Lady Gaga Forgot Her Pants Again

(Huffington Post headline, 11/14/11)

Why does this rate a headline?

Dame Edith forgot her lorgnette for the opening at Epsom Downs. Now that was news.

I’ve forgotten my pants a time or two when going to work, but all that got me was a good spanking on the bare bottom by my boss, Mrs. Pregfort.

Colonel Smythe forgot a delivery of trousers to one of his battalions during the big war, but as he also sent them into a sector that he thought was safe but that was in fact the location of the Bosch high command, whence not one man returned alive, the fact that they had no clean pants to change into was rendered moot.

God Himself is said to have forgotten to take into account Man’s increased carbon emissions in this, the Late Industrial Age, so that the Supreme Being must now sit and watch helplessly as his children boil like lobsters in a pot, before He goes out and gets started on Earth 2.

The worst lapse occurred, according to scripture (refer to the Pseudepigrapha), when Satan was carrying out his revolt against Heaven. He planted a bomb under God’s throne, but in the confusion and tumult occasioned by the uprising’s inception, he and his lieutenants forgot to light the fuse.

Sex For Pleasure Not Uniquely Human

(Huffington Post headline, 11/13/11)

Festus is a five-year-old redbone coonhound. He’s a big, noisy dog who is always willing to jump up and lick your face and be petted. My wife and I love him and take him with us everywhere, always making sure that he gets enough exercise and attention.

All was fine until I read the Huffington news article mentioned above. It turns out that this dog, “man’s best friend,” has been thinking along the same lines as I have, sex-wise, all along.

I always thought that his lolling tongue and panting were cute. Now I see them for what they are. Signs of pure lust.

A dog isn’t like an old married man. A dog is always ready to get it on. That’s why they’re called dogs.

When Festus would lie there on the rug sleeping, and start twitching and yipping, tail thumping, I always figured he was dreaming about being out hunting with me in the woods. Ha.

The equipment is right there, for all the world to see. It’s like living with a nudist. A well-hung nudist, pardon my French.

Anyway, now I’m noticing how often my wife takes Festus out to the dog park, or so she says, for some “exercise.” He comes back all lathered up and flops down in a heap. And starts licking himself. Down there. Now I ask you.

Dog sleeps at foot of bed, you figure he’s faithful, until you realize that when you’re at work, he’s probably in the bed. Dog barks at the mailman and you figure he’s protecting the house, until you begin to wonder what the mailman was up to before Festus was big enough to scare him off.

There’s a woman at work who reminds me of a toy poodle, but that’s another story.

I began planning to catch Festus and my wife in the act. Planning how I would report this dog to the police, or to the pound, or to whoever deals with cases like this, and have him hauled off like the two-timing cur that he is. Fortunately for me and my marriage, before I could act I read this new article, “Women Are Sick of Men Behaving Like Animals.” I can see now that my wife is just as put off by Festus and his forward behavior as she is by me when I paw her in bed.