InstaPunk Rules

arge wp-image-15627″ /> What did Grace Kelly say? “She was yar.”

Took my parents a long time to learn their lesson. Don’t follow a great example of the breed with another of the same breed. They got another German Shephard after Mattie. Well, that worked out. Give me a minute. It didn’t work out in the Irish Setter category.

Maggie was everything Katie was not. Huge, gorgeous in fact, headstrong, not unintelligent but frankly untrainable. Only had her two years. Thinking somebody hijacked her. She was that perfect a specimen. But we kids loved her.

Before she was two, she weighed eighty pounds. I used to wrestle with her with all my might, and she never even bruised me.

And God how she could run. We lived in the country, as I’ve said, and her passion was to chase cars. Ours, the neighbors’, total strangers, she had it in her blood. We were afraid she’d get killed. My mother consulted the Hines’s handyman Nelson. He said, “Get a rope, a long rope, attach it to her collar, and when she gets to the end of it, it will jerk her up short. She’ll learn.”

So we attached the rope to Maggie’s collar and the other end to a giant Sycamore tree. We waited. A pickup truck went by, rattling but hardly speeding. Maggie took off. The rope parted like — no, it didn’t part, it burst — like a 4th of July firecracker. Pop! And it was done. She always came back. Winning was the thing. She wasn’t trying to hitch a ride to San Francisco.

So my mother consulted Nelson again. He said, “Go to Hitchners Hardware. They got chains.” She got a chain. Attach to Maggie, sycamore.

Not even a pop this time. Parted without a sound.

Second chain, heavier. You know. Serious this time. Maggie through it like butter.

Third chain. Real links this time. Like you’d use on a winch, a tractor, a truck. Buuuuuttttteeeeerrrrr! Done.

So the guy at Hitchners says, “What kinda animal you got, lady? Don’t got a bigger chain.”

We gave up on the car chasing. My last beautiful memory of Maggie. Huge snowstorm. No power at all in Greenwich Township. So we had to make a run for it to Salem, home of impervious grandparents. We load the four of us and supplies in the car, reserving space for Maggie.

No. She’d prefer to chase.

One, two, three, four miles of icy roads she chased us at about 40 mph. We could look back and see her, beautiful and bent on her mission the whole way. Nobody loves greyhounds more than I do, but no grey could have kept up with Maggie that day. My dad was stubborn. But even he knew when to quit. There was a crossroad ahead of us we needed to go through. He turned right and waited. One minute, two. Maggie went galloping through on three legs without ever seeing us.

The intersection was the crest of a shallow hill. When Maggie hit the crest, she could see she had lost us and she stopped. She turned around. When dad restarted the motor and beckoned her in, she came like a lamb.

Only months later that she disappeared without a trace. We looked and looked and looked, but they don’t put Irish Setters on milk cartons. Wish they did. To this day. Loved that girl.

She was the smartest one.

K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.
K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

The first dog. There before I was. I remember her. A creature of legend. My parents found her as a stray, a runty Irish Setter with clusters of ticks so thick on her ears (and elsewhere) that she looked to be wearing a wig. The vet said the ticks had poisoned her blood. He prescribed medication without much hope. It had to be given every two hours. My mother took the tweezers and removed the bloated ticks one by one, dropped them into a peanut butter jar filled with kerosene, and sat up with her for 96 hours straight, all night long, all day long.

Katie pulled through. Having come that close to death, she bonded with both my parents to a degree few people experience. She never got big, but she had a huge personality and intelligence. My dad could be in the bathtub and call down to my mother for a pack of cigarettes, which Katie delivered without fail or slobber. At my grandparents’ house in Salem, they could tell her to get her dinner and she’d come back from the pantry with a can of Ken’l Ration in her mouth. But she also had her own life, which consisted of visiting all the neighbors in Greenwich Township, every day, for three miles around. They could set their watches by her. She visited my godfather “Uncle Herb,” the Hines, Doctor Isabel, the Caldwells (who were for Taft over Ike), and even the Lees, who were artists and registered communists. Katie had no politics.

She was my parents’ first child. They bought a Jeep for $1100, one of the relicts of WWII, no top, no doors, fold down windshield etc. She sat in the back. They could park and go shopping. Katie just waited, motionless, sitting up straight. When they got a little more prosperous, they bought a Jeepster.

Long time ago, dontcha know?

