Monday, August 28, 2017

How Trump Is Depriving Bloggers Of The Will To Live

It's more or less official:  Blogging is down, blogs are disappearing faster than transgender liberals at a white supremacist picnic, while large numbers of bloggers report having a hard time even getting out of bed in the morning.  The general consensus among them: What's the fucking point?

As one former blogger put it:  Yeah, you know, at first Trump was like this giant golden turd, an endless source of content for blogs everywhere, but then we never actually considered the consequences of 'endless.'  It's like too much, total turd overload, a spray-tanned white out from which there is no escape. 

Another blogger confides:  At this point I'd rather join an Evangelical Christian cult of Bible-thumping child abusers - and yes, I'm now taking the whole end-of-days crap a lot more seriously - than write another word about Trump, but then I can't think of anything else to write about.

Noted psychiatrist Bernard Gert explains:  An alarming number of intelligent, progressive bloggers seem to have succumbed to what I like to call the One Dimensional Trump Trap, in which every single smart thought is immediately invaded by a supplemental dumb thought about Trump. It is possible that Trump's mental illness, spread through social media, is contagious. In short, the endless bombardment of Trump stupidity is destroying the intelligence of the human population.*

(*Needless to say, this does not apply to the 30~40 million diehard Trump supporters who are already brain dead and therefore in no immediate danger.)

Question from former blog reader:  What about dogs?  My dog is acting a lot dumber since Trump got elected.

Many bloggers admit being driven to drink by Trump.  And no, this does not mean that Trump is actually picking them up and driving them to their local pubs. Although one would have to be pretty drunk to even consider getting into a car with Trump behind the wheel.

"Excuse me, Mister President, but you're driving way over the speed limit, and also I think you may be on the wrong side of the highway."

"Not to worry, oppressed, white working class Trump sycophant.  I happen to know more about operating an automobile than professional race car drivers. Besides, all these other cars are fake. And by the way, the senate will be repealing Obamacar any day now."

"Sorry, but don't you mean Obamacare?"

"Are you kidding?  Obama doesn't care.  Not like I care." 

When asked about Trump's dangerously inept driving, advisor Kelly-Anne Speedway, perhaps not surprisingly, responded,  "Well answer me this, has anyone checked the trunk of Hillary's car for all those missing emails?"

"Are you suggesting we should lock her up?"

"At the very least, lock her in the trunk."

"With the emails."


No question that bloggers have taken a severe hit under the dark, toxic cloud of Trump, but rest assured, dear reader - there is still one of you out there, right? - this blog is back, determined to hobble forward, despite the odds.  Silence, as truly appealing as it may be, is not an option.

**Finally, it is with deep sadness that we report the recent demise of Lucy Leigh, a vital part of the Dog team, and the best four-legged broom handler there ever was.  We miss you, L.L.


Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Fuck Reality, I'll Take It Fake

It's a new world, or a lost world, or possibly a non-world. Talking heads remind us that the world is certainly changing. What they're actually saying is that the world is now officially Fucked. Donald - I took a Huge dump on all you American dumbbells and you loved it - Trump is now the POTUS,  which used to stand for President of the United States, but now more appropriately signifies  Preternatural Orange-hued Tasteless Underhanded Shit-bag.

Trump assures his moronic monkey base that he will be the most Tremendous Stupendous Shit-bag leader of all time, or possibly even longer.

President Trump discussing time with advisor Kelly Ann Conflagration:

You know how to tell time, right, Kelly Ann?
This very expensive watch on my very right-wing wrist says I do.
Your watch actually talks to you?
Well, not literally, but, you know, seriously.
Okay, whatever. So tell me this, what's longer than all time?
Hmm ... let's see ... there's pre-time, timeless time, like in the movies,  or how about alternative time?
Alternative time ... I love it. I mean, it's fucking dumb, but the base will eat it up.
Gobble gobble, Mr. President Shit-bag.

So, real is fake, fake is real. Get used to it.

