Florida woman, 81, arrested for feeding bears lots of dog food

[Headline, Huffington Post]

Feed a bear a can of dog food for lunch and the bear is hungry again at dinnertime.

Teach a bear to hunt down, kill, and eat a dog and the bear… well, it’s still hungry again at dinnertime.

But you don’t have to keep opening cans of dog food for it! The bear is self-sufficient! It can go out and kill a dog and eat it without you picking up a can opener. Is that so hard to understand?

But look. Once all the dogs are gone, all you’ve got left is cans of dog food. And a lot of hungry bears. If you don’t feed the bears, because they can’t open the cans for themselves, what with having paws instead of hands, whom do you think the bears are going to eat next? People! When my electric can opener broke, I was damned lucky to come out of it alive!

This all started when the highway patrol pulled me over with a truckload of dogs.

“Do you need all those dogs?” said the patrolman.

“Does a bear poop in the woods?” I said.

You see, the whole misunderstanding came about because of the ambiguity inherent in the words “dog food.” After my close calls with the cans, I decided to eliminate the middleman and just give the bears dog food, i.e., food made out of dogs, i.e., what I said above. Only, when the dog population waned, I had to start trucking them in.

This seemed easier than teaching the gators to eat the bears.

While in the pokey, I did figure out how to handle this bear situation. It’s so simple! Teach the bears to open the cans of dog food!

If you’ve ever watched the My Little Pony shows, you know that animals without hands can still manipulate just about anything. Flutterfly and Pinkie Pie always use a toothbrush at bedtime, for example. I’ve seen them do it. They hold the brush with their little hooves somehow.

Also, when you’re planning to live with the bears (not the Care Bears, ha ha!): get married, so that if you do run into a situation where the bears are going to eat a human, you’ll have one handy.

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.

Cat from Hawaii found in Ohio

[Headline, CNN]

I was sitting on my porch when I saw a cat coming down the street. He was obviously lost. I whistled him over and as I scratched his head, I checked his collar. He was from Hawaii.

I went inside and found some chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and a little leftover poi and brought it out to him. He wolfed it all down. I could tell he was hungry.

I called my sister, who lives in Wailea.

“I’ve found a lost cat,” I said. “His collar says he lives in Kihei.”

“Why, that’s right down the road,” my sister said. “Where are you?”

“Home in Ohio.”

“I’ll be darned. Well, put him on a plane to Kahului and I’ll meet him there and take him home.”

“Thanks, Sis.”

I had a carrier that I bought at Target after a lost dog showed up from Paris and caught me unprepared. I put this little guy in it (his name was Kamehameha) and took him down to our local airstrip. He had to make a connection in Columbus but after that he had a straight shot to the islands.

WATCH: Bullfrog DOMINATES Video Game

[Headline, Huffington Post]

You know that giant man spotted at Kim Jong-Il’s funeral? And now a giant bullfrog with super intelligence which croaks in the Korean bullfrog dialect? Coincidence? I think not.

The North Koreans, at first glance, have accomplished nothing in the past few decades. Satellite photos taken at night show a black patch of earth surrounded by the lights of China, South Korea, and Japan. Nothing to show for sixty years of struggle in NK, nothing other than the construction of a few nukes. Or not?? NK is the same size as Mississippi, which should tell you something right there.

NK has a million-man army, fourth largest in the world. When the authorities want a million-man march, unlike in Mississippi, no problem!

The truth is, those in power in North Korea have directed strong efforts over the years in secret directions. They’ve done a lot of work on giants, for one thing, and bullfrogs, for another. I have read several predictions that if Kim Jong-Il’s son fails as the next glorious leader, a giant human with the characteristics of a bullfrog, or vice versa, will take over. What does this mean?

Number one, our diplomats are not equipped to negotiate with a frog. The current liberal Greenpeacers in the EPA in Washington now are just dying to give away the store. The only thing worse would be if Korea was controlled by an ivory-billed woodpecker.

Number two, the Olympics will become a travesty, at least where the long jump is concerned.

Number three, NK is known as the Hermit kingdom. You don’t have to be a genious to see that the country is working not only on frogs, but on hermit crabs as well.

