A Boy Named Charlie Brown
Peter Robbins, a 56 year old apartment manager undergoing treatment for drug and alcohol addiction who was recently sentenced to a year in prison for threatening his former girlfriend and stalking her plastic surgeon. The only thing noteworthy about this story is that Mr. Robbins' claim to fame is that he was the original voice of Charlie Brown in the Peanuts television specials A Charlie Brown Christmas and It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown as well as the animated feature film A Boy Named Charlie Brown before his voice broke and he descended into anonymity (his last acting role was in 1972 when he was 16). Ironically, Mr. Robbins is exactly the kind of train wreck you would expect Charlie Brown to grow up into, since a childhood of having footballs snatched away from you and seeking out psychiatric help from unlicensed quacks who charge five cents a session is going to take its toll in some heavy ways. Even in court, Mr. Robbins couldn't escape his angst-ridden past as the sentencing judge admonished him "don't be a blockhead," a taunt that Charlie Brown heard so often that it seemed like he would be muttering it to himself as he mounted a nearby bell tower with a high powered rifle. We hope that Mr. Robbins gets the help he needs in federal confinement (preferably from mental health professionals who don't work out of a modified lemonade stand) and returns home in a year to be a better master to his dog Snoopy (no shit, the guy who voiced Charlie Brown has a dog named Snoopy; which might just be part of the problem here). But as grim as things seem for Mr. Robbins right now, he really should consider himself lucky. Some people in his position don't get help until it's too late. I'm told that Calvin killed himself from an overdose of Nembutal after Hobbes fell apart in the dryer.
A heartless douchebag, who was entrusted with the care of the beautiful Pug named Buster on the left. This photo was passed along to me by an otherwise annoying yenta of my acquaintance after Buster was thrown out of a car by a soulless lowlife who then sped away with Buster trying to follow her. Fortunately, a dog rescuer witnessed the act and took Buster in. "Buster was a mess," the rescuer said. "Covered in fleas, toenails so long they were growing into his feet, bald spots, worms and kennel cough. But despite all he'd been through, he just wanted to kiss, cuddle and be the best little dog he could be. Which happens to be pretty great!"The animal-saving hero has since done some detective work and discovered that the douchebag in question was Buster's owner, who has changed residences since the atrocity although steps are being taken to track her down and prosecute her. What really impressed me about Buster is how trim he is for a Pug, lacking the massive, pudding-filled ass that my beloved Pug Winston hauls around. I can only assume that this wasn't the first time Buster's bastard owner tried to pull this stunt and he got plenty of exercise chasing after the car that she was trying to desert him in. If that's the case, I'm perfectly happy with Winston's rotund ass exactly the way it is. Because he's not going anywhere.
Speaking of my beloved Pug Winston, my beloved Pug Winston. Winston and I spent our lunchtime together yesterday as we always do, taking a nap on the couch in my home office. Winston observed the ritual in the most adorable way possible, by crawling on top of my tummy and purring like a delicate dove, prompting me to photograph the sight and post it on Facebook with the caption "I know that EVERYBODY thinks that THEIR dog is the BEST dog. To them I say sorry, but I have the best dog." This naturally prompted some of the more uptight dog owners amongst my Facebook friends to indignantly respond that their pooch was the best pooch, regardless of how cute Winston looked using my stomach for a Sealy Posturepedic. What those self-righteous idiots fail to take into account is that Winston has one of three areas of the couch that he naps with me on. When he is curled up on my tummy like he is in the image on the left, he is the essence of cuteness and undeniably the best dog in the world. But another of his favorite resting spots is curled around my feet, when he is merely my beloved Pug Winston and my favorite dog in the world. Then there is his third choice to nap, and regrettably the one he chooses the most often. That is when he marches his pudgy rump up to head and parks his enormous ass on my face, making sure to situate his foul cornhole as close to my nose as possible. Then, he is merely an obese Pug with his enormous ass planted on my face occasionally letting loose the most toxic farts imaginable. When he is perched like he is in this photo, he is the best dog in the world and there can be no discussion about it. Other times, I am perfectly content to let him surrender the crown to my friends' dogs while I am considering having my nostrils bleached to kill the odor of the gaseous remnants of that morning's Pug food and whatever leftovers he found rolled under the oven wafting their way into my nose as the imprint of an oversized ass is pressed into my cheek for the afternoon. I hope that we understand each other.
