I’m just sayin’….

Anyone see a striking resemblance here? Where has G.W. Bailey been lately? Can we compare timelines and see if I am on target with my assumption that he is undercover as”the big one”?

Shit-eating grin.

Bow to me, minions; I’ve topped myself.

I’m sure some of you must have read Bridget‘s over-dramatic account of what happened on the sea wall yesterday. Full of comic flights and martyrdom; her typical flavor of delivery. It was concluded with a call to arms for the expected rebuttal from my point of view. I thought about opting out and being the bigger person but I’m NOT the bigger person and therefore people expect me to be petty about such things. And who am I to let my fans down? Especially when the morsel is just so juicy.

So for once, Bridget’s tale is more or less on the mark as far as what happened. For those of you who haven’t read it, here is MY version of the tale:

Bridget is going to California for a long weekend with my aunt and grandparents. Naturally when I heard this plan, I got online and started making a list of the rides I wanted to go on in order of importance. I won’t lie, I was getting a bit of a fever about the possibility of running into Roger Rabbit too; that guy’s comedic timing is so spot on it amazes me. I was making a packing list one night when I asked Bridget if it was going to be cool enough at night in Anaheim to require my cable knit skull sweater or whether I could simply get by with my cashmere argyle vest. Her face fell and she started fidgeting, her normal response to having to sack up and level with someone.

“Geez…you’re kinda not invited, dude” she said.

I. Was. Livid.

What the fuck did she mean I wasn’t invited? I’m ALWAYS invited. Hell, Bridget would have NO social life if it weren’t for me. This was grade A monkey business and I aimed to get to the bottom of it. I was certain that if I managed to somehow get ahold of grandma, she would reassure me that there was a spot for me right next to her on the Matterhorn. But before I could fire up the Skype, Bridget told me that Disneyland doesn’t allow pets. So I went online and sure enough: NO PETS. Fucking bullshit discrimination once again makes this canine body I was saddled with feel like a wet suit that’s two sizes too god damn small.

So I slowly began unpacking my clothes and the 8×10 glossy I had planned to get Roger to sign and went to sulk on my beanbag chair. Bridget went about her weeks of excitement without one single thought about the left out party. Unreal.

Before I know it, the trip is a day away and Bridget is taking me out for one of my last beach romps before she leaves. She had arranged to let me stay with two of my favorite people while she was gone so I wasn’t really gonna suffer in her absence, but her refusal to boycott the trip due to the blatant racism of Disney against dogs made me give her the cold shoulder for three days leading up to this final stroll.

We were on the beach and I was feeling the groove. I actually got a little excited and consented to engage Bridget in a game of beach chase…but she was too busy talking on her cell phone to aunt Julie about the trip to notice my coy advances. I tried a little more aggressively to get her attention but she was too busy being shrill in her discourteousness. It was at this moment, when I heard her say “it’s the happiest place on earth, we’re going to have a wackadoo good time out there”, that my eyes filled with glassy rage and the music from the Battle at Helm’s Deep started playing in my head. I knew I had to leave my mark on her before she left. A deep mark. The kind that can only be removed with a scrub brush and psychoanalysis.

Bridget continued on her conversation while I put my game face on. I was on the lookout for something very particular, something that could be described as Bridget’s kryptonite: human feces. Despite what you might initially think, it is surprisingly easy to find human poo by the sea wall. I dunno whether it’s homeless dudes or lazy dudes or the criminally insane, but that shit is everywhere. And despite the possibilities that lie within it for torturing Bridget, it irks me that these people could lay on the beach during peak season and receive no summons. But I step foot on the beach at any given moment and I am treated like plague-ridden vermin. You people need to look at your laws cause they bite. Anyhoo…

My nose picked up the scent of a particularly pungent pile laying in the tall grass just past Cowabunga beach. I did a quick shoulder check and Bridget was still engrossed, now laughing about past good times making fun of the animatronic rabbits on the Splash Mountain ride. Bitch. So I made my move. The trick is to wait until she walks by and then go to town, so I loitered around a nearby trash can looking like I was gonna hose it down with my yellow graffiti. Once she walked by, I made my way to the pile.

