MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

  Now a few words about dogs and the assholes that own them:

  I grow weary of the morons who walk around the neighborhood with a straining mutt in one hand and an old Krogers plastic bag in the other.  When their dog graces your yard with its steaming pile of shit, they proudly pick it up in the wafer thin Kroger bag and act like they are the greatest neighbors in the world.  For what, getting some of your mutt’s shit off my lawn.  Because I guarantee that you didn’t get it all.  At the very least there are still shit bits and shit juice remaining on my lawn.  If you dog owners dispute that, then prove it is not so by bending down where you triumphantly cleaned up and put a blade of grass in your mouth.  Hah!  And what about your asshole dog pissing on my lawn.  What good is your Kroger bag then.  Let your dog shit and piss in your own yard.

 I also want to kick the crotch of the dog owners who walk their beloved mutt around town on a leash, but don’t actually hold the leash.  The dog walks scot free about twenty yards in front of the proud owner who just knows his dog is so well behaved that he couldn’t go dog and bite you or chase a petrified cat/squirrel up a tree.  And, if this perfect dog happens to come toward you and you react with concern, the owner gets miffed and in a weary voice informs you, “He won’t bite,” like he and his dog talked things over prior to the walk.  I don’t care how great you think your pooch is, keep it on a leash when you venture out into public.

 I live in a regular suburban neighborhood, small fenced in backyards.  I don’t really get having one dog in such an environment, but why multiple mutts?  I had a neighbor, recently moved and fouling another community, who had four dogs penned in his thirty foot by fifty foot backyard.  One dog is a menace to fresh air and quiet, but multiple mutts indicates a lack of consideration on the part of the owner.

   Same neighborhood scenario.  You let your dog out and he barks.  Not a solo “Oh my God is that a squirrel running through my backyard” bark, but a series of “I am an asshole dog that doesn’t know any better” barks.  We have a dog in the area that punctuates the quiet with a ten minute barrage so steady that you would swear he is using a metronome.  If I didn’t hate him so damn much, I might admire his timing and stamina.

   

   I understand that these may not be popular gripes, but I defy you to take umbrage with any of them.  Go ahead.

Cheers! Jim

PS  In all fairness, I must point out that I was bitten by a dog about three years ago.  I was rollerblading in the street and passing by a house with four kids playing in the yard.  As I passed, I heard one kid shout, “Spike”.  I turned my head just in time to see “Spike” bolt through the open side door of the house and make a beeline for me.  I am pretty decent on the rollerblades, but I was not getting away from this dark, growling bullet.    Spike (yes, that was his real name, no changing the names to protect in this blog) missed me on his first pass.  He deftly managed a tight arc in the street, came back and sunk his teeth into the my well toned calf.  My legs flew out in front of me and I landed in the street on my tightly muscled back.  Fortunately, Spike was content with one bite, and retreated back into the house.  His concerned owner soon materialized and in a freaked out voice offered to give me a ride home.  I was having none of that and told her I would blade home and be back in five minutes to figure out what to do.

   By the time I got back, owner had printed a copy of Spike’s last visit to the vet in order to show me that all of his shots were up to date.  She apologized, though I was in no mood to hear it.  Off to the emergency room, where I was cleaned up, given a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics.  The doctor also told me that I had to keep tabs on Spike through his owner to make sure he did not show any signs of  disease. 

   Aside from the physical scars, and the mental ones outlined above, I came out of it fine.  Which is more than I can say for Spike.  His owner sent me a check to reimburse for the medical expenses and inclosed a letter and documentation informing me that Spike had been put down shortly after his rendezvous with my leg.

   Any mixed feelings for my role in Spike’s ultimate demise?  No.  Like Bin Laden, he deserved to go.

PS Part II  This bitchfest does not include good friend Jim Thomas and his four legged buddy Jethro (Tony vouches for both, and that’s good enough for me).

BUMPERS

   The wedding shower for my daughter Rachel had gone beautifully (or so I was told, this having been the first wedding shower I attended).  The canopy didn’t collapse, the sangria didn’t run out and when the neighbor’s dog barked, my brother emptied the water from his straw in the mutt’s face, rendering him mute.  All in all, a great wedding shower held in my own backyard.

