Ajax has always been a brilliant dog. Obie? More lovable than smart. When Ajax isn’t happy about a situation, he’s always found a mild, though irritating way to express himself. If I’m outside and he isn’t but wants to be, he’ll lick the windows. Mainly because he knows that drives me effing crazy.

If we haven’t been taking him for enough walks, or been spending enough time playing, he’ll take a sock from our bedroom and leave it in the middle of the family room. Totally unchewed. Just laying there, to show us he’s mad. If he gets no response, he’ll retrieve another sock and place it next to the first.

He must be really pissed lately. And I can’t say that I blame him. With Ajax and Obie tipping the scales at a combined weight of nearly 200 pounds and us with one small and one very small child, they’ve been spending a large portion of their days in our basement, just to prevent a stampede that would no doubt end in an emergency room trip. (It’s a finished basement. Carpet and everything. And I spend at least 3 hours a day down there myself, in my office. So relax, dog lovers.)

Since there are no socks to put anywhere conspicuous, and since Ajax is really, really tired of the current arrangement, he’s escalated his display of discontent. There’s no other way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. He’s shitting on the floor. That’s right. Motherfucker is dropping a growler. In the house. On purpose. Our basement has about 200 sqft that isn’t finished, and is just cold, hard concrete. If it’s possible to have decorum when dropping a brown heater on the floor, I suppose doing it on the concrete and not the carpet shows it. Thank God for small favors.

Allow me to preempt those who might suggest that this is not intentional, that Ajax might really be sick and in need a veterinary attention. Last week Diane had taken the kids to visit her sister (who recently had a baby) and the grandparents. That left me home alone with the dogs. Bachelors, if you will. Frat brothers even. Left alone to do what boys will do.  And like a fraternity, there’s no telling what you might find in a dark corner of a basement, done in the name of pride, stubbornness or a woman. Or hell week. Would you find shit on the floor? At least once a semester, I’d bet. And since I was not putting anyone’s health or tactile senses in danger, I decided to see just how sick Ajax was. My theory? If I leave the Statement of Discontent where it is, untouched, Ajax would deem a second statement unnecessary.

24 hours went by. The original pile stood alone.

48 hours. Still no brown brethren to be found.

72 hours. (Yes, it’s catastrophically disgusting that I left a pile of poop in our basement for 72 hours. But stick with me.) Pile #1 was still standing alone. Satisfied my theory had been proven true, I broke out the plastic bags, , scrub brushes, paper towels and bottle of bleach and scrubbed the concrete clean.

But four hours later? That’s right. Encore presentation. Ajax was letting me know that while the concrete may have been clean, the living arrangements were unchanged. And he was still pissed.

I sure don’t want to reward behavior like that, but I know I also can’t push him out of the minivan at highway speeds. So I’m going to have to figure out some way to reintegrate everyone. Quickly.

Or clean dog shit off concrete every day for the rest of Ajax’s life.

 Editor’s note:  Please don’t hold this against Diane or the kids, as they had nothing to do with piles of poop aging in our basement.  Diane categorically denies having any involvement with the situation, other than being wholly disgusted.

Patrick Sherman’s a lucky guy. He raped his 8-year-old stepdaughter, and in Louisiana, you can get the death penalty for that.

Or at least you could until a couple days ago. The Supreme Court decided that capital punishment is a punishment disproportionate to this crime. But it was a close 5-4 vote.

I think I agree. It is disproportionate. Maybe justified, but disproportionate. I’m not sure that disproportionate is bad. Relative to that little girl playing with dolls, getting raped was pretty disproportionate treatment,too.

I won’t pretend I know jack squat about the Supreme Court, but I’m pretty sure that if Justice Kennedy and I were to meet at a bar, I’d end up bitch-slapping him. Mainly because he’s a big pussy. To quote him:

the death penalty should not be expanded to instances where the victim’s life was not taken.