Pretty Clever Films, a classic films website that I enjoy imparting my wisdom on in the Comments area. Recently, my college acquaintance Wade Sheeler (a frequent contributor to the site) wrote a piece on Top Ten Sequels That Are Better Than the Originals and included in his tally The Godfather, Part II, which he maintains is superior to the first installment. I have never agreed with the assessment, feeling that the first movie in the series is markedly superior to the second and posted a comment maintaining as much, to which site administrator Brandy Dean quickly joined in to support my opinion. Here's where things get a little freaky, because when the thread inevitably got around to the wretched Godfather III, Ms. Dean refused to acknowledge that the film even existed, and when I pointed out some of its more ridiculous aspects she responded "Granted, if there was such a movie as The Godfather III – WHICH THERE IS NOT – I'm sure it would be ridiculous and hilarious. It might even include the stupidest death scene ever, with someone like Sofia Coppola clutching her gunshot and delivering "Dad?" in the finest Valley Girl accent. Which is why I am so grateful that no such movie exists."I understand the sentiment much like I would understand if comedian Dick Smothers denied having a son even though all I need to do is pop Porn Town USA or Sex Trek: Where No Man Has Cum B4 into my DVD player to see his porn star offspring Dick Smothers Jr. in the flesh. Such is the case with The Godfather III, which we can deny the existence of all we want but it doesn't alter the fact that there is an unwatched disk in my Godfather Collection DVD set, the cover of which shows Mr. Pacino with inexplicably spiked hair and includes a delightful typo that refers to the fore-mentioned Ms. Coppola as an "actress."Since Ms. Dean is adamant that the film doesn't exist, I'm not going to waste my time by trying the disk in my DVD player and will instead amuse myself with my copy of Sex Trek: Where No Man Has Cum B4. I know, I've sworn off watching porn movies like that. But just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.
The decreasingly annoying Amara Christian, who makes her first appearance on these pages in many-a-moon. Ms. Christian posted on her Faceb ook wall the cryptic note "Bikini shopping is traumatizing,"to which her online buddies were assuming that she was referring to some media-induced body issues that someone of her age and height-to-weight ratio has no business suffering. The reality is that Ms. Christian went to the annual Ikea Bikini and Swedish Meatballs Blowout sale to purchase swimwear for the summer, not realizing that I, too, was attending the event. Unlike Ms. Christian, who marches her slender-but-firm derriere directly to the Bathing Suit Department to hunt for thongs at up to 80% off, I stop off at the Ikea snack bar to gorge on their signature rat entrails and roadkill slathered in sour cream sauce for a few hours before selecting exactly the right butt-floss banana hammock that will send hearts aflutter at the wading pool in the park when the temperature rises. Ms. Christian on whether or not to buy a Björn Fjörnklörn designer original when I unveiled my cellulite-covered magnificence to my lucky fellow-shoppers. I went to the mirror Ms. Christian was admiring herself in to see how I looked in what I thought was the latest in European beach fashion but which turned out to be a shoelace for some wooden clogs. It seems that Ms. Christian's tastes do not run for Rubenesque men such as myself and the sudden sight of me with my meatball-engorged gut hanging over a thin string of Swedish skosnören caused her to suffer temporary blindness. All worked out well as Ikea gave her a rockin' pair of sunglasses to protect her healing eyes from the harsh summer sun and even threw in the Björn Fjörnklörn bikini to keep her from suing (a value of almost 32 Swedish Kronars, or $4.85 American). Alas, they had to burn the shoelace I was trying on.