News Flash:

President Ronald Rumpus steps in a hole while fugue-walking on one of his golf courses. After being reanimated by his personal physician, Dr. Frankenstein, he immediately signs executive order banning all holes in the U.S.A. No exceptions.
According to the President:
We don't know how many of these holes were dug by Muslim extremists; some of them are so deep, huge, frankly, a terrorist could easily be hiding in one of them. Banning all holes now will keep the American people safer.

Later in the day, press secretary Sean Superfluous tries to assure a nervous public that the all-hole ban does not apply to assholes, at least not to the assholes of U.S. citizens.

What about the assholes of valid visa holders? a reporter inquires.
As far as the ban - which by the way is not really a ban - applying to the assholes of this sub-group, the President wants to spend more time looking into the whole asshole issue. 

And rest assured, anal-retentive America, the White House is now occupied by some of the biggest assholes on the planet. If they can't get the job done, nobody can.

Breaking News!

Trump insists that the 3 million illegal aliens who voted for Hillary are real, not fake, unless fake is now real; plans to round them all up and have them build the border wall for free.

After all, the President said, aliens built the pyramids, so why not my wall? Which, by the way folks, will be so big, so hugely colossal, that it's going to drive the Chinese and their stupid wall crazy.

Flash! Bang!

 President Trumpet overheard whining about the paltry crowds and crappy entertainment at his inauguration; advisor Steve Bandicoot (see super-sized assholes above) tries to reassure him by promising that his eventual coronation as King of Trumplandia ( country's name soon to be changed by executive decree) will be much more spectacular.  

Will it be huge? Trumpet reportedly asked.
Are you kidding? Steve replied. What's bigger than huge? Aside from my really huge, really really red nose, of course.
What do you think I should wear? the President wondered.
I see you in a flowing fur cape, said Bandicoot. White, naturally. Polar bear, perhaps.
Hey, squealed the POTUS, my daughter Avuncular sells those on her web site.  They're only like 3 million bucks.
Which I'm sure the idiots who voted for you will gladly pay for.
Well, either them or the Mexicans. 

*Take heart, intelligent, still mentally sound minority. Yes, the country is rapidly going down the recently installed gold White House toilet, but things have never been better for late night comedy.

Monday, November 14, 2016

The Thing That Goes Bump In The Night

Some scary shit, huh? Keeping all of us, at least the remaining rational few of us, awake at night; a monster with a bright orange face; it wears a weave, speaks like a ten-year-old sociopath, doesn't have the slightest clue, about anything, apparently; it has a name: Trump.

Trump is the Bump.

And now the Bump, or Dump, if you prefer, is the next President of the USA.

Wait a minute, that can't be ... can it?

Dump the Bump whose name is Trump!

Too late for that, friend, and you'd be well advised to show a little more respect; the Trump doesn't handle criticism well and is more excited about holding on to a grudge than grabbing a pussy. 

Hey, a pussy can also be a cat, you know? Why not give our next leader the benefit of the doubt. 

It's almost beside the point writing about it now. It's not as if words still matter, or functional minds, for that matter. A large segment of the American population just proved that the capacity to think is more or less irrelevant.

The evidence was there all along, lurking inside the headlines, but we chose to ignore it.

Trump wails and whines for twenty minutes like a baby with a poopy diaper; supporters declare it a major speech on foreign policy. 

Trump surrogate, Jeffrey Lord, who frequently arrives at the CNN set still wearing his Walking Dead zombie-extra makeup, claims that Trump's incoherent rambling and unrestrained ignorance on all  matters is actually a sign of his brilliance.  So brilliant, in fact, that even his glaring stupidity is smart.  

Having been informed that the human mind is plastic - i.e. can actually change - Trump supporters line up to have their brains surgically removed. 

As one man wearing a Trump Is Even Better Than A Blow Job tee-shirt explained:
 "A brain is a dangerous thing to have in a head. We will throw our useless brains in the ocean, because who needs them? And anyway, everyone knows that plastic pollution in the ocean is just another liberal-inspired hoax."

This can be viewed as an example of so-called magical thinking (a.k.a. magical muddling), common among the hardcore right wing nut bag set, wherein information, evidence, provable facts are simply discarded in favor of a reliance on blatantly stupid made up stuff.  And good news! These are the people who are now going to be running the government.