This one was a doozie. It was soft, fairly fresh, and it was filled with some kind of tomato based substance. It was either salsa or spaghetti-os. It really didn’t matter though, it was going on me like a new suit regardless. I buried my nose in it and took a few healthy mouthfuls, ensuring a poop moustache so she could picture me eating it while cleaning it up. See that’s Bridget’s deal; she tortures herself with ugly thoughts until she is moved to sickness. Its her emo way and it is easy as hell to manipulate with exciting results.

Once I got a morsel or two down, I started to grind with it. Felt it start to cover my shoulders and neck and up to my ears. Oh yes, this was going to be a gooder. Then I heard her calling me. I knew I had precious little time so I upped my grinding speed until there was very little of it left in the grass. And that’s when I heard it, the sound I was waiting for:

“LENNON!! LEAVE IT!!! – gag – LENNON!!”

Oh sweet sweet success. I looked up at her as she grew closer to me and flashed her my “I am unaware I am doing anything wrong” smile. Or as it was to be called today: the shit-eating grin.

She angrily scurried over to me to chase me away from the poop and then peered at the spot on the ground. “Oh for fuck’s sake” she muttered as her face began to turn that shade of green that I love so much. Seriously, I wanna go to the Home Depot Paint Centre and get them to give me a gallon of it so I can paint my boudoir that color. I’ll call it “eat this” and it will relax and please me for many years. So you see her assertion that I had some half-baked desire to be king of the shit animals in her blog is untrue: I merely wish to make her physically sick. Period.

I knew this event would result in me being leashed for the angry walk home which is always a worthwhile sacrifice to force Bridget to walk a dog covered in shit all the way down the sea wall back to the apartment. The walk of shame as I call it. She came at me with the harness and VERY comically tried to put it on without touching me, succeeding after much effort. I thought to myself: “Lennon, you can’t let her get home feces free!”

Just as she knelt over me to attach the leash to the back of my harness, I did it: I shook. Her eyes clamped closed as hundreds of little droplets of poo sprayed across her face and jacket. It was like she sat in the splatter zone for a live showing of two girls and a cup. The horror in her face, the sheer disgust, was almost orgasmic to me. I flashed her another fake oblivious grin and then started walking home as she feebly tried to stifle projectile vomit.

Once we got home, I spent ten minutes locked in the bathroom in the tub with the shower curtain drawn to “think about what I did” while Bridget changed out of her poop wear and smoked a small joint to calm her traumatized nerves. And as I sat in my glazed porcelain prison, I took in the quite to meditate on my success. The battle music in my head had subsided an in its place, “Hair of the Dog” by Nazareth. Now you’re messin’ with a sonofabitch, and don’t you forget it.

I know what you’re thinking: “but Lennon, didn’t Bridget JUST take you to New York City”? Yes. Yes she did. And you’re probably thinking I should hold onto that while I watch her go somewhere else without me. Well I say fuck that. If you’re willing to dine out on one adventure to the point where you are fine with missing out on other adventures, that you aren’t doing life right and I pity you. Onto the next, that’s the way to do it. And I ain’t too keen on the sidelines on a good day. Nope, New York was yesterday…what have you done for me lately?

Enjoy your trip to Disneyland, bitch. And enjoy the subconscious stench that will waft into your memory every time you see Roger Rabbit. I think he would like that. I like that. I like it a lot.

Aging and shit.

So I turned 6 last week and made my inevitable stop at life’s great plateau: “middle age”. Its something I hear humans talking about all the time, this midway point of their life, and they visit it with such overwhelming fear and a certain angry frustration that seems to come from an overall helplessness. Quite a way to be, I always wondered why they did that.

Putting a middle point on your life invariably forces you to look at the latter half as the “downhill” which almost guarantees you a feeling of deterioration during a time that is supposed to be steeped in wisdom and a certain kind of intellectual freedom. What a waste. Though I had a couple fuckers in my life refer to my impending “42 in dog years” milestone as “middle age”, I chose to ignore the title and the ticking of the clock and look at my upcoming birthday for what is was: yet another 12 months of pure awesome.

