want to fund my business plan!)

Death is a drag and there’s already so much of it. It isn’t really cute. Let’s not trivialize it.

Let’s start with the men. Guys, don’t wear your hair up! If you’re a Sumo wrestler, fine, otherwise, never.

This douche above turned out to be the horrible Edward Zero character, but his name is Alex Ebert and he won a music award.  Jared Leto wore his long hair in a bun/pony tail that I wanted to undo in private, no matter how crazy he is.

Robert Redford doesn’t mind looking like a 200 year old tortoise, whereas Michael Douglas still believes he’s a hottie, even after complaining about his wife’s vag.

The men to have sex with were Idris Elba and Collin Farrell. The men to ridicule are the sanctimonious cunts of U2, who made it clear that they supported Nelson Mandela long before you did. You are nothing compared to them and don’t forget it!

Liev Schreiber cried like a baby and someone who was either Puff Daddy or Jay Z was on hand for no discernible reason.

Leaving the men behind, let’s move on to the weirdest moment : Jacqueline Bisset was  a portrait of  proudly un-botoxed beauty who then lost points for being either nuts or drunk. She seemed more bitter than triumphant, but delivered the most uncomfortable appearance since Lauren Bacall’s stroke. In the audience, Jessica Lange’s face-lift registered seething anger at losing to Bisset.

Sandra Bullock wore the worst dress, unless you prefer Julia Roberts in that category. Robin Penn Warren looked like a sleek man, and Olivia Wilde looked like a shimmering pregnant mermaid – gorgeous!

Diane Keaton contrasted her beautifully thick poufy hair with a wrinkly smoker’s face and almost pulled off a certain dignified charm until she sang a Girl Scout song in a crazy little girl voice.

Red lipstick was in short supply compared to last year. Cate Blanchett wore a nice blue-red, Juliette Binoche wore a bright red that was too orangey for her teeth, and Drew Barrymore chose a vivid fluorescent red that may have been MAC Ruby Woo or Beso by Stilla.

Now I’m worn out. What did I forget?