Dog Brings Home Human Leg

Milojica is a black flat-coated retriever. Last summer I trained him for a month to find and retrieve wallets. No luck. Now he brings home a leg.

I tossed the leg in the freezer in the garage and posted an item on craigslist. Nobody wanted the limb, not even, evidently, its owner.

It’s a male leg, or that of an exceptionally hirsute, muscular female. No polish on the nails. A little lint between the toes. (The leg has a foot on one end.)

There is a small tattoo above the ankle – two Chinese characters, taken together meaning “Huizhou tamale.”

Next day I took the leg out of the freezer, let it thaw, and had Milojica sniff it once or twice. Between his nose and bringing the thing home in his mouth in the first place, he had to have its scent firmly embossed upon his canine brain. I led him out the front gate, aimed him down the road, and said “Fetch.” Slapped his rump to get him going. He sped away, down the street and into the woods.

“Will he bring back the other one?” said my daughter Jasna.

I shrugged. While we waited, I went inside and posted a picture of the leg on Facebook. Friends registered many Likes (trolling spam) but no Wants. Well, one want, but for totally inappropriate reasons.

On Twitter I posted “What to do with my leg?” As I have no followers, no one responded.

Milojica returned empty-mouthed. He trotted into the open garage and sat down whining in front of the freezer.

“That is not your personal chew toy,” I said.

“Aw, Dad, please?” said my son Javor.

“We don’t let the cats toy with the birds they catch,” I said. “This is the same thing.”

“Well, can we play with it?” Jasna said.

“No you cannot,” I said. “Stay out of the freezer or I’ll give you a good thrashing.”

In the dark of night, though, with Milojica at my side, I took out the leg myself, and warmed it with a hair dryer. I can’t say why, but I had sentimental feelings for it. Perhaps it reminded me of my father’s leg. Or poor Yorick’s.

The leg went all the way up, but stopped just before it would have got, you know, weird.

8 Arrested at Kindergarten Graduation

Jimmy Wu was named valedictorian of Young Angels Kindergarten by Miss Thustle. Why? Because Mr. Wu bought her off. Can you believe that? I don’t know what it cost him. Earlier I had mentioned a hundred bucks to Thustle and she turned up her nose at me.

Little Butch didn’t care. Heck, he couldn’t get farther than one syllable  into “valedictorian” when he tried to say it. The decision bothered me and the missus, though.

“That’s all it’s worth to you for our son to be the best?” she said to me.”You’re imperiling our boy’s academic future because you’re a skinflint? I suppose you want him to go to State, not to a good university? Tightwad.”

“Honey,” I said. “I should have named a bigger number. I admit it. Everybody knows how serious the Chinese are about education. I guess I thought Miss Thustle might want to support the white race in a situation like this, even if it cost her a few shekels.”

“Fix it,” the missus said. She had that dark look she gets. The one where she calls her father.

My problem was, Thustle didn’t like me ever since I accidentally made contact with her a couple of times in the bust and buttocks regions. She’s a babe. Wasted on five-year-olds, if you know what I mean.

Then the missus told me that her dad was actually coming to the graduation ceremony. There was no way in heaven he was going to sit still and watch a ch… a Chinese boy win the big prize. Not with Butch sitting up there on the stage with the rest of his class.

So on the night, I went to Miss Thustle right away.

“Butch’s grandpa is going to be in the audience tonight,” I said to her. “Believe me, you don’t want to give the Wong kid the valedictorian Mr. Professor teddy bear with Wong watching. Two hundred bucks to change your mind.”

“Do you know who Mr. Wong is?” Thustle said.

“Don’t tell me he’s in the rackets.”

“Look. He just came in. See that guy beside him? The big one?”

“Butch’s grandpa just came in too. See that big guy beside him?”

Thustle turned and headed for the stage. I took my seat next to the missus and her dad and his goon. Wong and his wife and his goon were off to our right. The kids assembled on the stage.

The lights went down and the ceremony began with the little angels singing a song. Thustle said a few words. Then she apologized for feeling faint and told us that her assistant would direct the rest of the ceremony. She exited stage right. I could see where this was going and told the missus that I was having stomach cramps and needed to visit the little boys room.

I didn’t want to use my cell phone to make the call, but fortunately the lobby had an old pay phone that still worked. I traded a dollar for a quarter from the woman in the box office and dialed 911. Told the operator that there was going to be trouble.