Now let it not be said that Lennon Squiggy is blind to his own maturation because I have indeed noticed changes over the years that are worth making note of. Particularly my distinguished grey. I was prepared for this eventuality and buttered myself up for it by obsessively watching ‘Boogie Nights’; cause if Burt Reynolds can rock the silver fox look and still make you wanna throw your panties at the screen, then it really ain’t the color, it’s the dude wearing it. And I was gonna do the Bandit proud and wear it fearlessly and well. Nature saw fit to bless me (once again) with a unique spin on this deal: I am getting a bit of a grey beard but the majority of the silver has gone directly to my ass cheeks. Bridget keeps joking that it looks like I sat in wet paint but I shrug it off because I know that the grey hair actually accentuates my stunning glutes and it pisses her off because you couldn’t find hers with a road map.

Another thing I have noticed is how much, through no real conscious effort on my part, territory is starting to mean to me. I was always a mouth-piece when it came to people treading on my lawn or daring to come through the front door, but now it has grown to an involuntary need to ensure my scent is EVERYWHERE. I believe this is due to a very biological shift that happens in all male animals when they can feel themselves start to wind down. Instinct tells you that you aren’t as hefty as you once were and thus, you need to ensure your territory still bears your mark. I can only assume this is the reason that I scrutinize every leaf I piss on…it can’t JUST be because I dig making Bridget stand in the rain for way longer than necessary.

There are some stereotypical aging dude problems that I seem to have been able to bypass for the time being, however. This erectile dysfunction thing has yet to show its ugly face. In fact I have noticed that my stamina is top-notch and I seem to have become more unrelenting. Sally says I am more like Willem Dafoe than I ever have been…I took that as a compliment about not only my terrifying technique but also my overall sense of depraved malice; two things that I believe are paramount tricks up my sleeve.

Also, I have NO desire to go out and find a twink boyfriend and buy a convertible. First of all, twinks ain’t nothing but trouble. If I wanted to have regular fights about why I am not going to share the PIN for my Visa, train someone on how to give a B.J., and tune out high-pitched recounts of celebrity gossip, I’d date chicks. Second of all, if I was gonna buy a car to reignite my sense of masculinity, I’d choose something a little more formidable than a Miata. You see me rollin’ in a Continental, you can assume this shit’s starting to get to me. But chances are, I’m gonna hold out for Stamos and stick with the motor between my legs. Its WAY more powerful than yer average 8 cylinder and it never needs tune ups….just the occasional lube.

So here’s middle age. And really, I don’t feel like I’m sailing over the hump. I’m staring at an age that makes human men feel past their prime and all I feel is one year awesomer. A little more handsome, a little more powerful, a little more focussed, and a whole lot wiser. This has been a big year, I got scars, fans, and passport stamps to prove it. Cause really, who wants a clean passport and untouched lily-white skin? Give me ink and scabs and grey hairs any day. Life needs to be lived. And every year you do it, you stomp a little harder when putting out fires…or have better urethral control while pissing them out. Either way, you become a more grizzled, flawed, and undeniable version of yourself. Sounds effing sexy to me. Give me today’s Stamos over the mullet topped Full House version any day. Nothing says sexy like deep laugh lines and the aged ability to cut to the chase. Cause life is short, the nights are long, and time waits for no one…but it also doesn’t call the shots. You do, bitches. There is no mid-life, only life. Live it like it kicks ass and it will. Face time like it isn’t stealing from you and it won’t.

I know what you’re saying: “how did you get so smart, Squiggs?”. I just learn things 7 times faster than you guys do. Don’t beat yourselves up about it; you’ll get there eventually.

Bite me Fido…I won’t even call animal control…in fact I’ll show you right where to chomp down

So my first foray into corporate shilling actually cured me of any desire to continue such practices. It just isn’t my bag. It isn’t for Bridget and I. Even as she was pageant momming me, I could tell there was a part of her gag reflex that was constantly threatening to jump around like a flamenco dancer. But hey, I should start this rant from the beginning, yes?

Bridget gave me a fresh shave and put on my fool-proof bow tie and we went down to the Fido “audition” which took place near the dog area at Cooper’s Park in Yaletown; a park I normally can’t stomach going to because of all the pure bred snobbery and intact wagging going on. I swear to god, the THINGS I would do if I still had my testicles…these idiots run around humping each others’ faces with these blank expressions, slaves of instinct without a shred of personal pleasure within them. What a fucking waste of testes. Anyway, we went there and showed those vapid blue blood styrofoam cut-outs what kind of swagger can result from cross-breeding and a brief stint in the can.

