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Well, it’s Halloweenies again and apparently I’ll be reprising my yearly costume, "LothariO-man."  This consists of Mom painting a greasepaint moustache on me and laughing hysterically.  Halloween is even worse than every other day.

Yuh, so Mom is getting more and more spinsterly by the day.  Christ, woman, pull it together.  There’s only so much "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" a single person can watch in a lifetime. 

Her new thing is "youtube," where she found vintage Elvis Costello videos.  She likes to put me on her lap and move my arms like I’m playing instruments:  organ on "Radio, Radio"; guitar on "Everyday I Write the Book"; and (God help me) drums on "Watching the Detectives."  The minute that fat bitch moves my lips to make me look like a soulful vocalist or makes me wear her "art school" glasses I swear I’m taking a finger.

I’m going back to the lab to pen some rhymes.  A playa gotta maintain some face in all this.  I’m starting to miss "red wine and Cole Porter" night.

Yuh, you heard me.  C’mon, babysit me.  My mom’s going out of town for a conference from the evening of 11/15 to 11/19.  She wants you to play fetchies with me, make me potroast and give me puppy manicures.  Deep tissue massages strongly encouraged. 

I come with crate, dog food, and bowls.  Play your cards right, and I will ignore the fuck out of you.  Take me for walks and meet people of the same or opposite sex, or just let me out to crap in your neighbor’s lawn.  Seriously, neither of us cares, as long as the crap can’t be tracked back to us (can they do that yet?)  Yuh. 

I know you’re interested, so send an e-mail to meagher@wisc.edu, subject line: Babysit the World’s Worst Dog.

Thug Life.

Yuh, well, anyway, Mom hella ditched me to hit Tokyo without Unster Puppyman so I was sent back to Grandma’s House…only NOT over the river and through the woods and such  Hella cargo-style with a bunch of assholes’ suitcases jammed with, shit, I dunno, like baby gear and rayon pantsuits.  Who knows? 

Anyway, I got there safely, tho’ a benzadrine would have hit the spot… once I got there, I was all looking for Mom (since she hadn’t apprized me of her plans) but was met by Gramma and the Warden.  I knew immediately there would be none of those parties where I was "accidentally"  "slipped" a flavored rum and juice, but I was pleased to find that Gramma had prepared several pints of her, er, "famous" kale soup, which only I will eat, only minus the carrots, potatoes and kale.    It was essentially, as Mom calls it, "Meat Porridge," and I settled in fast. 

These old fuckers wouldn’t let me sleep on the bed, tho’.  The Warden, my granddad, kept his door open, all desperate-like, just incase I wanted to snuggle, but shit, dude, I don’t do charity cases, so I kept my dignity and slept on the floor like a runaway slave.

Aaaaaaanyway, Mom finally got me home and is apparently shocked that I put on three pounds in less than a month.  Apparently I have puppy "love handles" 

Know what?  I hella lost my balls two years ago and couldn’t care less.  So fuck you guys, I’m gonna go get a butter burger.

-Unster Puppy O

PS http://www.achewood.com/index.php?date=01122005

Huh.  Vincent Gallo, I think I love you.  Not only was trying to sell your spermies on Ebay a class act (not to mention your discount to ladies who can prove descent from, er, mid-century German soldiers) but now you have really done it.  I used to think of myself as a furry Jason Timberlake (you know, ruggedly cute yet evil to the core) but now I realize it’s you, Vincent Gallo, and me. 

So as an homage to my new hero, Vincent Gallo, I hereby offer the "One Night With O-Man" Fantasy Package.  I will have my mom pick you up in our Volkswagon, only it will be festooned with balloons.  SEXY balloons.  I will be waiting in the back dressed to the nines for you.   We will listen to a special mix CD I have prepared for the event and I will drink champagne out of your pumps.  We will then attend an event of your choice–your prom, perhaps, or something more intimate, say, dinner for two at Culver’s,  your treat. 

Later I will fulfill all your wildest fantasies, so long as they are tennis-ball oriented.  The Red Crayon may or may not make an appearance, but that’s up to you and your scratchy skills. 

Ladies, I offer you this package at the bargain rate of $5,000.00, a pittance when you consider that you are getting a night of sexy sexy magic with your favorite blogger.  Also, this package makes a great Mother’s Day gift.  Your mom is dirty, and she wants me to drink champagne out of her Anne Klein loafers.  This I will do for a scant $5,000.00, and you will almost certainly get her jewelry in the will.

(get it?)

Yuh, anyway, now that Mom and I have like nine music channulz, I can’t help but notice how derivative new music has become.  I have decided to put together a new avant-garde jazz fusion band, consisting of me, Yoko Ono, Brian Wilson, the midget dude from "Twin Peaks" and Mandy Moore.  Mandy won’t play any instruments but will writhe a-rythmically to our music onstage, suspended in a vertical tank of skim milk.  Further, vocals will be provided by a spotted macaw threatened with being fed to a 19-foot python who will slither about.  While said python will not contribute to the sound effects of the music, he is essential to its spirit. 