Then I did use the bathroom. I was nervous because with these guys, you never knew when the guns were going to come out. When I got back to the auditorium door and opened it a crack and peeked in, I saw that Mr. Wong and Butch’s grandpa and both their goons and the missus and some other twerpy dad who imagined his son was the best and brightest, were all up on the stage with the teacher’s assistant, whose eyes were bugging out of her head. She had the Mr. Professor teddy bear clutched to her chest and Butch and Jimmy Wong were trying to pull it away from her. The twerpy dad’s kid ran and hid.

The goons began throwing punches. That’s what goons do; that’s what they were there for. The missus pulled her hand out of her purse with a .32 in it. I heard sirens.

At this point I left the building, meaning to stop by Podesta’s Bail Bonds on my way home to a TV dinner and ballgame. In the parking lot I saw Thustle stepping into her Prius.

“You’re a dirtbag,” she said. “but compared to the rest of them, you’re Saint Francis.”

I took that as a compliment.

Cheerleader Kicks Herself in Head

[Headline, Huffington Post]

I was sitting at home, resting with  some very sore ribs, when my daughter came home with a shiner.

“Oh, Honey,” I said.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “It’s just the one eye this time.”

I was going to beg her to take up swimming, but her dad got home from work just then. He hobbled in and sank onto the couch.

“Kicked myself in the groin,” he groaned.

“That’s the worst,” I said.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“The ribs,” I said, “While I was vacuuming.”

“And what about you, Pumpkin?” he said to our daughter.

“Just the one eye,” she said. “I’m OK. A little makeup and I’ll be good as new.”

“Listen, Pumpkin…,” her dad began, but our son Buddy burst into the room with a whoop.

“You should have seen it!” he said. “It was awesome!”

“Did you kick the back of your head again?” I said.

“Nah. I kicked Tommy!!”

Boy Finds Live Grenade On Easter Egg Hunt

[Headline, CNN]

I was going to write a word or two here based on the followup CNN article, “Boy Tries to Open Easter Egg by Pulling Its Pin,” but I decided not to go dark. As of this post, then, we can imagine that the grenade is still nestled in the Easter basket.

The photo shows the boy with a big grin, because his frustrated buddy is still out in the field trying to dig up the Easter landmine he has found, and getting all muddy in the process. I was going to write a word or two here based on the followup CNN article, “Other Boy Stomps on Live Landmine in Frustration,” but again, why not capture the scene while the sun is still shining?

This is the first Easter egg hunt I can recall where the Easter Bunny is wearing a Nazi helmet. Hitler, at the age of five, found no eggs on a hunt, only some stale Chanuka gelt. When the difference between Chanuka and Easter was explained to him – that is, the difference between gelt and chocolate bunnies – he first conceived in his brain his most disturbing notion: that he would gain control of all the chocolate bunnies and eggs in the world, and rid the world of all stale gelt. Too bad he didn’t find that live grenade!

For more, see also “Boy Finds Blackbeard’s Treasure by Using Metal Detector on Easter Egg Hunt.”

WATCH: Amazing Teen Uses Piano To Detect Landmines

[Headline, Huffington Post]

Tell me about it. My kid? The piano lessons cost a fortune. Plus, I had to buy a piano. The gas it takes to get him to the conservatory? At today’s prices? Don’t ask.

Look, it’s an investment. The kid will need something like this on his college application in eight years. Pray God he doesn’t ask for drums.

The point is, this kid will do anything to get out of practicing. He’s supposed to be doing his scales? Silence. I hear nothing. He tells me he is tuning the piano. He’s leaning into it. I look in and he has his iPad in there. Later I still don’t hear anything and he has his iPad propped up in front of his Hanon exercises. He tells me he is looking for Beethoven sonata piano music online. Later I still don’t hear anything and he tells me he’s working on his pedeling. I look down and he’s got his iPad by his foot. Shoe off. Working the device with his toes.

When my kid hears about this teen and her landmines, who knows what ideas it will plant. We’ve got no landmines in the neighborhood, but there is dog “waste” on the lawns. Can my boy get his instrument out the sliding glass doors onto the patio and then around the house to the front yard? It’s a spinet on casters. Does he play something when he spots a pile on the lawn? Does that count as practice? Note to self: consult with his teacher.

According to the boy, there is an iPad Piano Teacher app. You pay to download each lesson, but the lessons are much cheaper than his current teacher. According to the boy, in addition to landmines and dog poo, there are lessons on cooking with the piano, improving your Scrabble game with the piano, and some unrated lessons that I might check out myself, after the boy has gone to bed.

