The Cost of Love
My beloved pug Winston, who goes in for his penis surgery tomorrow. Thanks to the generosity of Winston's devoted fans, I was able to raise over half of the projected cost of the mind-numbingly expensive procedure via an online fundraising campaign. All bullshit aside, the bigheartedness of everyone who has taken part has moved me beyond my capacity to express (I'm really much better at spewing bullshit) and I thank each and every one of you for your support. But the situation also makes my battered heart reach out to the countless dogs, cats and similar varmints who need medical care but don't have a network of fans who live and die by their colorful antics on Facebook and are willing to open their wallets to save their STD-ridden wangs like Winston does. I called Winston's vet this weekend to inquire about some medication that I was unable to get at my local pharmacy (yes, they sell pet medication at the local pharmacy now) and I was told that I could purchase it directly from the vet at twenty dollars a pill. I had dogs growing up and we never took them to the vet at all. We had one chihuahua named Spot who I swear lived to be 178 years old without ever setting foot in a veterinarian's office (he died the same way all dogs of his generation did, from being run over by a Buick). Yet since Winston's dick started falling off, I've been reached out to by numerous people who have told me they've spent tens of thousands of dollars to keep little Fluffy or Bandit alive after suffering everything from rectal cancer to paw-in-mouth disease. I don't think we love our pets any more than we used to but we have been convinced that it takes a mountain of cash to keep them alive when once upon a time, we could count on them going to doggy heaven after being run over by a Buick; months before the cancer that would inevitably rip apart their intestines would show any symptoms at all. My little pug is starting to show the warning signs of his ailments so it's a damned good thing that we have so many generous friends to help him because whenever he gets anywhere near an oncoming Buick, I throw myself in its path to protect him. It's a different world now.
The caffeine-addicted Lisa Glass, who cryptically announced on Facebook "God knows I need all the friends I can get. Except for that one guy I just unfriended. I'm ok without him." I have no idea what dim-wit Ms. Glass cast out of her social network but I am old enough to remember when if I wanted to unfriend someone, it took a lot more effort than clicking a button on my Facebook page. There was a time where if I wanted someone out of my life, it would take months of awkwardly dodging them until I finally bumped into them somewhere I never would have expected to see them in a million years and when they questioned me about why they hadn't seen me, I broke down into a tearful harangue about what an asshole they had been to me until they start screaming back that it was actually me who had been the asshole and they were glad to be rid of me, adding as they storm out that the one furtive sexual encounter we had agreed never to mention again was just a pity fuck on their part and I was easily the worst lay that they had ever had. This would end in six weeks of binge-drinking on my part during which I conclude that this person was actually the best friend I had ever had and I had made a terrible mistake but my late-night drunk dials begging for another chance are just met with a sad clucking of the tongue and a stern admonition for me to seek professional help. Pushing a button to kick someone out of my life saves me a lot of manpower but I must admit that I miss the drunken binges. The computer has simplified our lives but there's no making up for the human contact of being told what a bad lay I am until I'm driven to the brink of wanting to kill myself. If I want to hear that from a computer, I have to go on the Comments section of my most recent dating site.
My college buddy Adam Lindsey, with whom I had lunch on Saturday. Mr. Lindsey is one of those unfortunate people who indulge in dressing up like lords and ladies from an old Errol Flynn movie and battling it out with swords and bows and arrows at the neighborhood park until just before sunset when they break out the barbeques and enjoy a traditional Medieval feast of Hot Dogs and Miller Lite. When our conversation came around to Mr. Lindsey's participation in his Renaissance Fairing, I always steered the subject to something less embarrassing like my frequent bouts of erectile dysfunction so I don't have to hear too many details about his jousting lifestyle. I have noticed that many of his photographs I've seen on Facebook when I've forgotten to block him depict him wearing a crown, so I'm forced to assume that he is some kind of a king in his strange world. Luficer said "it is better to rule in hell than serve in heaven" so I guess I can't judge King Adam too harshly on his chosen lifestyle. The couple of hours I spent having lunch with him seemed like an eternity in hell, and I would have given anything for the authority to shout "off with his head." Unfortunately, since I'm just a pawn there I wasn't able to do anything but ramble on about my erectile dysfunction. To his credit, he made no objections about my endless yammering about my faulty penis but I guess that's why he's the king. An archduke probably would have tuned me out and focused on March Mardness playing in the bar.
Harmony Sanchez, who posted a Facebook status stating "I will never chase a man. But if he has muscles and tattoos and good hair, I just might power walk." I responded to Ms. Sanchez's proclamation with "I didn't know you were that into tattoos. Someday I'll show you the Casper the Friendly Ghost on my taint," which caused her to walk back her original statement. My point is that it's probably not a good idea to have a laundry list of what attracts you to the opposite sex because sometimes you think you encounter your dream lover and the thing you thought was so damned sexy about him turns out to be a Casper the Friendly Ghost tattoo on his taint. It's better to look at the whole person so if it turns out that that person has a childish image burned into the area between his scrotum and bunghole for the rest of his life that he got during a drunken binge in his twenties that he doesn't even remember doing, it doesn't make him any less sexy. In fact, it makes him more sexy because he was able to carry on with his life despite being plagued with the fact that there's a Casper the Friendly Ghost burned into his taint so that he'll be forever self conscious about getting naked in front of a woman. At least he spends his times developing muscles and good hair to compensate for it.
Mara Marini, who stars in the big budget action comedy CHiPs opening this week. I was disappointed to check my subscription to MrSkin.com and find that there is no frontal (or any other kind) of nudity on Ms. Marini's part in the film. But it does appear to be a side-splittingly funny affair in which a couple of California Highway Patrolmen played by Michael Peña and Dax Shepard get into hot water with their surly superior by causing mayhem on their hogs ("hogs" being parlance for motorcycles, unless you subscribe to MrSkin.com in which case your "hog" is something else entirely). Ms. Marini plays a character named Renee and that is the only information I have on her performance (except for the fact that she keeps her clothes on for the entire goddamned thing) until I see the movie on Friday. But it did give me an idea to entice her to finally drop the restraining orders she has against me by convincing her that I'm a dangerous biker myself. Not to the point of actually getting a motorcycle mind you, since I have a history of suffering panic attacks at speeds of over 15 MPR and I'm forced to spend so much money on my beloved pug Winston's upcoming penis surgery that I may have to sell my 1970 AMV Gremlin to pay for it. But I figure if Ms. Marini happens to run into me wearing leather chaps and rub-on tattoos of skulls and crossbones with my magnificent ass perched upon a Harley parked at the entrance of one of the many glamorous bistros she frequents, she just might give me a second chance. The key is to orchestrate this before the actual owner of the Harley catches me and pounds my internal organs into a fine paste. But even if things go wrong and I wind up in traction, if my hog remains unharmed it's all worth it. At least then, I can recuperate while still being able to enjoy MrSkin.com.