Random Lunacy Part II

Ow, my balls!!!

When I imagine most people going about their business, I picture them doing so quietly with a sense of purpose, a determined look on their face. This is not how I do things when I am alone. I’m loud, and totally random, and if anyone happened to be eavesdropping on me, I’m sure they’d assume that I’d gone off some pretty powerful psychotropic drugs. I’ll give you an example from the other day involving the Beatles and my dog Mojo.

I’d been mentally singing the song You’re Gonna Lose That Girl by the Beatles for a couple of days after I discovered a version of it played by a wonderful band called Yellow Matter Custard:

(Seriously, if you’ve never heard of Yellow Matter Custard and you’re a fan of the Beatles, check out this show. Amazing.)

So I’m walking around the house, getting things done, singing this song over and over to myself. At first I’m singing it more or less by the book, but slowly, it starts changing. The English accent becomes more and more pronounced, then exaggerated, until finally I’m singing it in a ridiculous Monty Python drill instructor voice:

Right! You’re gonna bloody well lose ‘at girl, aren’t ya’, ya’ gob!

Then I’d go a completely different direction and recite the lyrics as if I’m Dick Cavett doing an interview. (And if you’re not ancient like I am, and you don’t know who Dick Cavett is, just trust me: This is funny.)

It has been said that no less a person than Orson Welles once commented on the folly of trying to win over a woman by being someone that you’re not. I was discussing this idea with Bob Hope and Truman Capote one afternoon at the Waldorf Astoria, when Audrey Hepburn walked by and said, in that inimitable way that she has, “You’re gonna lose that girl. Yes, yes, you’re gonna lose that girl.”

Finally, I looked up and saw my dog, Mojo, looking at me in that way dogs do that means, “You are my master and the most wonderful person in the known universe,” or possibly, “If you were to die right now, I would get to sleep on the couch.” And I decided that we needed to have a conversation about the song in question.

Me: Now, if you were a member of the Beatles, Mojo, you would have written the lyrics a little differently.


Me: You know, because a female dog is called a bitch. Here, let me give an example of how you might have written it:

You’re gonna lose that bitch (Yes, yes, you’re gonna lose that bitch)
You’re gonna looooose that bitch
If you don’t take her out tonight, she’s gonna change her mind (She’s gonna change her mind)
And then I’ll take her out tonight and I’ll sniff her behind (He will sniff her behind)
You’re gonna lose that bitch (Yes, Yes, you’re gonna lose that bitch)
You’re gonna looooose that bitch


Me: You want to have some beers?

Paul McCartney with the Fifth Beatle, Mr. Bonkers, who cowrote a lesser known hit, I Am the Sheepdog

Paul McCartney with the Fifth Beatle, Mr. Bonkers, who cowrote a lesser hit, I Am the Sheepdog

Hahaha, just joking. The name of this web site notwithstanding, I don’t feed beer to my dog. I have a firm rule that anyone that doesn’t think twice about peeing on walls doesn’t need to add beer to their lifestyle. It’s just not going to help. I know, I used to have a dog that was a raging alcoholic.

That dog was named Murphy, and if there’s one thing he taught me it’s that if you give your dog an Irish name, you’d better Scotch-Guard fucking everything. He would sit there staring at you while you were drinking, biding his time. Then the second that you put your drink down and turned your attention elsewhere, he’d knock over the drink with his paw and furiously lap up as much booze as he could before you carried him outside. Then he’d turn his attention to regaining entrance so he could repeat the entire scenario over and over and over until finally, he passed out in a furry heap in the corner, occasionally belching or emitting doggy-beer farts.

One time I had a pool party, and he sat by the keg waiting for the inevitable beer runoff, which he would lap up with gusto. After a couple of hours of this, he did what I can only describe as a doggy cannonball into the pool, padded back to the keg (to protect it from bad guys), and passed out cold. This was at two in the afternoon. What a fucking lush. He was like me in college, only more likely to attend class.

Another helpful hint: Don't name your cat Cuervo.

Another helpful hint: Don’t name your cat Cuervo.

On a completely unrelated note, I got some more unsolicited email during my break, the best of which came from a mysterious stranger who would like me to engage in a business of some sort.

From: Anthony (redacted)
Subject: promising prospect
Date: April 15th, 2013 2:48 PM
To: Greg (greg@dogsondrugs.com)


My name is Anthony (redacted); I invite you to partner with me a rewarding business venture, Details on your indication of interest. My email is: (redacted)



What a world we live in where random strangers will contact you out of the blue to offer you wealth and riches!

From: Greg
Subject: That is an armadillo in my pants, but I’m also happy to see you
Date: April 16th, 2013 5:11 PM
To: Anthony (redacted)


Please accept this email as an indication of my interest in your business venture. I hope it is more financially rewarding than the last business venture I got caught up in. I sold the Ronco Shrimp Popper door to door. What happened was some guy sent me an email and asked me to indicate my interest, which I did, then he sold me $45,000 worth of Ronco Shrimp Poppers, which I was supposed to be able to unload and make a 300% profit. Needless to say, it didn’t work out that way.

First of all, the territory that I was assigned to was one of the poorest in the state. I tried and tried to get these people to buy a Ronco Shrimp Popper, but a lot of them didn’t even know what a shrimp was. One old lady, when I showed her a picture of a shrimp, accused me of trying to feed her deep fried cockroaches. A Cockroach Popper would have sold a lot better, come to think of it, because while there may not have been a shrimp for miles and miles, there was no shortage of roaches.

Because I was unable to sell the Ronco Shrimp Popper by appealing to people’s non-existent love of shrimp, I had to try to sell it on the strength of some of its other qualities. My salesman’s handbook suggested that I stress its “Whisper-Quiet” operation, its “One-Wipe” teflon coating that guaranteed easy cleaning, and a couple of other selling points that I’m not remembering because I decided to add one of my own: Safety.

This, alas, was my downfall. I don’t want to get into graphic details here, but I will say that the medical personnel in my assigned territory were terribly unprofessional when I told them that I burned my balls in a Ronco Shrimp Popper. Forget bedside manner, you would’ve thought that I was doing a stand-up routine in the ER. Very unprofessional.

So, stuck with $45,000 worth of Ronco Shrimp Poppers, a large medical bill, and an inability to sit down without a pool of medical salve, I appealed to the Ronco corporation who told me that they did not sell a Shrimp Popper, and I had apparently bought a bunch of modified bug zappers.

But I’m sure you’re on the level. So, what are we selling? Please don’t tell me it’s Shrimp Poppers.


I’ll let you know what Anthony has to say. Also, if you are interested in buying a Ronco Shrimp Popper, I will offer details on your indication of interest below.