She went everywhere with my mother in that. Then there was the accident. The street to my grandparents’ house was a through street, except for one cross street that had no stop signs. Some woman T-boned my mother’s Jeepster and threw both her and Katie out of the capsized car.

My mother was lying in the street. Katie took off at a gallop to my grandparents’ house, and Lassie-like, tried to lead my grandmother to my mother. But Grandma didn’t get it. She was no longer young. She gave Katie a bath instead, because she smelled so strongly of gasoline. We never spoke of it afterwards.

When the Jeepster came back from the shop, weeks later, restored and ready to drive, Katie absolutely refused to get into it. Never did. Quivered like an aspen.

As I said, dog of legend. My sister and I were both very young when she vanished, but we (three and four?) asked, “Where’s Katie?” I remember. We were in the kitchen. And twilight had fallen. Where’s Katie?

Sometimes, at the end, they go away. They don’t want your tears. They have a place they will go. That’s how our parents explained it to us. Can’t hear this song ever without seeing her.

Tesla did it.

I do
We did
You did
They did
I was
We were
You were
They were
I live
We lost
You lost
They won
What could we have done?
Won.

Every year of late, it seems like we’re going 2 to 5 years backward.

Not to be indelicate, but a consumer warning that should be shared and passed along however you do it. The venerable Scott Company has apparently outsourced TP manufacturing to North Korea, with the result that the paper is now without perforations, thick enough to clog toilets, impossible to tear without attracting playful cats to the streamers, and irritating as hell to the bum. There may be some residual of the old stock left, but buyer beware. Before you know it, you’ll feel like you’re crapping in an East German prison.

Apologies for the lack of decorum. I’m done with Scott Paper, and I once had a summer job in their tax accounting department when I was in business school. I unprint myself of you morons.

He was the king of greyhounds.

The Memoirs of Patrick.

I was a greyhound. Born at the track. I was more than you could handle. 0 to 100 meters per second in five seconds flat. Was usually first out of the gate. Then lost when my lungs said enough. I was a hundred meter guy. Made me a bum at the track. But spectacular from the start. Enough to keep me alive for a time.

Grew up in a pile of other greys. Lots of them died. They looked up to me. But I had nothing to give. Left them in a pile of the dead.

Then they threw me into the rescue mess. Waiting for people to love a grey who had learned to care for no one.

Woman came. Took me to another grey. A man was there too. He and the other grey were friends. With the woman. Then the other grey died. They stuck a needle in his arm. They had a couch. I went on the couch. Then they took me to an old lady, who was dying. She had Cheezits. She didn’t like greys. Until she liked me. She sat in a chair, all by herself, and I looked in on her because she was so alone. She gave me a Cheezit. Every time. I didn’t need the Cheezit. But she liked it so.

The man took me for a walk. I didn’t give him a chance. I bolted. We go fast, us greys. But he stopped me cold. When I started to like him.

They moved me to a house. He hugged me. I didn’t like it but I did. They took me to a park. We had a baby with us, bigger than me, a deerhound baby. A grey bigger than me growled. I told him what I would do if he hurt the baby. He cringed and shrunk away.

We lived in the house. We were happy there. There was another grey. She was awful. But the man still hugged me, which I never liked, but his arms around my chest felt good at times.

And then I suddenly died.

Only after I died could I suddenly understand what he had been saying. He loved me. He thought I was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of greyhounds, and he was going to die a little when I did. So he did. And so I did. And I miss the old lady too.

Bernie Ecclestone. Salt of the earth.

He just might be the biggest asshole in the world.

My sister, if she ever talks to me again (unlikely), will back me up on everything in this post. Truth and nothing but.

We were white privilege and didn’t know it. No oodles of cash in our treasure chests. We knew rich people who lived just down the road a ways. Funny though. We never cared. Never thought about it. Because we were white and privileged somehow, I guess.

Let me repeat myself. We never thought about it. My parents went out for dinner, to parties, they were popular, because they were good looking and white and privileged. Or something like that. Which meant that my sister and I had to be looked after by babysitters. A whole bunch of babysitters.

Not kidding. There was Reba, and Lillian, and Jackie, and Pizzi, and Priscilla, and Emma, and Mrs. Cole, my cousin Ann, my grandparents on both sides, because we had grandparents on both sides. Today, though, we’re not concerned with the extended family.