We stood in line while the Fido volunteers fluttered about in a mostly disorganized shit show filled with people who were blinded by their own personal “Fluffy”s overrated charm. These dogs were IDIOTS. Slack-jawed, stereotypical canines, clambering for each others’ attention with high-pitched squeals and premature erections. It was like being at a junior prom for the special kids. I’m sorry….that was off-color. But stop frowning and picture it. There is no better description on the face of the earth.

A videographer for the cellular company came up and asked Bridget and I to do an interview. She looked down at me and actually said “put your game face on”. I won’t lie, I shuddered so hard that poop came out. Bridget’s desire for fame sometimes fills me with bile.

Now before you paint me with the hypocrite brush, let me tell you I was NOT there to get famous. I think we all know that the kind of fame you get for lending your ass to a brand usually ends in having to sell your round ones to the man. Which is something I would rather die than do. I had a plan. A big fat amazing one. And now it seems the pirates who have no jobs are able to sit at home voting for the troglodytes that are in the top ten of this “contest” and some blurry schnauzer is gonna sell cell phones to a bunch of idiots. Am I saying this because I am bitter that I’m losing? You bet your ass! Is it because I wanted my face on bus benches? Nope. Here is how I saw it:

They would pick me and the photo shoot would go as well as all Bridget’s amateur shoots on the beach go: perfectly. And my splendid little mug will be all over the country. And people will be like “oh, what a precious little off-beat angel”. But what will the company think when they soon after realize thanks to my blog that the face of their business is an openly gay potty mouth with a drunken mother. A pair who court the counter-culture and are delinquent on our bill payments. Sure they could strip me of my title like Kate Moss after the cocaine controversy (cause who knew models did coke? WHAAAA?????). But I am who I am and there are others like me. Alas it may never come to be, they chose democracy over chutzpah. And we all know how well that works. George – cough – Bush – cough cough.

I’m still gonna try to win this thing. And not cause I’m trying to ruin this company, but because there needs to be someone who is willing to sell phones to the wacky sub genre of people who make up my neck of the woods. The people who aren’t afraid to show a little edge.

I wanna show the world who I really am and how I really can make people see the world in a different way. Cause that’s why I am here, folks. I’m like Lady Gaga only I’m genuine. So Fido can help me do this or they can let Pooky the Lhasa Apso vanilla up the world just a little bit more. Either way, I’m gonna swagger around with whatever minutes the world is gonna give me. And I ain’t talking airtime minutes, I’m talking real ones. And no corporation is gonna bestow these on me. I make them with my stride. Four legs at a time. Beat that, bipeds.

Back. But not a changed man, thank god.

Bridget and I have returned from our adventure out east a little worse for wear but full of gusto….though my gusto is, as always, more proactive than Bridget‘s. Sorry her account was the first one to be logged online; I usually like to give people the REAL story before they are subjected to her emo diary from hell. Unfortunately, I HAD to catch up on my pillow humping. One whole week without it had Sally thinking she had some kind of power (which just won’t do) and had left me harder up than a priest…hmm, make that a monk. Anyway, Sally is now crying, I am sucking on a Marlboro, all is right with the world. And now: the recap.

I’ll be honest, though Bridget and I have lived in a couple of cities and have had our adventures within them, I really had no idea how vast this rock is. And apparently, we only checked out a fraction of it on this lengthy voyage. Remarkable. I certainly hope to check out more of it, especially since I have perfected the art of sleeping beneath the seat for hours and hours. I have heard there is something called “quarantine” that may make it difficult for Bridget and I to travel overseas; I am going to look in to maybe shipping her there in cargo to see if we can bypass it that way.

The leg of the journey that led us to New York City was a surefire gauntlet. We took the red-eye to Montreal and landed there at 7am. First flight of the day at that crazy place. Then we immediately arranged for the car and were on the road. It was a little slapstick getting out of Montreal because all the signs were in French and Bridget is a world-class unilingual ape. In her defense, the freeways there are about as simply laid out as the human circulatory system…I wouldn’t have wanted to be driving and I am fluent in the language of love.

