My beloved pug Winston, who was found to have an enormous growth on his wang at his last visit to the vet. For those of you with a more perverse mind (and knowing my readership, that's about 98% of you), that doesn't mean the dog doctor gave him a raging hard-on. It means that there was a horrendous lump about the size of a large garbanzo bean that looks like a piece of leftover breakfast sausage growing on his dick. At first, the vet surmised that Winston was the victim of a sexually transmitted disease from mounting some promiscuous bitch at the dog park, which impressed the hell out of me because I didn't even know dogs could get venereal diseases. I pictured an insane, syphilitic Winston dying over his important papers like Beethoven or Friedrich Nietzsche before the doctor concluded that he didn't have an STD but rather a condition (more common in bulldogs) where the his urethra (the tube that connects the penis to the bladder) is coming out of his One-Eyed Snake. I could have told my little pug that a penis is nothing but trouble and it's inevitably going to implode on you after doing everything it can to destroy your happiness, so this little issue is simply part of the cycle of life and nothing to be concerned about. I wish my schvantz had imploded on me in my late teens. It would have saved me a lot of misery.
My longtime nemesis Jesse Merlin, who responded to his inclusion in the delightful faux pulp fiction cover above with a terse "I despise you." I immediately saw through Mr. Merlin's bitterness and countered "Everybody does. Fortunately, my amazing ass makes up for it." My perfect derrière has long been a source of jealously amongst my social circle as it provides perks as mundane as getting out of speeding tickets to as lavish as marriage proposals from Saudi Arabian sheiks. Mr. Merlin has been especially envious towards my magnificent backside since his own posterior looks like two moldy tomatoes slathered in cottage cheese. I have learned to put up with his resentment of my flawless bum with a Ghandi-like patience since he will never know the lifestyle that comes with having such a superb endowment. I only pray that he gets over his jealously before it consumes him. Otherwise, he'll end up looking like an ass. And not the kind that gets marriage proposals from Saudi Arabian sheiks.
Speaker of the house Paul Ryan who finally introduced his long-promised replacement for ObamaCare only to have it decreed as DOA by everyone who looked at it. Mr. Ryan said that "the whole idea of Obamacare is Ö the people who are healthy pay for the people who are sick. Itís not working, and thatís why itís in a death spiral." It was a puzzling statement since the healthy pooling their money to pay for the relatively small percentage who get sick is the whole point of health insurance. The new plan has been labeled "TrumpCare" despite the protestations of the White House, who object to the moniker because of its association with entitlements that the administration is opposed to. Frankly, I think it's a perfect name since it's an indication of how much Mr. Trump cares about the people who need a government health plan; and the one proposed by Mr. Ryan is equivalent to less than a rat's ass. But the way the president eats combined with the stress of the epic failure of every move that he has made since he took office just might lead to health problems that could teach him some empathy for the seriously ill. Maybe the only way to make Trump care is to send him into a death spiral.
My associate Micah Watterson who declared "Alright seriously people, get out there and buy Girl Scout cookies. There's only one day left and I'm tired of seeing young girls in front of Ralphs grocery stores weeping because no one will buy their cookies. I can't purchase anymore boxes, I'm getting fat. Get off your ass and BUY COOKIES!" I thought it was a noble sentiment until I realized that every time I saw Girl Scouts selling cookies in front of a store, there was always a long line and they were happily on the verge of selling out. Then I put two-and-two together and realized that Mr. Watterson is a kinky bastard who doubtless get his thrills by dressing up in a Girl Scout uniform and selling cookies in front of his local market until the police chase him away. I don't judge him for that (I have experienced the erotic rush of wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform and asking my closeted lesbian upstairs neighbor to discipline my disobedient ass with a rug beater in exchange for my pretending to be her fiancé at office parties) but I wish he wasn't reduced to tears by not selling out his inventory. The kind of complex sexual roleplay Mr. Watterson is apparently into requires participation from everyone playing and the vanilla shoppers walking out of Ralphs are too uptight to understand the rules. If he's too frustrated at not having anyone to buy his cookies, I'll be happy to give him my upstairs neighbor's phone number. Her grandmother's birthday is coming up and she promised her family that her Canadian boyfriend is finally in town to meet them.
My old compadré Eddie Frierson. Thursday was (believe it or not) International Awesomeness Day, which I commemorated by making one of my delightful Facebook images picturing a bunch of awesome people of my acquaintance who were depicted because a) they are hot and I'm hoping I can flatter them enough where they won't find me repellant or b) I actually see them around town (as opposed to just on the social network) and I might stand the chance of them spending money on me in a moment of caprice, with the caption "March 10th is International Awesomeness Day. These people are all awesome. Are YOU?!!!!!" Inevitably when I make one of these tributes, I hear whining from the cyber-peanut gallery who weren't included in the picture, most loudly on this occasion by Mr. Frierson, who bitched "Clearly, I am not as I was not included ...."