Every Pound Dog is a Red Sox Fan
It has been raining for three days straight and my yard is gooey and muddy. The ground is all spongy and mud seeps in between my foot pads. It's kind of like a foot spa. The house is nice and muddy and we leave fantastic mud foot tracks all over the floors. The pool is overflowing and the paper lanterns outside look like used toilet paper wads hanging in the air. The people seem to like the rain (they say it's "romantic") but they're wearing rubber shoes and carrying umbrellas. What a useless encumbering thing that is--a giant contraption they lug around to keep a few drops of water off their heads, where it feels good.
People. They'll spend thousands of dollars on a fake rain shower head for their fancy bathroom so they can have the feeling of rain but they don't wear umbrellas in there. And then if they're outside, and a little tiny raindrop falls on their head, they freak out. Under that phony shower in the bathroom though, they're singing.
Everything smells fresh and clean when it rains and I can smell things going on miles away. Last night, I smelled a BBQ in West Hollywood. I smelled a poodle fart from Burbank just now.
This morning, Dad took us down into the back part of the garden, down the steep, brick steps. It was foggy, Finn was rat hunting and then Dad tripped on some soaking wet moss. Angry with himself, he hurled his coffee cup against a tree and smashed it. Mom got mad because it was one of her Thai Celadon antique cups--"irreplaceable," she yelled.
I don't think Dad was in a bad mood just because he tripped again, but because his meeting with NBC didn't go well yesterday. He came home steaming mad last night.
Dad: "I'm through with these people. I've had it with this business. You walk in there and they just look at you. No questions, no 'hi, we're excited to hear this,' just blank faces. I can't wait to get the fuck outta here and move to Nice. I'm going to write them a letter and give them some tips about how to take a pitch."
It turns out that NBC wasn't thrilled about the reality show" Last Comic Standing" to begin with. They had cancelled the show and didn't even air the last episode. So Dad going in there, pitching a show with the loser of Last Comic Standing wasn't going to get a great response anyway. I don't understand why Dad gets so mad. He's got it all. Why does he even care?
Dad: "I knew there was something wrong when he [the comic] wanted to work with me."
Then he moped around and called his agent to complain. That agent guy gets paid 10% of Dad's money to listen to Dad complain about show business. I'll tell you, it's much better being his dog than his agent.
But the Red Sox won and that made everything good again. The Sox came to Yankee Stadium last night and did something that had never been done in Baseball history. They came back from 3-0, tied the series and forced a game 7. I'm happy because let's face it-- the Boston Red Sox are THE underdog.
Every pound dog has to be a Red Sox fan. When I was on death row in San Pedro, I was at the bottom of the 9th, 2 outs, 2 strikes and then I was saved.
I just smelled some chicken in Van Nuys and the Red Sox are leading 8 to 1 in game 7. Life is sweet.
People. They'll spend thousands of dollars on a fake rain shower head for their fancy bathroom so they can have the feeling of rain but they don't wear umbrellas in there. And then if they're outside, and a little tiny raindrop falls on their head, they freak out. Under that phony shower in the bathroom though, they're singing.
Everything smells fresh and clean when it rains and I can smell things going on miles away. Last night, I smelled a BBQ in West Hollywood. I smelled a poodle fart from Burbank just now.
This morning, Dad took us down into the back part of the garden, down the steep, brick steps. It was foggy, Finn was rat hunting and then Dad tripped on some soaking wet moss. Angry with himself, he hurled his coffee cup against a tree and smashed it. Mom got mad because it was one of her Thai Celadon antique cups--"irreplaceable," she yelled.
I don't think Dad was in a bad mood just because he tripped again, but because his meeting with NBC didn't go well yesterday. He came home steaming mad last night.
Dad: "I'm through with these people. I've had it with this business. You walk in there and they just look at you. No questions, no 'hi, we're excited to hear this,' just blank faces. I can't wait to get the fuck outta here and move to Nice. I'm going to write them a letter and give them some tips about how to take a pitch."
It turns out that NBC wasn't thrilled about the reality show" Last Comic Standing" to begin with. They had cancelled the show and didn't even air the last episode. So Dad going in there, pitching a show with the loser of Last Comic Standing wasn't going to get a great response anyway. I don't understand why Dad gets so mad. He's got it all. Why does he even care?
Dad: "I knew there was something wrong when he [the comic] wanted to work with me."
Then he moped around and called his agent to complain. That agent guy gets paid 10% of Dad's money to listen to Dad complain about show business. I'll tell you, it's much better being his dog than his agent.
But the Red Sox won and that made everything good again. The Sox came to Yankee Stadium last night and did something that had never been done in Baseball history. They came back from 3-0, tied the series and forced a game 7. I'm happy because let's face it-- the Boston Red Sox are THE underdog.
Every pound dog has to be a Red Sox fan. When I was on death row in San Pedro, I was at the bottom of the 9th, 2 outs, 2 strikes and then I was saved.
I just smelled some chicken in Van Nuys and the Red Sox are leading 8 to 1 in game 7. Life is sweet.
posted by Jinky at 1:18 PM
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