I hold no brief against frogs! Some of my best friends have pet frogs, or eat frog legs (but not both), or in shorts look like they have frog legs ha ha.

Toads, though, I’m not so sure. A big plate of toad legs can put a real damper on a first date.

So in closing: if a frog beats you at a video game, yes, he might be a prince, but if he is missing his legs, he might have played a French chef… and lost!

Family Who Believed Puppy Had Died After Accident Gets Big Surprise

(Headline, Huffington Post)

Our biggest surprise was how good Ronald Reagan looked, pretending to be a puppy again. We gave him a whole-body buzz cut and dyed him in mixed gray, black, white, and cafe au lait. Cute dog!

As we reported to the press, Ronald fell into our big hamburger grinder. When a batch of ground meat and fur came out the other end, well, we were sure that poor old Ronald was a goner.

But not so. He got wedged up in there before reaching the swirling blades. The big cat from next door wasn’t so lucky. Ronald will never catch up with old Whiskers now.

Ronnie likes to sit in front of the high def and watch the video clip from the news story over and over again. There he is and… oops, into the grinder. Now that’s news.

Look for Ronald to return next month. “Faithful Family Dog Returns Home After 1,000-Mile Trek,” and then, “Family Dog Saves Infant From Burning Crib.” We’d better be sober for that one!

You Won’t Believe What This Dog Brought Home

(Huffington Post headline)

We named our dog Ronald Reagan. Not for when the President had Alzheimer’s. Before that. The henna Reagan used in his later years? We dyed our Ronald the same color. It’s sort of an homage.

Our Ronald is a total publicity hound ha ha. He’ll do anything to grab another fifteen minutes of fame. “Dog Returns Home After 6 Years.” Remember that one? That was Ronald (dyed black). The story was that for six years, he was agoraphobic. Six years of therapy, he wouldn’t leave home. Then finally one day he walked down to the corner and back. Returned home for the first time in six years.

“Dog refuses to leave grave of master.” Remember that one? Ronald again (dyed white). The story doesn’t mention that I also refused to leave the grave, or that I had the dog on a leash. After a couple of days, Ronald was convinced that I had gone completely nuts. The wife would come down with her scooper and a plastic bag twice as big as usual.

Next, Ronald (dyed brown) brought home a kid’s report card. Nobody cared. He brought home an old lady’s social security check. Nobody cared. He brought home a human hand. A human hand is not easy to come by, legally or illegally. Nada. We were asking ourselves, who do you have to screw around here to get your story in the news? Fortunately, what with the 24/7 news cycle and everything, it was really just a matter of time.

Bad News For Sellers Of Petrified Cats

(Headline, Huffington Post)

Went down to my favorite gift shop today, to do my Xmas shopping. Got quite a shock when I saw the display of my favorite brand of petrified cats.

My plan this year, like every year, was to give a cat to everyone on my list. My mom and dad have gift cats from me going all the way back to when I was a child and tried to make some of them myself. Do my folks just drag all the cats out when I visit, and situate them around the house as doorstops and so forth, or do they keep them where they can be seen every day? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the ones out with the garden gnomes are permanent fixtures.

Anyway, I get to the store and what to my surprise, my favorite rock-cat company has hired a sculptor (probably a building full of them in China. Nothing against China! I have some really great stuffed cats from China) to carve funny expressions into the feline faces. Even the Jesus, Joseph, and Mary cats were grinning. It’s an outrage.

A cat will expire with a particular expression on its face. Yes, I know that it’s a very sad moment. The expression may be one of resignation, sadness, calm, whatever. It is not for mortal man to alter it. How would you like it if you excavated an ancient pyramidal tomb, opened the sarcophagus, and found the pharaoh mummy inside sticking out his tongue at you? How would you like it to go to an open-casket funeral and… Well, you get the picture.

And while I’m at it, Uncle Sal, it’s not ok to use the cat as a boot-scraper by your back door. All, please do not use your cat as a nutcracker. Please do not dress the cat in children’s clothing – oh, I guess that’s ok. Please do not part out the cat to make lots of smaller gifts. Do not regift the cat.

So where do I turn? Petrified Chihuahuas? Petrified gerbils?

Nah, I guess this year I’ll go with the partially-petrified cat product.

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.