Ben Carson, for example. Remember him? The guy who once said,  "Evolution cannot be real because, as anyone who's ever read the Bible knows, Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a dinosaur,"

Two of our other favorites, Newt Gingrich and Rudy Giuliani, were seen entering Trump Tower holding hands. Suggestions in the evil left wing media that the two had perhaps decided to finally come out of the closet caused quite a hubbub, prompting Trump to insist they both grab a pussy for 15 minutes as a show of loyalty. The controversy was later quelled, however, when it was explained that Newt believed he was taking his pet werewolf for a walk, while Rudy was sure that Newt was Santa Claus, and was taking him to visit Santa's new bomb-making workshop on the moon.

But at least now the Republicans will have a free hand to push policies guaranteed to return the country to the 1950's, where it obviously belongs.  Because the only sensible America is white, the only God-sanctioned marriage is hetero and the only good immigrant is a deported immigrant.

Trump hints that his border wall will be made exclusively of cheese, because everyone knows Mexicans hate cheese.

Yeah, it's getting darker by the minute. Our only hope is that Trump will simply be too incompetent to do anything and will eventually quit. He'll give a whiny, I'm So Bored With This Shit speech and walk away. Meanwhile, the more we can stay asleep for the next four years, the better.

*Note: The Fictional Dog staff, having to choose between seeing Trump on the news all day everyday, or being placed in a medically-induced coma for six months, unanimously chose the later. We fully expected to awake to at least the possibility of a progressive, intelligent, democratically-inspired future. So I guess the joke is on us.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Snippets From The Unreality Zone

Oh Dear Lord!  It's once again presidential politics time in the land of the free and the home of the insane.

America, man. Can't live with it, can't just shoot it.  Well, suppose we could. It's not like we don't have the guns for it, or the God-given right to shoot anything that moves, except people, of course, because then we would have a mental illness. I know I do.

* Sarah Palin was given a weekend pass from wherever she's usually confined, turned up next to Donald Trump, and was as deliciously deranged and incoherent as we remember her. Another smart move by Trump, though, who, compared to Palin, appeared almost normal (heavy emphasis on almost). The idiots, of course, loved having Sarah back, and why wouldn't they? It's not every day they get to listen to someone who's actually dumber than themselves. Ted Cruz (a.k.a. hybrid human-lizard creature), on the other hand, took it hard. He apparently hissed, slithered into a corner and began threatening to give Palin a good spanking.

The big question, how did Trump manage to pull this off?  Insider sources say it was A million bucks donated to the Palin initiative to Wipe Out All Of Alaska's Remaining Wildlife,  and an additional hundred thousand to help the Palin kids set up their own home Meth lab. Because, hey, it's just too dang cold outside to leave the house every time we feel like getting high. 

* An eye-witness observer reports that on New Year's day a group of approximately fifty people in Miami stood out on the street firing their guns into the air.  At first assumed to be a Republican caucus in action, it later turned out to be just a group of mental deviants who do not comprehend the principle of gravity.

Hey, man, we probably fired five thousand rounds and only killed two innocent bystanders. Those are odds I can live with.

Marco Rubio, former Disneyworld Dumbo, defended the rabble-rousers by conflating gravity with climate change, which we already know is nothing more than left-wing propaganda.

It's just one more example of the thinking elite trying to impose restrictions upon us. First it was climate change, then Affordable Healthcare, now it's gravity. Tomorrow they'll be telling us we need to think for ourselves.

Note:  A Trump spokesperson appeared on CNN to clarify the issue.  "Gravity is a real thing," she said,  "it just does not apply to Donald Trump."

A truly ridiculous claim to make, even for a Trump groupie, until one realizes that the Great Trump is, in fact, a hologram.

Correction:  A hologram who knows a few Hispanic people, loves the Bible and can make America (correction, white America) great again.

And another thing, people, as a hologram, he can never die!

* As one Republican operative put it:  Yes sir, our idiot base is riled up and ready.  Assuming they don't shoot themselves first, and can manage to find the voting venues, we should have an extremely large turn out.