There’s always good and bad. On that you can count. Reba was bad. Not that she was evil in any way. She was sad. And we could see it even at our tender age. Her idea of babysitting us was ironing. She ironed all the sheets and everything white she could find. She had gray hair and a bony face. She was a Moor. Most of you don’t know what that means. We here in South Jersey know. Because our babysitters tell us. They’re not white. They’re not black. They’re something in between. And you can see it in their faces. Like they’re Native Americans but not. Cheekbones, sharp eyes, and unlike Indians, not drunk all the time.

Reba was sad. She ignored us altogether. There was ironing to do. And she walked like the Frankenstein monster, arms outstretched, hands hanging limply from her wrists. We used to do impressions of her walking like that, my sister and me. Reba. We had nothing against her. But she was not Lillian.

Lillian was also a Moor. Very very Native American looking. And THE coolest broad on earth. She was an outcast in the Moor community. She married Oliver, a black man. We liked him but he was a quiet man. Lillian was anything but quiet. She never made us go to bed at bedtime. She taught us how to play all the card games, gin rummy, 500 rummy, and poker, meaning both five card and seven card draw. She had a friend named Rosa, who was a total bitch, and she came and played cards with us, and Lillian kept winking at us about what a bitch Rosa was. She treated my sister and me like grown-ups. Can you imagine that?

I think Lillian was one of those Hopi witch doctors, sent by the Spirit Father to raise us right. We had more fun than you could possibly imagine.

She had a 1955 Chevrolet. Now they go for $20 to $30 thousand dollars. She let me drive it around our driveway when I was nine.

She smoked. I’d come back and give her the car keys, and she’d move the cig to the side of her mouth with her eyes all crinkled into slits, just laughing and laughing.

So my sis and I were white privileged racists, weren’t we?

And we’ve barely started. Next up, the Puerto Rican slut Jackie of the purple fingernails, the dark dark darkie Emma, who was the first person I ever prayed for, on my knees, and Mrs. Cole, shown up top.

An unbelievably cold woman. They lived in a house only Edward Hopper could have painted, in charcoal, black and white. I was in that house. She was made completely of bone. Two sons. Both with black and white shirts buttoned up to the chin. Her husband was laid off and drunk. She could iron but not as well as Reba. She never spoke to us at all.

Lived 500 yards away from us. Why she was the babysitter of last resort. Now I’m depressed. I’ll tell you more later.

Not my hero. But a hero nonetheless.

Years ago, went to the battleground of Chancellorsville. Stumbled through the woods where they fought, blindly, no visibility, no nothing but fear and dread and blood.

I was never a Confederate sympathizer. My people came from the county in Ohio that spawned both Grant and Sherman. Grew up with others from border states. One of my friends was the great grandson of the Vice President of the Confederacy. Heard it all, over and over and over (and over) again. The monsters named Sherman and Grant who burned and slaughtered the south. Never bought into it at all. The South got what it deserved.

But I saw the house where Stonewall died.

And the bed he died in.

And his tombstone. Killed by one of his own.

And his last words.

“Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees.”

So I was there. I looked through the window of his death. I am of the Grant and Sherman tribe. But Stonewall was an American too. Which I will never forget.

Big Spoiler for Punk City fans. This video is of Johnny Dodge & the 440s.

Little Zuck boy told me to delete my nude posts. Like I care what a worthless Harvard boy thinks about my taste in nudes.

He got all pissy about this. Meaning he pissed himself.

Far as they got. I pointed out that the in the case of the English, the carpet NEVER matches the drapes. Shocking stuff. Nobody’s ever seen pubic hair on a mature female, eh?

Now I’ve been ordered to remove all nudity from my site or face being shut down.

How can I put this politely, Zuckerberg. I went to Harvard when it was still Harvard and not a billionaire boy’s club. Go fuck yourself. I don’t need you or Facebook. Not now. Not ever.

She be shakin’ that giant boooooty. “She was black..”

She be the One.

Hillary had one achievement. Pushed another girl baby out the hole. What passes as accomplishment for women. Given the no Shakespeare, Blake, Einstein, Newton, Mozart, Bach, or anything else worthwhile.

Or not.

She was hot. She was black. She was not Hillary.

Honestly. Didn’t know he was still alive. Or care.

Then he insisted on trying to resuscitate the 1968 Dem Convention. Lots of crap in the air back then too. Class act. Those days. Anybody ever tell you how the sixties smelled. Like human poop. S’truth.

Now I know why. Why I hated it. Not for the fly buzzing whine. But for the content.

Go for it. You clowns. “The last shall be first.” Matthew 22:16.