Product endorsements

A Real Lifesaver

I love my husband but he does have some anger-management issues.  Most of the time he’s a real puppy dog, but when he loses it, he will clock me pretty good.  I know I should report him to the law or head for a women’s shelter or something, but gosh, I just love the big lug. Sure, I’m abused, but are a bunch of shiners too much to pay for marital bliss most of the time? He works like a dog and I lay on the couch all day eating bon bons.

Afterward he beats me up, he’ll be apologetic for days and he swears that he’ll never do it again. Of course I don’t believe him, but I think that he believes it himself. Then when he starts getting wound up again, he’ll say that I made him do it.

Anyway, I was down at the hardware store the other day and I bought a 12″ cast-iron skillet that I needed, as I do cook. The thing weighed a ton. A black beauty. You can’t hurt it. I accidentally left the fire on under it the other night after cooking dinner and although it got hot enough to melt lead, it was otherwise unscathed.

The other wonderful thing about the skillet is that I’m strong enough to take it by the handle and give my hubby a whack in the noggin with it that will send him into cuckoo-land on the kitchen-floor linoleum for a good ten minutes. When he comes to, he isn’t angry any more. His head hurts too much. You can also make an unbelievable omelette in it.

Classic Bug

I bought a classic ’67 VW bug from a guy relocating to Florida. I paid him fifty cents, which was all I had at the time, and moved in immediately.

The bug sat in an empty lot on 116th Street. No wheels, but the doors still locked. A good growth of tall weeds surrounded it and provided a rustic feel.

The seats were long gone and the floor was covered in layers of cardboard. Pretty ritzy! This was a movie up from an ancient Morris Minor for me. Luxurious.  I’ve got a buddy who lives in a Buick up on 125th by the river. He’s got room in there to invite some folks over, they smoke a J, drink a little Thunderbird; in other words, he entertains. He’s like that. Me, not so much.

It’s part of the American Dream, right? Own your own place. King in your castle. As far as I’m concerned, ’67 was the last good year for bugs. After that, they switched to those ugly new bumpers, which I hate.


You ask me, flame throwers don’t get the respect they deserve. Well, maybe they do if you’re facing some guy with one in your hands, all lit up and ready to barbeque him. But I mean from day to day, hanging around the office, bs-ing with your friends. Unless they’re into Call of Duty or suchlike, you’re lucky to find a guy who has built a flame thrower from a kit. As for women, forget about it!

To be clear, I’m not talking about these safer, commercial, gas-streaming models. I’m talking about manning up and throwing a good long stream of burning liquid out there onto a crowd or building.

Yes, I was a yellow, underweight weakling with thinning hair, cardboard lifts in my shoes, and a congenital fear of leafy vegetables. Yes, my mom forced the vegetables, either raw or cooked to a consistency of gray-green mush. Yes, I wouldn’t play outdoors.

But then my dad died and I was able to sneak down into the basement without him threatening to kill me, and it didn’t take long to find the heat. Two tanks of oil-based liquid fuel, a tank of compress butane, a gun housing, and an ignition valve. My first trip over to the playground where all those little rats from my class hung out, that was probably the best day of my life!

Man Adopts his 42-Year-Old Girlfriend

Headline, Huffington Post]

The guy’s name is Marvin. Once Sue was all adopted, he took her home to meet his former mom and dad, now his adopted son and daughter.

“Fred and Betty,” he said to them, “meet your new sister Sue.”

“Keep it down,” his daughter said. “Your son is taking his nap.”  

The elderly woman was trying to assemble a lego jeep.

“I’m sure glad to be here,” said Sue. “Say, Betty, can I help?”

“You can go make dinner,” said Betty. “After you put in a load of wash.”

Sue frowned.

“I meant, can I play with you,” she said. “I’m not your slave.”

“Now, kids,” chuckled Marvin. “Don’t start scrapping. Remember, I love you all equally.’

“We’ll see about that tonight,” said Sue.

“Whoa, there, Pilgrim,” said Betty. “This is a Christian home.”

“Remember that when you hear me shouting Oh God! tonight,” Sue said.

 “Marvin!” Betty said.

Spot, Marvin’s other son, came in through the doggy door.


“Oh, goody,” said Sue. “I always wanted a brother, and not some old geezer asleep at two in the afternoon. Spot, sit boy! Roll over!”

Marvin took Sue aside.

“Baby,” he said. “I’m afraid that tonight’s off.”

“What? Just because you’re my daddy?”

“No. I adopted myself today, too. I’m your big brother now. I’ve got to look out for you, and that includes not letting your daddy take advantage of you.”

What You Don’t Know About Dish Towels

[Headline, Huffington Post, 02/09/12]

1. You never have to wash a dish towel. Why not? Because you are wiping water off clean dishes with it, and that water is effectively washing the towel itself. If your dish towels get dirty, don’t blame the towels!

