Sunday, November 25, 2007

Morons Eating Monkeys in Staten Island should be drowned in cat pee.

I can't believe that idiots in Staten Island are eating monkeys because "it's part of their religious upbringing." A moron from Liberia, Mamie Manneh, has had her house searched, where they found "a tiny arm of a monkey" and boxes full of dismembered monkeys.

These people, who have come to live in my country from Africa, think it's ok to have monkey arms sent to them in a box so they can celebrate weddings by cooking them up. What about the wedding that monkey was going to celebrate? Maybe he was getting married.

Read this to see who is the lastest on my most wanted to throw cat poop at list:

What is wrong with them? Don't they know that my nickname is Monkey? Don't they know that we are all monkeys and that monkeys are smart and that they can think, feel, count, use tools, and pick really well-performing stocks? Don't they read about science that proves that people and monkeys share DNA and that we are all related? Really, that's like if I said my religion made me eat people arms. What kind of religion is that? And why would anybody want to go and kidnap a monkey from his family and then chop him up to send him to these idiots so he can end up in a stew?

I hope a whole gang of monkeys from Liberia and Guinea gets on a plane and flies over here to MY country (they can stay at my house) and then goes and kicks in the door of this Mamie Manneh person to give them a piece of their minds.

Monkeys have minds.

Look at me and my mom. We are both obviously descended from Monkeys.

Liberian Monkey: (holding this Mamie Manneh woman upsidedown) "Hey, hey, HEY! How do you like me now? How 'bout I put you in a soup? Why you have to disrespect me like that? Why I oughtta...I oughtta smear you with cat poop!"

I'm pretty sure my mom was raised by monkeys. She spent many years in a tree in Thailand and she tells me she learned a lot from monkeys, like finding tiny fleas in my backhair and smiling.


Wednesday, November 21, 2007

WGA and Dog Writers of America on STRIKE! Hey Producers! Eat MY Residuals!

The WGA Riots were kind of like Tiananmen Square except we didn't get killed. But then again, I wouldn't even have to riot in China to get clubbed to death by the police. Over there, a dog could just be taking a walk and end up in a soup pot.

That's what's great about America. We can bark as loud as we want. I think it's in the constitution or something like that. You know, liberty and the pursuit of barkiness. The freedom of the Bark Act.

And the right to bear lethal farts.

The Dog Writers of America are on strike and we are supporting the WGA against those fat, greedy producers. They want to give us the equivalent of a teeny, tiny chicken toe nail bone for what we write. And for what we write that shows up on the Internet, they want to give us zero, zilcho, nada bones, not even the tiniest shard of flea bone that was digested a thousand times by an old cat.

I'd like to bite them all in the butt.

Here's what I have to say to the producers, who, by the way, produce a LOT of cat poop:

Hey Producers! Eat MY residuals!

And for those of you who believe that the writers write shows that belong in the litter box, it's the PRODUCERS who dumb it all down! They're the ones ordering the cat poop to begin with! We'd LIKE to write better shows, but guess what? As one WGA writer, Chris Kelly said at the Riot yesterday, "We'd like to, but they won't let us!"

So Mom and Dad dressed us in our 'Hey Producers! Eat my Residuals!' T shirts and off we went to riot on Hollywood Boulevard. We almost got trampled, the riot got so crazy.

As usual, Mom and Dad were fighting the whole time because we parked like a thousand miles away from the march and basically, he wasn't obeying her like she wants him to.

Mom: "Why did you lose sight of David?! That's our ride home! We're going to get stuck here without a way home. Why couldn't we come in our own car?"

Dad just got that look on his face where his chin juts out but he looked like everybody else there who was mad so he fit right in. I don't know who Dad was more mad at, Mom or the producers who are ripping him off.


Friday, November 16, 2007

A very lucky Valley girl

Mom and I saw a bat-eared brown girl at West Valley and told our friend Sidra all about her. Today she got rescued. I'm so happy for her. She got lucky and hit the jackpot just like I did. Now she will live with crazy Hollywood humans just like my parents--humans who let us under the covers and sneak us into restaurants.

The brown girl was really scared and didn't want to let go of Sarah (center of photo) who had been working with her. I know what that's like--I remember what it was like to not have a home, to not even be sure I'd be alive in a few hours.

I told her she had just stepped into a cushy new world; music biz and celebrity home design. I filled her in on what to expect from her new life: lots of fun but endless, mind numbing meetings with contractors and spoiled celebrities about what kind of exotic Brazilian marble to put on a countertops, long waits at fabric stores, picking from hundreds of shades of tea green for a bed flounce, lounging around in fancy cars, kids who want to play with you all day, incredibly delicious food, pillows, velvet, silk, chenille, bubble baths, toys, massages...