Once we got on the right path though, our entire quest began to pick up steam…though I was a LITTLE groggy from the early hour.But Bridget was full steam ahead. On no sleep with the smell of New York City already in her nostrils, she was full-bore about the cause. And I gotta admit, when I first saw the place, I understood why.

When we paid the toll and started across the George Washington Bridge, I saw Bridget brighten in a way I hadn’t seen since she went to that brewery party where she was allowed to tap beer right from the tank for free. As soon as she saw the city in the distance, she squealed: “We’re here! There it is! It’s Manhattan, Lenny! We did it!”. I was proud of her. I don’t mind saying it.

Once we checked into the hotel and busted out into that city, I gotta tell you, I got instantly what everyone has been saying about it. There is electricity coming off the streets there that is unlike anything I have ever experienced, and I got electroshock therapy after I organized that coup back in my 20s.

I liked Halifax too, for reasons I will talk about shortly, but New York City is my kind of  town. The smells, the tastes, the enthusiastic and incredibly friendly people. This is a town for warriors who know how to enjoy the spoils of victory, which is why I MUST find a way to live there. I don’t know about Bridget though, you couldn’t get her to open her eyes and pay attention to how kick ass life is with an air horn. Did you read her latest blog? Who writes that after vacation?? That’s the kind of thing you would hear from someone who desperately NEEDS a vacation. Good god… I think more people need to experience the world from a foot off the floor; you gotta be WAY sharper down there, no time for getting caught up in silly things when the here and now can be life, death, or unattended hot dog at any minute.

Anyway, back to the modern Rome. We spent the majority of our time in the city walking around and copping squats in various stellar locations. One of my favorites was the Public Library. It was an impressive structure and it allowed for us to watch the city go by on 5th Ave. Let me tell you, you haven’t seen streets like these; alive with people and every single one of them appreciates where they are. I think you’d be hard pressed, save for a few hard luck cases or Bridgets who don’t know how to live, to find anyone who would choose to live elsewhere.

Another thing I dig about New Yorkers is their guts. They don’t back down to traffic, weather, authority, politics, ANYTHING. If you get enough New Yorkers behind an idea, that idea will have legs. Strong legs. While we were there, there was an occupy Wall Street protest going on. People pissed about banks getting a leg up so the rich can stay rich while the other 99% scrape by, pay their share, and go into debt if they need open heart surgery. I loved this. I think my namesake would have lived down there with them. This was JUST the kind of thing John loved about New York city: strike a match for a good cause and you will get one hell of a hot fire. You better believe if I ever get there, I’m gonna be out front with a bullhorn making shit known. You can do that in Vancouver, but most people walk by with their heads down, texting, and thinking you are some kind of cracked out wackadoo unless you’re talking about something asinine like the bike lanes.

Speaking of my namesake, Bridget took me to the memorial so we could pay our respects. I felt kind of bad because there was a stretch of time while we were there that I took some MAJOR attention away from the godfather of peace just by being me. Bridget made me wear my red bow tie in honor of her birthday and it proved to be a little too adorable for second place. At one point we had a group of 50, I kid you not 50, tourists taking pictures of me, their backs turned to the memorial tiles on the ground. It was a little strange, I’m not gonna lie. I felt like a Kardashian…except I have a soul.

Later that night, Bridget took me to a bar. This was the second time I had been inside a bar. The first time, we took advantage of a door guy we knew to get into a place in Vancouver. I sat on a bar stool and turned the place into a happening joint. This time was really no different. The place was called VON and it was JUST the kind of place Bridget needs: dog-friendly, great music, low profile decor, and a no nonsense happy hour that even a hobo could afford. She sat with me sleeping on her lap, ordered herself beer and whiskey, and wrote until her fingers cramped up…which takes a while thanks to her pathetically feverish masturbation habit….though I am one to talk.

After that we walked from NoHo to Midtown East in the pouring rain. I was pretty bitter about it but Bridget looked like she needed some time in the elements. And it was her birthday so who was I to complain. I plan to cash in on my birthday in return (November 4th, people. Circle your calendars) in the way of rolling in dead things until Bridget wretches up her lunch. Tit for tat, I always say.