*Talk about anticlimax:  And then we're forced to watch the Democratic town hall prior to the Iowa caucus. I mean, come on!  All three Democratic candidates are intelligent, articulate and have rational ideas for the future. Unlike their Republican counterparts, they do not appear as either phony suck-ups or  blatant weasel-talkers. No pandering to the God-slurping dumbbells. They think about things, for Christ's sake!  What the hell kind of fun is that? 

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Black Dog Rising

It has become fairly apparent, depressingly so, one might add, that the innovative, so-called, post-fictive strategy of text-free blogging has been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster. The blank page blog - representing in the reactionary minds of those responsible for this literary travesty unlimited creative potential - has been met with boorish disdain, uncontrollable yawning and numerous death threats.

* Eleven text-free blogs? I can't read this shit, and you will die!

* You digitized doorknobs deserve unexpurgated death!

* Your text-free blog concept is pure dog poop.  We know where you live, fascist word haters.

* It's a clear, external manifestation of my own O.C.D. I will therefore hunt you down, more or less obsessively and compulsively!

Noted non-entity and reductionist literary critic Norman Skotchpole comments:  "In general, the vast majority of the global population, the vast majority of these simpletons and dimwits, are always going to be several light years behind the curve of radical recalcitrance. The reinvention of quasi-obsolete, super-minimalist formats will invariably be viewed as an existential threat, and therefore energetically reviled."

*Pompous douche bag Norman Skotchpole, you will die!  The fact that you don't actually exist won't save you.

A massive man hunt is underway.
Just how massive a man are we talking about?
The alleged third person in the car could hold the key.
Unfortunately, they've all gone dark.
There is apparently a new app that guarantees invisibility.
Sounds pricey.

Dear Infidel,

One of our fanatical tech analysts has discovered on your text-free blank blog the very faint, yet clearly mocking, shadow image of our revered prophet. And while it is true that he was threatened with being beheaded and then set on fire if he didn't find it, we are now, with God's help, committed to killing you. 
P.S.  But not to over-worry. There are currently 867,000,000 infidels ahead of you on our death list.

Sort of a dilemma. Should I buy the invisibility app right away, or take the chance that the cost will drop if I wait?

Consider that your entire life is encrypted, which only means that all the people in your life don't give enough of a shit to notice you.

Update to my page:  Penny Pendelton finally agreed to go out with me. Things were going great. We texted each other like crazy during dinner, Penny even hinting that she might be inclined to lift her encryption protocols. As you can imagine, by the time we got back to her place, I was ready for an extensive download. That's when things went sour. I had barely gotten to her first data base when she shut things down. She went dark and I turned blue. Making matters worse, I've just learned that Penny slipped me something called a Trojan Werewolf Virus. So now I'm alone, again, and also seriously dreading the next full moon.

Reminds me of that book,  How Dating Is A Lot Like Walking Blindfolded Through A Minefield In A Saudi Arabian Sandstorm.

*After reading your first fucking blog in like what, four months, I urge you to rethink your priorities and return to the text-free blog style as soon as possible. Yes, it's dumb as shit, but anything is better than this garbage.


Friday, June 5, 2015

Blogging to Death

The annual convention of Global Bloggers Anonymous was held last month in Helsinki, Finland.

(a country, by the way, that is a lot easier to get into and out of if you're holding an E.U. passport. The Fins, for reasons not entirely clear, are particularly hard on Americans, who were confined in an airport holding area for several hours, forced to watch re-runs of Christian fundamentalist reality TV shows.

One perceptive blogger cleverly pointed out the glaring contradiction of combining the phrases Christian fundamentalist and reality, although a group of Baptist bloggers from Boise, Idaho briefly interrupted their impromptu prayer session to point out that paradoxical might be a better choice.

Which only proves that it takes a paradox to know one ...)

A perhaps more pertinent question was posed by another, strictly non-affiliated blogger, who inquired,  "What the hell is a Duggar, anyway?"
No one knew for sure, but the general consensus was that, whatever it is, the Kardashians are most likely involved.