2. You can use a dish towel as a bath towel but you shouldn’t use a bath towel as a dish towel. This is because you can rub a dish on your bottom, for example, but you ought not rub your bottom on a dish. Wait a minute. Does that make sense?

3. If you are a guy and you want to meet girls at the beach and you take a dish towel out there and spread it out on the sand, instead of a beach towel, hoping to get the “Aw, isn’t that cute” reaction, go home. Stay there.

4. If you are a gal and you want to meet guys at the beach and you take a dish towel out there and spread it out on the sand, instead of a beach towel, hoping to get the “Aw, isn’t that cute” reaction, and you also wear a seriously tiny bikini, and you’re cute, then the size, shape, and color of the dish towel will prove immaterial to your success.

5. In the case of a kitchen fire, knotting together dish towels to use as a rope out the window will get you an “Aw, geez!” reaction when the fire-fighters finally reach you (your remains).

6. On a happier note, disagreements about dish towels and bathroom-guest towels come in at #7 on the list of common reasons for divorce. I believe that guest towels and their use are the real culprit here.

7. You can use a dish towel as an oven mitt, but don’t use an oven mitt as a dish towel. I think a lot about this. It’s a metaphor.

Why Strong Women Make Better Wives

[Headline, Huffington Post]

My wife asked me to twist off the lid of a jar because she couldn’t. I couldn’t either. We fished out the lid-opener tool and used that.

What if my wife had been strong enough – or at least didn’t have arthritis in her hands – to just open the jar? What if I had been strong enough? Later I got mad at a guy in the fast lane and totalled our car.

Conclusion: strong is good.

My wife asked me to “squeeze her as hard as I could.” She said, laughingly, that I could probably crack her ribs if I tried hard enough. I gave her a good squeeze. She frowned. “Is that all you’ve got?” she said. “My personal trainer could squeeze me so hard my shorts would fall off.”

Conclusion: strong would be good for me, but not so much for the personal trainer.

At the company Christmas party, I had one or two nogs too many and when the CEO’s executive assistant strayed under the mistletoe, I gave her a big smooch. She was not strong enough to resist. On the other hand, my wife put a hammerlock on me that left my arm numb for a week.

Conclusion (times two); strong is not good.

My wife and I took a test that appeared in Parade Magazine. The results indicated that she had the strength of her convictions, whereas I was a boob. I told her that if she didn’t increase my allowance, based upon the fact that I needed more money to keep me going  since I wasn’t too bright, I would divorce her. She was able to call my bluff and as punishment, refused to give me a cent for two weeks. I had to run a tab at the bar and without a dollar bill in my hand, the pole dancers wouldn’t come near me.

Conclusion: strong is not good.

Final conclusion: strong is good. My wife told me to write that.

One State Takes Drastic Measure To Encourage Breastfeeding

(Huffington Post headline)

Bulletin from the State Office of Health and Safety

Attention, Citizens!

It has come to our attention that many mothers in this state are bottle-feeding their babies. This is unacceptable. Sure, you can give your baby the occasional sugar-teat soaked with laudanun. Mothers have been doing that for years. But bottle milk will not do; nor will rubber nipples.

Henceforth, all new mothers will be mailed an inexpensive cell phone with camera. Each time that you breastfeed, take a picture of your baby on the teat and send the picture to this office using the phone.

Our agents will make random checks of nursing mothers. If a sufficient number of photos are not on file for you, you will be fined to the full extent of the law. Repeat offenses will cause an agent to be assigned to you. This agent will be authorized to haul out the teat and attach the baby to it.

You may apply for an exception due to, for example, inverted nipples, milk that doesn’t come in, or nipples ravaged by a baby with early teeth. An agent will follow up with you. Hormone therapy may be required. Tooth guards may be applied to your child.

Fathers cannot substitute for the agent, even if the agent is a male, as many of them are. Although some of our agents may have a severe breast fetish, nonetheless they are seasoned professionals. They will see the milk from the gland into the infant and may offer to help with the burping. They will also supply substitute, dry bras in case of leaking.

Don’t send us a picture of a Barbie at your breast. We aren’t idiots. Make sure that we have equal numbers of left- and right-breast nursing pics. Don’t get all artsy, with pics from below or with dramatic lighting, or with other moms around also nursing. On second thought, all those things would be ok.

Although it might seem counterintuitive, the larger and more attractive your breasts are, the more pictures we will require. Try to keep the baby’s head to the side.

Most importantly, have fun! (But no sex while nursing. At least, not to excess.)