Guess that would be you, Zincavage. Step right up. Many are called. Few should ever be chosen.

I was a former federal prosecutor even then, 10 years ago.

Breitbart says, though Snopes/Soros has not yet debunked, that Megyn falsely accused Roger Ailes of molesting her a decade ago. Why she hung around and made a multimillion dollar career at Fox News.

They always said she went to SUNY Albany. But when you start making accusations, other things tend to come out. In truth, Megyn Kelly got her law degree at night while working as a stripper during the day. Her real alma mater? University of North Troy.

University of North Troy.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-sUXMzkh-jI

Kind of like AC/DC. 100 percent cool, 0 percent intellect. But it worked for them. (Except for Bon Scott.) Maybe it will work for us. If we’re not named Bon Scott.

They live, they die. Like all of us.

NBC anchors furious about events at Socialigistical Convention.

Very very here, people. The GLM (Greyhound Lives Matter) thugs have invaded the Socialigistical (Sighthounds who Can Spell “Ligistical”) Convention.

Fortunately, we have Mike Wallace who has the latest technology on the convention floor to tell us what the hell is going on.

As far as we can tell, Chet, it’s Sarah Palin’s fault. She showed up outside the security barriers and now all heck is breaking loose. I’ll report more fully after I finish my dinner in the incredibly opulent Clever Ritz Hotel. [grin]

The media are doing their best to tampon down the waters.

The convention in Clever.

What do you think, Chet? I never think, David.

What?

Never? That’s right, David. I’m too important to think.

What?

Chet, it begins to look like the GLM forces are contending with the Clever police. Some violence, it would seem, is unfolding.

GLM supporters are bringing AR-15s to their protest.

Very likely, David. Why don’t we take this opportunity to check in with our two highly educated pundits, Algore Vidal and William F. Bugley.

You little queer. I’ll smash your pansy face to a pulp.

We’ll get back to Algore and the Bugley person later, David, but what’s happening in the streets of Clever?

What?

Oh. Chet. I was on the wire with my, uh, source on the streets. She’s, er, they say business is bad. Lots of men, too few johns, er, law abiding citizens.

You £€%#>#{#¥!!!

That looks bad, David. Maybe we could get some perspective from the eminent author Algore Vidal and the Bugley person…

…”then I’m going to cram your faggot balls all the way up to your..

I guess there’s at least a possibility something is happening on the convention floor. Mike? What say you?

As far as we can tell, Chet, it’s Sarah Palin’s fault. She showed up outside the security barriers and now all heck is breaking loose. I’ll report more fully after I finish my dinner in the incredibly opulent Clever Hotel. [grin]

In that case, Chet, let’s look at what the candidates are doing. My, er, sources tell me the two combatants in this horrifically violent confrontation are presently locked in heated talks to arrive at a compromise candidate. Some say it’s this one.

The GLM fallback.

Others say it’s this one.

Graphics copyright by Deerhounds of North America.

Really, Chet?

What?

Breaking… The candidates are hopelessly at odds. They’re even snarling about snacks at the conference table. One of our NBC photographers managed to snap this photo of them going toe to toe the same way the protesters and police are doing it in the street.

Word is, they’re locked in negotiations to end the violence.

That looks very serious, David.

What?

BREAKING… Mike Wallace has finished dinner and gotten laid…. More to come

BREAKING… the convention confrontation has been resolved. Both parties have agreed on a compromise candidate all Sighthounds can, and would actually like to, make that love to, live with.

Mommy. Everyone loves mommies. Except faggot progressives.

Good night, Chet. Good night David.

It’s all about the homosexual designers. Men in general don’t care about boobs at all. Just sacs of fat with a big button on top. More utilitarian than anything else. A roundish milk machine.

Babies like boobs. Why women think everyone does. And want the gay designers to help them sell it.

Women think we care. They want us to care. Why most of them parade the Downboob look.

Boring, right?

Why they had to invent the Sideboob look.

Interesting but lacking somehow.

Which led eventually to the Underboob.

Seems to come up short.

Even when multiplied.

Women want us to look. Why don’t we want to?

Then there’s the Wholeboob concept.

Better I’m thinking. If they worked on this look some more, we might show more interest. You with me?

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

Yeah. They, like, really, like, hate themselves.

It’s not even enough to have a corduroy jacket, a Robert Hall tie, and a face that has stopped clocks all over the bicoastal capital of the world.

I studied something at the New School. I love me some Obama, mkay?