So before I knew it, we were enjoying our last day in Manhattan and then it was time to go. getting us to leave was like peeling a band-aid off a baboon’s nut sack: painful and full of violent opposition. But Halifax was waiting. It was time to boogie.

We spent the night in the Montreal airport because Bridget was on a budget and we had a 7 hour layover. It wasn’t so bad, I figure if the New Yorkers who were occupying Wall Street could sleep there every night for weeks, I could rough it on an airport bench with Bridget for a handful of hours. MAY have been nicer if the airport didn’t choose to buff the floors at 3 a.m. But hey, buggers can’t be choosy.

What to say about Halifax. The place is way smaller than I thought it would be. Quite the change of pace from the nuclear blast that is Manhattan. But there is a bounty of shellfish there. Like EVERYWHERE. The seagulls are sloppier eaters there than a virgin on his prom night. I made off well.

I’ll be honest, it was a beautiful place and the people were cool, but it lacked fire. It was peaceful and laid back….but I have always been of the mind that nothing gets done that way. I knew upon looking at Halifax that I could take it over and put its notch in my bedpost within a single afternoon, and it would be great. But I would much rather do double duty and run myself over the coals to get my legs wrapped around Manhattan. Nothing against the beautiful east coastal waters of Halifax and the amazingly friendly and, surprisingly handsome (like seriously every one of them) male populace of that town, but I like my geographical trysts to be sexy, exciting, and needless of sleep. One shout out should go to the Garrison brewery though, not only did they let me in the tap house for Bridget’s lengthy tasting, but the beer was outstanding and the men who worked there were adorable. If you’re going out that way, check it out and tell them Lennon Squiggy sent you.

All in all, I was happy to go home. Back to the beautiful West Coast and the slightly less enthusiastic people. I miss New York already but its good to get back to Sally and bust off my rocks, which are now full of monster power thanks to the environment of New York City. I am hoping that after Bridget gets over her latest bout of emo, she’ll find the monster power stashed in HER private parts thanks to NYC. I’m sure she got some too. She was walking funny the whole time we were there; a gate that was partially buzzed, partially powerful, partially sick with possibility, and lacking entirely in apprehension. They way I would like her to be. The way New York makes people feel. The way I am every day. Cause lets be real, I am the New York of dogs; unstoppable, electric, full of smells, and I will ruin you for other dogs the second you lay eyes on me.

Big Apple pie

I am writing this while barely able to hold my head up in Manhattan. Before you pigs assume I mean something sexual there, let me assure you I would be no more able to perform tonight than Steve Buscemi’s blind date. Bridget and I left Vancouver at 9:30pm, had a one hour layover in Calgary, then ultimately landed in Montreal at 7:00am the next day. We promptly got in the rental car and made the 7 hour trek to Manhattan.

I was lucky, I got to sleep on the plane. Both planes. Poor Bridget only got about an hour of shut-eye and I think it was actually the result of the bottle of chardonnay she had on our beach before we left Vancouver. How do I know this? Because when the flight attendant woke her after EVERYONE ELSE had left the plane, she almost fell down in the aisle coordinating all her luggage (ie me and a backpack full of Hunter S Thompson books). For the Montreal flight I watched, in between sex dreams about Danny Trejo, as she tried a number of hilariously painful sleeping positions up against the plane window. Although I must say, I was kind of touched when she opened her eyes long enough to see the sunrise out the window as we made our descent into Montreal and said “wow”. She’s so cute. And such a trooper because she proceeded to drive all the way to New York City singing Wayne Newton.

Upstate New York is quite glorious. The foliage was turning and the trees were all kinds of crazy colors. The people were colorful too. Polite but strange. And I think they thought Bridget’s “NY Hearts Me” T-shirt was a little doofusy. But bless her, she wore it proud.

Driving into Manhattan was apparently a big coup for Bridget. She lost her marbles in a way I haven’t seen since she thought she won $100 bucks on that scratch and win that turned out to be a joke….that I gave her in her birthday card. She was wailing and carrying on like a hysteric. It got me going. Cause I gotta tell you, by that point I was juuuust about toast.

