Cindy Tickford 

Finn has a tick on her lip and she looks like Cindy Tickford

Finn has a tick on her upper lip and she won't let anybody take it off. She must think she looks glamorous with it because it looks like a mole on her lip area--kind of like Cindy Tickford, the top model.

Dad keeps approaching Finney with the tweezers, but she runs away and when he holds her down, she jerks her head around. Mom screams that Dad is going to poke her eye out with the tweezers and Dad gets mad because he hates to be told how to do anything. None of us respond well to intructions or commands in this house. Mom wants to try and get the tick off of her lip with her nails but Finley won't let her and Mom is afraid of being bitten, so the tick/mole stays for now.

The tick does look kind of cool there on her lip except that it might have some kind of disease and it IS sucking the blood out of her lip. Last night, Finley was eating some chocolate Hagen Daas ice cream out of a bowl and Mom asked her, "Are you giving your tick some ice cream, Finney Finn Finn? That's nice of you."

Mom hopes that the tick doesn't get really fat in the middle of the night and decide to leave the host lip of the Finn to crawl around on the bed in search of new lips. Mom would look cool with a live mole on her lip too. But Dad would think it looked better if it were on her tits. I know him.

Dad is 7 in dog years

Dad had a birthday and he is 7 in dog years. He's very pissed off because he only got three birthday cards and one of them was from BMW. The car salesman from BMW in Burbank sent Dad a birthday card even though he doesn't really know Dad.

Dad had a birthday dinner at La Boheme, a restaurant in West Hollywood and we didn't get to go because of the ridiculous hygiene laws in this damned country. Why we can't go and eat with our family on Dad's birthday is beyond me.

The laws are all wrong. Our friends Graham and John can't get married because they're gay and we can't go to our own Dad's birthday party but murderers are allowed to get married and violent crazy people are allowed to buy automatic weapons. We're allegedly too filthy to walk into a restaurant but people are allowed to dirty up the entire air and whole rivers. I fart on these law makers. I blow out my most virulent farty wind right in their face, in the direction of Washington DC.

Dad brought home a little white box called an IPOD and Mom is now obsessed with downloading every loud and noisy thing they own so that they can bring the loud and noisy screeching to France in the little white box. These people waste a lot of time putting bullshit onto smaller and smaller techno-gadgets instead of running in the canyons or sitting in the sun. I love them, but their priorities are off.

You are a stupid, stinking bag of fur and this is MY chair! 

Thinking important thoughts 

Minky Time is Bed Time

You know 10 PM is called Minky Time around here. That's the time we all go to "the Down." (The house is upside down, with the living room upstairs and the bedrooms downstairs)

Mom hates it because she says, "In New York, I used to be getting dressed in tiny silk dresses to go OUT at this hour! Now, I'm putting on flannel pyjamas and going to bed. This truly sucks."
I know she doesn't mean it though. She loves going to get cozy with us in the Down, MUCH more than going to Discos and bars.

Every night, we run through the routine to go to the Down. Here are the complicated steps for our nightly trip to the Down:

Someone has to take us out into the street, where Finley will plant herself in one spot and sniff one leaf for about an hour. I cannot poop out there, there isn't enough leaf coverage. I wait until we reach the Down, because I have a special spot down in the ivy at the bottom of the steep hill, behind the house, below the Down.

When Finn has decided to re-mark the area in front of the house, Mom or Dad has to fill up a glass of filtered water to bring to bed so that the parched people don't ever have to make an extra move during the night. It would be terrible if one of them actually had to get out of bed once they are in it for the night. The person who is bringing down the water has to turn out all the lights upstairs and close all the doors, making sure the Stupid Kitty isn't locked outside on the balcony (she was locked out one night last summer and she got really mad).

Then the obese Finn must be carried down the stairs because she refuses to walk down on her own unless a piece of chicken has been thrown down in front of her. So the giant hairy hippo queen is carried down and placed on the bed.

Then the people brush their teeth with their loud vibrating tooth cleaning machines. I don't understand why they can't just chew on a bone or something. Toothpaste tastes nothing like beef fat. Maybe if they made a bone marrow toothpaste I could understand it, but...

Dad makes a big mess around his sink, spraying watery toothpaste all over the place. The mirror in front of his sink is covered in shaving cream and dried up bits of toothpaste. Mom's side is neat and clean--and she has a complicated routine of applying different potions and creams in a particular order, all to make her face stretchy like a rubber band.

