Posts about dogs or meals do not belong in a poker blog. Dugglebogey (who, by the way, writes a great poker blog) said something to that effect a ways back. It flashes through my head nearly every time I sit to do a post. He’s right.

Nevertheless, here I sit posting to a poker blog, talking about everything but. I just can’t help it.

In Wichita we had a narrow yard that wrapped around both sides and the back. Going out on the back deck only provided view of one side and the back portion. The other side was completely obscured.

It was only a short time after we got Stella (go ahead Streetcar fans, I’ll give you time to say it) that Rachel and I noticed the fact that her breath smelled like shit. All the time. Like real, actual shit. We couldn’t figure out why the breath of one Schnauzer would be okay while the other had oral odors reminiscent of a feed lot. Many Eucalyptus-infused dog biscuits over the course of too many weeks and still, her breath continued to smell like toxic butt-waste. We finally shrugged and gave up, choosing, like parents with a retarded (are we still allowed use that word?) child, to still love our little brown big stupid dog.

The yard at our house in Phoenix is quite different. By different, I mean I can see the entire yard. Not being familiar enough with Phoenix when we came, we are renting a place to give us plenty of time to find something that we’d like to buy (and, it seems, comfortably afford). This means no more smoking in the house, which is actually better because of the decrease in smoking and the increase in fresh house scent. The combination of these two things revealed something, well, two things, actually.

One. Our little stupid brown dog is a hybrid fecofeliac. She doesn’t give a shit about her own, but she definitely has a thing for the white dog’s brown product. What a horrifying site to see (for the first time) her prance after Simon, attempting a modified Hot Karl.

Two. We are really not very smart people sometimes. How did we not figure that out on our own?

The last four weeks have been a trying campaign. The War on Consuming Poop. An intervention for the ages. Constant surveillance, some yelling, and even the occasional handful of gravel has been chucked in her direction. Unlike the War on Drugs, Terrorism, Poverty, Poor Taste, and a litany of others, this war is thus far a success.

Tonight I had the thought that it would be funny to add a “One Month Sober” chip to Stella’s collar. Poop free for four weeks. That’s what I could say when people asked about it, which would only add to the fun.

Congrats, Stella. It must have been difficult to give up all of that delicious shit. We thank you.

Not putting titles on posts is fantastic. I had to do this one, but it may be the last for a while

I’m riding a huge wave of word tilt.

One of the toothpicks snapped today while under the ever-present barrage of crap news throughout the day. Here are today’s words that make me want to shoot myself (and/or maybe the jackass uttering the offensive stream of sound) in the face:

Adversity

Diversity

For fuckssake you stupid politicos, media pundits, and corporatica (making words up is fun) stop making me hate my language. I’m at a loss right now trying to think of –ersity words that are good. University? Bleh. Biodiversity. Putting “bio” in front of an awful word does not make it suck less. Bioadversity? Nope, still didn’t work. Now that I have tried twice, I declare the above assertion to be scientific fact. There is perversity (had to look that one up to be sure). I like this definition I found: .Marked by peevishness or petulance. Cranky.

My perversity knows no bounds.

I changed my mind. Not all –ersity words suck, just most of them. At least they’re than 3 syllables, I gotta give’em that. (I have to give them some credit because after all, words are diverse too, and we wouldn’t want such wondrous and snowflake-reminiscent differences to not be highlighted into the fucking ground.)

Now I’m going to try and convince that bastard Jack to give me something from his Box.

Hello, friends.

It’s been 13 days since my last post. How many Hail Iggy’s is that?

Lucky for me, I was never that attracted to the tenants of Catholicism. What does it mean, then, that I digs me some voodoo? Likely, it indicates nothing more an inner desire (known, acknowledged, or otherwise) to spit rum on a rooster and then kill it. And have a cigar afterwards. Well that doesn’t sound very good now either, does it? Maybe I just like the way voodoo sounds.

Dee Bones. Day nevah lie.

Work work work, blah blah blah, too tired too busy, I miss poker and can’t fucking wait for Vegas, smack my ass.

You’ve heard all this shit before. Except for maybe that last part. Not sure why I said that, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time (I know, both seconds ago). If you’re one of the folks that has heard that last one before, count yourself a lucky one. It’s a poor and misused existence to not have heard (or said, for that matter), “Smack my Ass!”

And then call me silly.

What’s silly is how fuckin’ long it takes for me to get 4.5 miles at 4PM. If I leave at 3:58, I’m cool. 4PM? It’s like a goddamn cartoon. In my mind it plays with the slightly worn look of an old Looney Toons short where, one moment you have empty street with character looking both ways to BAM! In the blink of an eye, packed. What the fuck just happened?

Ridiculous. (Stop smirking LA/NY people)

Also ridiculous is how long it’s been since I’ve played any poker. I don’t give a damn how tired I am. I give two shits how hard I’ve been going at work. Friday evening will find me sitting at a poker table, come hell or high water. (In the interest of full disclosure I should say here that if hell does actually come there won’t be any poker. High water will likely have the same effect, as insurance concerns will take priority plus the fact that if there is indeed high water in Phoenix will flabbergast me to the point of paralysis.)

It’s gonna take something pretty big to keep me away. I needs to get my gamble on. Gots to start the Vegas training, the weeks are flying by.

It dawned on me just now that I’m still entirely too juvenile. Man, I hope that never changes. The reason? I can’t watch a commercial about joint pain without giggling and laughing. I can’t help but laugh at the senior actors who almost convincingly convey their sadness at having to quit their favorite sport because, “I just can’t take the pounding.” Oh God, I’m laughing again.

I better add some Hail Mary’s to those Hail Iggy’s.