Once we checked in, it was time for Bridget to wash the road trip crud off herself and we hit the streets. And I, for the first time, got a whiff of Manhattan. Let me first say that there is A LOT going on here. Like everywhere. Everyone jaywalks while cars and delivery trucks and cabs sail past them within inches of taking their lives. Its like the foot people and the wheel people are equals. Madness. And WHOA are there some smells here. Its arouses me in a way I thought only Stamos could. I couldn’t keep track of it all. I was like a mafia bride at Cartier.

Also, there are seemingly trillions of these carts that sell food ON THE STREET. And I mean that in most cases literally. Never has my short stature brought with it such a bounty. I had pretzels, hot dogs, donair, some kind of cheese, and a jelly bean. And that was while tired. Tomorrow will be sultan times.

We took pictures but stupid Bridget forgot to bring the camera cord so we can only transfer the stupid iPhone ones until we get home. Poop. Until then, I will regale you with my colorful re-tellings until you can have pics to go with it.

Tomorrow we are catching up with John Lennon’s ghost and then hitting up a dog friendly bar in NoHo. This should prove to be quite delightful. Stay tuned.

From glorious Manhattan signed,

Glorious Lenny and somewhat passable Bridget

Episode II – Attack of the snake

Well it has been days and still no progress with the snake. It taunts me. Every time I get it in my mouth and chomp down with all my might, I feel unbelievable pain in my ass which leads me to believe that the snake is waiting for me to bite before it bites me. What is that about?? That’s fucked up. This thing is becoming my nemesis program. I’m serious. Bridget still just finds the whole struggle amusing. The lack of support is staggering. For a woman whose life is always in shambles, she sure isn’t very supportive of MY plight. Bastards. Everyone.

I will continue to fight the good fight. I will send word from the front line every step of the way. This ain’t NEAR over yet. Mark my words.

That’s all for now. Over and out.

L.S.

Cock blocked by a world class harpie

It really is a human’s world. I mean it. I wait at home all day with nothing more than a supreme porn collection, endless stamina, and a 1000 piece puzzle of flamingos to keep me busy while Bridget goes off to work to make money to drink with. All I ask in return is a chance to go outside and sew my oats, so to speak. I need to strut past all the right places, flex my ass and my manliness, and ensure the bitches in the hood know I’m still kicking and still owning. It’s incredibly important and its a practice the ovarian nutjob I live with has NO respect for.

Yeah ok, she takes me on at least an hour-long walk every morning by the sea, but that one is different. A sea walk is about harnessing my natural man. It’s about finding dead things to roll in, sea food to eat, and birds to humiliate. That is nature and its a private affair away from the apartments full of minions I need to strut for. If the king only had his chariot rides through town as activities, he would burn right out. The man needs to play tennis on his private courts, whip a few ponies in the stables, bugger a couple of the maids in the guest-chamber. You know? Private jollies. So yeah, I get that. I get a lot of it. But I also need the chariot ride. And I think Bridget finds this part of my legacy to be a tad boring.

Tonight, we were engaging in our Davie street strut. This includes a visit to the pet store where I get the simple-minded people behind the counter to hand over free wares just by looking at them with my sensational, on-of-a-kind mug. They titter and coo and ask Bridget what kind of dog I am and whether the hairstyle is natural (my personal favorite of all my most asked questions) and I gobble cookies until my gums bleed. This is an essential stop on the tour of Lenny. It cannot. Be. Missed.

But here we were, approaching it on Davie street and Bridget was not breaking stride. So I made my move to the door, assuming she was lost deep in thought about some kind of pipe dream that would never come true. But she yanked back. “Not tonight, dude”. Dude? Excuse me? What are we, snowboarders? Dude? That’s precious. So I insisted. She pulled back. Was this happening? Was she disrespecting my process? In public no less?

This was not happening. As she pulled me further away from the store, all I could do was watch as other little whore dogs emerged from the store with their humans, licking the free cookie off their jowls in front of me like mafia rats out on a plea bargain. Flaunting their success in the face of my failure. I was not a king, I was a dog on a leash. I hate that.

Needless to say I made the rest of the walk a nightmare. I could see the ordeal bringing a crimson color to Bridget’s face which was almost reward enough but it still stung. The whole thing did. Especially since I, with no question, walk into the liquor store every time we pass it so she can get a bottle of her little vice, partially because I find a drunk Bridget to be an easily led Bridget. She tends to forget how many cookies she’s given me in that state…and she’s more likely to forfeit both pillows. This was the thanks I get?