Dad gets his flashlight and we go outside, down the back, past the pool and below the deck like brave men in the dark. This is very exciting because a coyote could sneak up on me, mid-poop and attack me. But Dad and I are together and we have so far always evaded the enemy.

After that, Mom and Dad fight over the10X magnifying mirror so they can see the details of the porous landscape of their faces. I don't know what it is they're looking for in that damned mirror but whatever it is, they haven't found it because they go on an open pore safari every night while I wait on the landing of the tub.

Then comes the most delicious time of the evening, when I get my "brushing." I have my own special brush, a round hair-drying brush that feels like thousands of tiny bristles massaging me into a morphine high. I sit up and roll my eyes into the back of my head while Mom gives me my brushing.

Finn likes to get the brushing too and she shimmies up the bed the get her rump brushed.

The most delicious moments of Minky Time are at the end of it, when we curl up, bellies full, post-brushing and get into our spots. Finley likes the end of the bed and I like to make a trench between Mom and Dad, on top of the comforter and get ready to dream of chasing rats through endless fields of fresh grass.

I will bite the dentist 

I will bite mon dentiste

I’ve been told that I’m going to have to get my teeth cleaned. I guess my teeth aren’t quite white enough—not up to Hollywood standards. I suppose braces will be coming soon. Mom and Dad have been discussing whether I should have my teeth cleaned here or in France. This is the inane conversation that was the background for my nap last night.

Mom: “Jinky’s teeth are filthy.”

Dad: “I know. So are Finn’s. Look at them. They’re brown.”

Mom: “We can’t let it get out of hand, you know; if their teeth get infected, it could spread.”

Dad: “I don’t know how they’re going to do Jinky. He’ll bite the dentist. He can’t wear a muzzle and get his teeth done.”

Mom: “Maybe we should have it done in France. "

Dad: "I've never noticed the dogs' teeth in France. Are they better?"

Mom: "I don't know."

Dad: "The people's teeth aren't so great."

Mom: "They take better care of their dogs than themselves. Besides, it’s cheaper there and they’re used to dogs that bite. All medical stuff is cheaper in France.”

(It’s true, even the dogs are rude in France. Mom was bitten by a French Bulldog in the Parc Massena in Nice.)

Dad: “OK, we’ll do their teeth in Nice.”

Great. I’m really looking forward to the trip now. Can’t wait to go to Nice for Christmas and have some Veterinazi scraping at my gums.

My parents are such hypocrites. Dad has cancelled or been awol for his last SEVEN appointments with his dentist. It’s gotten to the point where Doctor AHHHHHHN (sounds like a big yawn) has to call ten times to make sure that Dad actually knows he has an appointment to get his teeth cleaned. He’s supposed to go this Saturday but he’ll probably flake. Mom skipped her last cleaning too.

My teeth are whiter than theirs anyway. And I’m not the one missing teeth. Dad is missing a tooth in the back and has a mouth full of crowns. Mom’s had a bunch of root canals. I'd like to see either one of them rip apart a squeeky toy in one minute flat.

Arafat's dead, Bush is reelected and I'm going to have a nice meal now. 

Blue State Baloney and actress cuntlets

Mom and Dad are finally accepting the fact that a moron is going to be running the country into the ground for the next four years. They were pretty obsessive about it and threw an election night party that turned sour after my bed time. The house was full of depressed Hollywood types moping around and shoving food in their mouths while they watched the Red states bleed all over the map on CNN.

The more states they lost, the more they ate. They were loud and they took over the entire couch.

It really was a typical night here in LA. A bunch of drunk losers sitting in a mansion whining about not getting their way.

Mom took me to an audition this week. I sat in the bag on the floor and watched all the actress ladys' legs. About thirty of them were sitting there, talking to themselves (reading the part aloud I guess). They were all way too old to be in micro-minis, but Mom said the role was for a sexy Mom on "The Mountain." These TV actresses had knees that looked like elephant knuckles.

Morgan Brittany was there. I don't know who the hell she is but Mom made a big deal about her being on a series in the 80's. The woman had a big round paunch like a Kangaroo pouch or something that she had squeezed it into a tight dress with giant flowers.

All the ladies made cooing sounds when they noticed me in the bag. "Oh! Look! He's SO CUTE," they said. "Look at his teeth!"

While they were admiring my underbite, I was looking at all their thespian gashes.

From where I was sitting, I could see up every one of their skirts. There was a whole row of badly crossed legs, right in front of my nose. 60 lumpy thighs, hoping to walk into that "producer session" and land a lousy role on TV.