This might be my biggest beef with murder trials, no matter if it’s a capital punishment state or not. If a person took all the premeditated steps to try to kill someone; they waited seven days, bought a gun, loaded it with ammunition, arranged for a meeting, then pulled the trigger multiple times firing round after round into the flesh and organs of another human being, just to make sure they were dead, they should not get any sort of break if by some miracle that victim was able to survive the attack. In other words, sucking at murder should not be a mitigating circumstance at trial.

I’ve never done hard time, so this may not mean a thing. But from what I’ve seen on teeeveee, even felons think child rapists are worthless pieces of shit that should be used as punching bags. And for the occasional salad tossing. Come to think of it, if Law& Order is an accurate representation of our prison system, maybe the sentence best fitting Patrick Sherman is not the death penalty, but 20 years in a supermax. And if I were in charge, before he served his first day he’d receive a tattoo on his forehead that says: “I fuck kids. You got any?” Then he’d be turned loose in the yard.

The rest would be history. Sweet, sweet history.

I see you.

Every morning.

Angry girl.

As we leave for work, loaded trucks carrying us to a jobsite, I see you on the sidewalk, pumping your fists.

Your arms.

For a few seconds each morning, I watch.

Furrowed brow, leaning hard into a wind that isn’t there, swinging your locked-straight arms as your feet thump the concrete.

Determined.

Burning calories.

But wearing a frown.

Like you’re mad at someone.

Like someone told you you’d be pretty if you just lost a few pounds.

Or a few inches.

Like someone isn’t treating you the way you deserve to be treated.

Don’t you know? You don’t have to be twiggy to be beautiful.

Don’t you know you deserve to be treated well?

Can’t you see?

You’re already pretty.

Except maybe for the frown.

I hope you figure it out.

I hope he figures it out.

I hope you stop frowning.

Angry girl.

When I was in second grade I’d won to my mind one of the most prestigious awards that can be bestowed upon a young person: Class Clown.

I still have the award.

The need to generate laughter in my classmates would be an ongoing theme throughout my childhood. (Insecurity? A need to be liked? Ayyh, probably.) Just two years after receiving the award pictured at right, I would find myself spending the better part of the 4th grade sitting in the hall, unjustly punished for the rays of humorous sunshine I’d bring to the classroom each day. Like saying Toilet Paper! instead of “present” when the teacher called my name, taking attendance. I was the Lenny Bruce of Collins Elementary.

Roughly two years after that my parents would do what they could to encourage the interests of their black sheep son, buying him a comedy record as a birthday present. It had a hippie looking dude on the album cover with hair past his shoulders, sitting on a stool in front of a blackboard, feigning a deep nose pick. These were the days before Parental Advisories, and I don’t think my folks had actually heard the routine from the album, because there’s no way I would have been allowed to speak the words I heard on it.  Recognizing this was a huge oversight by my parents, I’d listen to it through my headphones.

In a few months I had both sides of the album memorized I’d heard it so much, which was a good thing because after the one time I listened without headphones, within earshot of Mom and Dad, well let’s just say that that birthday present was quickly replaced by something even Tipper Gore would approve of. But it was a great few months, while it lasted.

My heart broke a little when I heard that George had passed away two days ago. Toward the end his routines were less funny than I remember as a kid, but I still liked knowing George was out there, doing his thing.

Rest in peace, first banana.

“Somewhere out there is the worst doctor in the world. And someone has an appointment with him tomorrow.” - George Carlin

Before I became a father, I didn’t know

1. That I’d stop measuring a guy by whether I could kick his ass.
2. That I’d start measuring a guy by whether he’s a better dad than me.
3. That one day I’d wish for an auxiliary faucet that dispensed ketchup.
4. That next to the ketchup faucet I’d wish for a ranch dressing faucet.
5. That each and every day with my kids would be a continuous loop of America’s Funniest Home Videos hits-to-the-junk. I think I need to buy a cup.
6. That when I was a kid and my parents told me through gritted teeth that they could just strangle me, I should have been more worried.
7. That I’d change how I live and act because I want my kids to be proud to have me as their dad.