Speaking of which ...  the vastly popular blog dedicated to this incredibly self-photogenic family - "Let's Send The Kardashians To Another Planet, A.S.A.P."  has already raised 20 million dollars for the proposed journey.
True, that's barely the cost of enough rocket fuel to get them all to the moon, but hey, it's a start.

 Meanwhile,  Is Jim Bob Duggar one guy or two?

Possible answers: 

"Who the fuck would name a kid Jim Bob?  Has to be two guys."
"Who the fuck cares?"
"Sounds like the name of a used car salesman in Alabama. Not only does he sell you a car you don't really want, but by the time you get home, you're pregnant."

Other Highlights From the Conference:

*Blogging has now replaced flogging as the preferred form of punishment in Saudi Arabia.

*The quirky ISIS blog,   "I'd Rather Blow Myself Up Than Get A Blowjob,"  is actively recruiting new bloggers.  If you can write snappy, incendiary prose, grow a mangy-looking beard and agree that the world should end as soon as possible in a mindlessly gruesome bloodbath, apply at the ISIS retail outlet nearest to you. (all successful applicants can expect a 30% discount on all ISIS merchandise)

*The World Body of Official Counters (vaguely aligned with the World Bank)  now estimates that there are approximately two billion active blogs on the planet.  That's one blog for approximately every 2.5 people.  So any day your blog gets five or more hits should be considered an unmitigated success.

*Lamenting the shrinking attention span, the disappearance of short term memory and the plummeting intelligence among the human population, bloggers are increasing adopting what's known as the Mini-Blog format.  It's basic tenant: Shorter is better; virtually non-existent is best.

For example, the popular mini-blog,  Not Worth Wasting Even Five Minutes On,  limits each posting to a single sentence fragment.

A recent one asked readers to complete the following:

"I don't know what ... "

Responses literally poured in.

"I don't know what to think."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't know what that awful smell is."
"I don't know what method I'll use when I murder you."
"I don't know what to do about my paralyzing depression."

Exciting stuff, n'est pa?

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Paradise Lost / part 1


I  ...  you, he says, choosing to omit the word.
You? she wonders.
Yes, that is to say, the randomized field of quantum interference within which I may or may not ... reside.
Are we entangled, then? she queries.
In my imagination, certainly.
Do you  ...  me  as merely a commodity?
More as an imperfect reflection.
Can fragments fully love?
Intertextually, you mean?

Which version of modernity (post / post-post / meta / pseudo / alter) is he aligning himself with?

These thugs, what exactly do they want?

Is post-irony even conceivable?

Five billion years later, the universe has reached a state of total and irreversible entropy. The weather forecast calls for temperatures hovering right around absolute zero across all of space/time. His desire, needless to say, has cooled somewhat. Obsession, however, is indestructible. A single human thought takes a million years, and yet he cannot help himself thinking it.

Do you  ...   me? he asks, the omission of the word saving him perhaps 500, 000 years.

Without admitting to the depths of her emotional vacuity, she's inclined to consider it extraneous.

Let me think about it, she says, and I'll get back to you in 2 million years.

Her saying this, of course, requires 3 million years.  He can't even fathom the math, the frozen interval of the impending wait.


"These displaced people are living on golf courses. "

They are perhaps seeking the singularity in an increasingly standardized world.

Many of them are too poor to even rent clubs, let alone own a set.

In the midst of a tragedy of this magnitude, is golf even relevant?

"In either case, our forces are fully deployed."

Worst case scenario?

I'd prefer to defer comment until after the inevitable blood bath.


Even as the chaos, as meaning is mistaken on the molecular level, as ...

She feigns surprise at his advances / would have preferred something slightly more fictitious

She thinks: He sees himself as a genuine protagonist, while all I see is a jumble of ontological cliches.

Overblown, absurd, hysterical, she says.

My desire? he asks.


My attire?


My ... 

As for the sex; assuming, that is, if; senseless, sublime, almost sensual, more stylized than substantive; surfaces, almost but not quite, touching ...

He chalks it up to a straightforward electromagnetic divergence; she, sighing, ponders numerous, highly implausible outcomes.