Further, we will not produce any CDs, but will release our music only on shellac.  It will be packaged in a sleeve of garbage bag scraps sewn together with fishing twine by our bassist/washboard player Yoko Ono. 

As for me, after much thought I have changed my name from "Otto" to "Oto," the Japanese word for "sound."  I will wear a tiny vinyl and chain mail outfit at our shows, urinating on the front row of spectators and putting out cigarettes on my bare fur.

So, yuh, see you at our next show, at the Gumby’s on University next Saturday at 10:00 a.m. 

"People say ‘yo, O-man, you’re really funny looking’
That’s alright ’cause I get things cooking."

Yuh, this one will be brief.  I’m totally shocked because we now have HBO for some reason and there was a show about rednecks stealing dogs to for medical research.  I am keeping all my 2,000 pedigree parts to myself, thank you. 

So last weekend Mom had a party for all her friends and got hella green beer, which she tried to put in a dish for me.  Right, Mom, like I’ma compromise my swerve for some green brew. 

Auntie Krista and I met for the first time, and she kept demanding "why is he not more snuggly?" 

I was like, "Uh, bitch, why did you not smuggle me in some cheeseburger ‘Hot Pockets’?" 

Life is a give-and-take, homies.  ‘less you sneak up on the ‘O’ in his sleep, you gotta pay for the snugglies.

Oh, pupz. Gather ’round and listen to the Gospel According to O. 

This week Mom put my high-fashion collar in the dryer and it went all Shrinky-Dinks on us.  While she searches her favorite online dog-fashion resources for the next new thing I’ve been going commando, if you know what I mean.  At first I protested.  I’m kind of a civilized thug, you know, usually matching my collar and (ahem) "lead" from GeorgeSF.com or some such, so I wasn’t too excited about running around like some sort of savage with all my parts hanging out for the world to see. 

After a period of acclimation, tho’, I’m starting to feel my naked swerve, basking in my full glorious orange-ness.  Finally comfortable in my own fur, I even went out to my top-secret pooping place au natural.  The old O-man’s sensibilities were so bourgeois.  I got it, and I’m gonna flaunt it.

WOOF, yo!

So I was thinking about my online activities lately.  Seriously, sometimes these walls feel like they’re going to close in on me, you know?  So I did an e-harmony profile (no small task - "evil" doesn’t show up once) which took me about 80 minutes.  Seriously, in dog time that’s like an entire day, doggiez. 

Anyway, I was all looking for a voluptuous (that means fat, yo) dachsund/cairn terrier type in her goddess years.  Man, if anything gives me a big 2"-er it’s a fat bitch with a medic-alert tag on her collar, but I digress. 

As I awaited my search results I realized the one thing that would give me incurable twizzler-dick is the sort of bitch who would go on e-harmony and spend 80 minutes all analyzing her personal traits, so in a panic I barraged the keyboard with my paws, until I realized that I’m just a dog, so I’d given them my mom’s e-mail address.

Phew, yo.  Phew.

Yuh, well, Mom’s been yapping about my coming back from a journey through the neighborhood covered in crap.  I’ve finally decided to come clean about the events of that evening.  Brace yourselves, homies. 

So I was outside doing a crap visible from space when I spotted a fat little squirrel from across the parking lot, all looking smug-like with its little T-Rex paws folded across his belly.  "Oh, you poor little fucker," I thought, "I am gonna get you.  Then I’m gonna sniff you inquisitively, back up and bark at you.  Yuh."  I galloped at him like a bolt of orange lightning, but as I approached I realized he wasn’t backing away; rather he bade me toward him.  "Look into my eyes, O-man," said a disembodied voice.

I followed the squirrel’s gaze to his paw, opened to reveal a tiny blue butterburger.  "Eat this and find truth," urged the voice.  Yuh.

Here’s where it gets weird: suddenly I could sense all the dimensions of the universe.  Tiny angels played laser-tag with rainbows, and I rode a unicorn with Jesus and Jerry Garcia before collapsing under a sunset made of pudding.  I made beautiful poetry out of fractals, then drank water made of truth.  Yuh. 

Suddenly I fell out the bottom end of the wormhole.  It was like "Being John Malkovich," except that instead of the Jersey Turnpike it was the parking lot behind the building, and I was covered in shit and wearing a tiny Dr. Seuss hat. 

"Oh, Fuck," I thought, "where is that douchebag squirrel?" -But he was nowhere to be found.  Mom was full of eight tons of fury as she yanked me by my ear all the way to the bathtub, but all I could think was, "hey, we should really listen to more jam bands." 

Then I ate a glow stick.  Yuh.