I am no fool though, I know why she did it. Bridget is trying to better herself through assertiveness lately. Its something I told her to do too…so I can’t really fight it even if her methods are still a little novice. For example:

I was present a few weeks ago when a friend made fun of her singing at a concert. She said “isn’t it bad concert karma to make fun of how someone enjoys themselves at a show? Wouldn’t your energy be better spent making fun of the people NOT enjoying themselves?” He acted surprised at her outburst. She said “I’m sorry. I just got out of a relationship where someone did that to me all the time and I think I used up my quota of congeniality in that category. I tried a long time to be big and get past it. I failed”.

One thing you can hand to her: you’re never left wondering/guessing.

So I’ll let her have her little moment in the sun. Every king gets someone on the drawbridge trying to topple his crown. All part of being on top. It never lasts. I took a big steaming shit in her shoe when we got home. I look forward to tomorrow morning’s ugly reveal.

King me, bitch.

And Lennon Squiggy finds a new hero in Tyler Durden

Decided the estrogen fest that is Bridget’s almost constant self-discovery mission was getting old, I used one of my 5 2011 movie vetoes tonight and kiboshed Sideways in favor of Fight Club. I assured Bridget it would still go with wine as well as Sideways. And I was right.

What I didn’t count on was feeling wrapped up in the flawless logic of this film. I think Bridget got something out of it too. The angst I assume she feels about being a man’s soul trapped in a women’s body is the exact same as I feel having a lion’s soul trapped in a Pomeranian’s body. Together we are the all singing, all dancing, misfits of the world. And we kinda want some messy scars.

When Edward Norton asks Durden who he would fight if he could pick anyone and he said “Hemingway”, I fell in love right down to my formidable johnson. This was a tale for the elite of manhood. Something most humans know nothing about…and I guess THAT may be why I am glad to be an animal. I know what blood tastes like…even if it was only my own.

So help me, I believe in evolution. I believe in the possibility that the mind will show you flashes of what can be if you are able to admit you don’t know everything. Sure, I may seem like I think I know everything, but there is a large throbbing mass where my testicles used to be that COUNTS on possibility. That COUNTS on the fact that I can still be surprised by my environment. And welcomes it so I can put the dukes up and take it on like a champ. Even something as visceral and universal as fear can be faced with that kind of open belief in possibility. I think Hunter S. Thompson said it best when he said: “I understand that fear is my friend, but not always. Never turn your back on fear. It should always be in front of you, like a thing that might have to be killed.” Duke knew, he even knew that he didn’t know.

I truly think the key is (spoiler alert…in all senses of that term) the key is to bring Durden out of the brain and onto the street. Without the use of a handgun. What would be wrong with a society who believed “”I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”? Too scary? Too much of a gamble? Risk equals change. Almost always, people. ‘Fraid so.

Its nights like this that I love. They make me hard. And I dig sharing them with Bridget. I see her drink the chardonnay until her guard is down low enough to cry or sing really loud to Paul Simon. I know her poor body has estrogen to deal with  and that is her equivalent to busting her knuckles out on the bathroom floor. It makes the air stink of instinct. I love that. I wish everyone would do it.

You can choose to be split in two. Or you can choose to evolve. Or maybe you can’t. Maybe evolution really isn’t a choice. Maybe it just happens when your eyes are open and your skin feels the sting of pain. Fucking great stuff, that.

This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time. If you’re afraid of a little mayhem, you’re gonna miss the point. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing. Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything. And freedom….that’s all that matters, kiddies. Take it from the dog 12 inches off the ground who can’t take a shit without the world watching.

Episode I: The Furry Menace

So the furry snake attached to my ass was at it again. thinks it can outsmart me. Well, I know better. It isn’t going to get away with this. Sooner or later I will catch it off guard and it will be sorry for taunting me like it has. I tried to catch it this morning: it was a hot pursuit. Bridget laughed at me. She didn’t even try to help me catch this infernal serpent. Bitch! I’m alone in this quest. Stay tuned for further developments. Wish me luck.

 

L.S.