She looked at me like I was nuts.

"Come off it," she told me. "You're kidding, right? No way!"

She'll see.

She's not going to know what hit her, the change is so drastic. It's hard for humans to's like you're in a cell, in solitary, for something you didn't do and all of a sudden, the warden lets you out--you're free and you can see the sky and feel the sun on your face. Then to top it off, you win the 350 million bone lottery and the people who love you, really love you, not your humongous pile of bones. So tonight, we are celebrating.

I'm drunk from celebrating. You know they call me Drinky Jinky, right? When she gets cleaned up and gets rid of that mange on her ears, I might give her a good Thanksgiving hump.


Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Pooping at Paramount on the Picket Line!

We are back in Hollywood...just in time for the writer's strike. The whole of Hollywood has shut down but I don't care. It just means that my people can't work so now they have to hang around with us all the time.

They came home one day before the strike and all their friends are saying it's going to last 9 or 10 months--all because the producers don't want to pay them residuals from the Internet. Dad tells all his WGA (Writer's Guild of America) comedy writer friends why he came home at a time like this.

Dad: "I want to be here when everybody else is out of work too!"

But I'm glad about being back in Hollywood. I got my Lamby back! (In case you don't remember, Mom was fostering a foofy-looking dog that got scraped off the road and sent to death row a few months ago with some very, very bad crushed footies--he was going to be a double amputee but he's almost all better now.)

We are in a love triangle...the good kind-- the Euro kind-- where my wife Finley doesn't mind if I spend the day loving my white fluff boy-doll. It's BrokeBark Mountain all over again. It's cool and foggy, perfect hump-o-rama weather. Me and Finn take turns getting on top of him.

Dad is even madder than he was in Nice, France Europe. Mom is mad too and both of them are slamming doors and yelling a lot because not only are they not working, but all the important human stuff in the house isn't working.

Here's a list of what's driving Mom and Dad crazy:

1) Termites are eating up the house from underground. Cost: 4000 bones or about 5000 Euro-bones.

Dad: (yelling at the Orkin termite guy on the phone) "What do you MEAN, we're not covered for LARVA?! I paid you $4000 to come up here and get rid of this problem. You mean to tell me you only cover termites once they reach the adult stage?"

Mom: "This is outrageous. Did you read the small print in the contract? Where is the contract? Is it in one of your junk piles?"

2) The roof has to be replaced because the insurance company won't insure Mom and Dad with wood shingles. Cost: probably some 20,000 bones. (So what? They just call a roofy guy and he comes over and does a new one. I want him to make it real slippery so the squirrels will slide down and we can scare them a little for fun.)

3) The toilet won't flush and there is human poop coming up into the shower. Cost: about 1000 bones so far.

Dad has been trying to pour 10,000 Drano bottles down the toilet and plunging like a madman and splashing it all over the bathroom. He won't call a plumber.

Mom: (standing in the doorway to the bathroom with her sweater up over her mouth and nose) "Oh my god. This is horrifying. We have to call a plumber now. Why can't we just call a plumber?"

Dad: "Sure. I'll just pay and pay and keep on paying. We can just hire more people to come up here and take care of everything. All the stocks are in the red."

Mom: "I'm not cleaning this bathroom. I'm not plunging shit."

Dad: "What are you, the Queen of England? Who are you?"

The human poop water was all over the place for days until Dad finally gave up and called a plumber. The problem is that a Bougainvillea tree I've been fertilizing has taken root around the sewer line and choked it. It's so bad and so deep under the house that it broke the plumber's machine. Two days later, Dad had to call another plumber because the toilet still wouldn't flush and the human poop water was still all over the bathroom. I guess I fertilized it pretty good. Why can't they just poop outside in the ivy like we do?

4) Dad can't find his Corvette keys . Cost: a tall pile of bones to replace ignition for a 1958 Corvette.

He's gone through the entire house, throwing stuff around in a rage, tearing everything out of every drawer trying to find a tiny pair of keys. It's kind of like when he loses his one pair of glasses, only worse. Dad's kind of spoiled though. He has one pair of glasses and three cars. He just doesn't like being stuck using mom's car .

Dad explained to me what the writer's strike is all about: It's like all the writers create some delicious dinner recipe and the producers buy it from them for 5 bones. Then they turn around and sell millions of the same delicious dinner recipe for 5 BILLION bones and they won't share ANY of it with the people who created it!

So all the writers are steaming mad because it's no fair and they've all cleaned out their desks. Dad will never clean out his desk at home, but he'll go and hang out and drink coffee with all the Hollywood writers on the picket line.

I can't wait to walk the picket line with Dad. Mom is going to put red sweaters on us (all the angry writers are wearing red). We're going to eat beets and dump red poop at Paramount.