    I do, however, have one complaint.  The partygoers failed to observe ninety percent of the cleaning my wife and I did inside and outside of our house.  Would it have killed one of those broads to notice that I vacuumed all the cobwebs from the garage rafters?

   After the eating, drinking and customary cheating at shower games, the party began to wind down, leaving the usual suspects behind.  There was my five man crew, future son in law Matt (that was tough to type), Tony and his wife Beth, and close family friends Kathy, Carly and Luke.

   My two sons, Max and Jackson, got the idea to attach notes to some of the balloon strings and set them free.  Max drew a picture of himself (the exact same image he has been drawing since middle school) and noted the occasion and date before setting his orange balloon free.  Jackson, the internet junkie, asked the finder of his note to contact him on his YouTube page.

   Tony reached out to mankind with the following balloon attached notes:

 *I pissed on this note.

 *You are a dick.

 *I had sex with your wife.

   He wrote a fourth note, “While you are reading this, I broke into your house” but decided against sending that one into the great beyond ( I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why that message didn’t make the cut).

   Making the cut for the Bug Juice Two these last few weeks has been Bumpers Bar and Grill on Newburgh Road in Westland.  Though some online reviews have complained that the place is hard to spot, we had no problem breezing into the large parking lot on the west side of Newburgh just south of Joy.  Look for the large, red neon sign beckoning you inside.

   The clever owners named this brick barn Bumpers because half of the place is taken up by a game room with three pool tables, two of which are actually level.  Other diversions include the ever annoying air hockey and foosball. I would not have been surprised to see folded laundry on these largely ignored games.

   Don’t let the name and the tables fool you.  At its core, this is an old school rock bar.  The non bumpers half of Bumpers is suitably dark, with a long slab formica bar along one wall, a hodgepodge of tables and chairs in the center of the room and a small dance floor in front of a raised band stand at the front.

   My partner in crime and I made our way to the bar, grabbed a spot in front of a flat screen and ordered our usual Miller Light and Labatts, which set us back a very reasonable $5.50.  When you consider that there is no cover and a live band, Bumpers scores high for those on a budget (everyone).

   A quick clink of our bottles, a long pull and a moment to soak in the room.  The crowd looked like they walked out of Grapes Of Wrath, only not so lean.  The common denominator for this bunch was back fat.  Still, Tony and I found the patrons to be friendly and struck up conversations during each visit, some of which even made sense.

   Aside from drinking cheaply and gabbing, other diversions include listening to music ( I saw live bands on three separate occasions and can’t tell you one thing about any of them...shit, they may have been the same band all three times).  People do dance, but not a lot and not to hook up.  Watching the Tigers chase the pennant also grabs a lot of attention.  And, don’t forget the insanely well lit game room.

   It’s only fair to mention that the waitstaff is young, attractive and scantily clad (it’s only fair to mention it because my wife may have found out anyway).  That is not as big a deal as you might think.  Pretty much every bar we walk into has the young and attractive, it’s just that Bumpers amps it up with the scantily clad.

   On our third visit, young Tony and I were pleased that Erica, the barmaid we had seen on the past two occasions, served our drinks without us moving our lips.  It’s good to be a regular.  We always received excellent service, a friendly smile and some amusing bar chit chat.  Tony mentioned that she was also easy on the eyes, though I hadn’t noticed.

   A strange punctuation on our last visit involved Erica.  Closing time was closing in and Tony had just finished handing me my ass in the pool room.  We stopped back at the bar for last call.  We talked up Erica for a bit before she disappeared into a small room off the back of the bar.  She emerged with a long haired twenty something and introduced us to her husband.  I shook his hand before Tony and I disappeared into the night.

   When I reflected on this the following morning, I was troubled.  Did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were good guys who might enjoy a drink and conversation with her significant other?  Or, did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were edging into some weird infatuated territory and needed to be put in our place?   

   Please be the former.  We are not stalkers.  We are two happily married guys whose biggest sins are being rakishly handsome and disarmingly witty.  Damn these good looks!  Damn this charm!

   Anyways, if you are low on funds, enjoy old school rock and friendly patrons, definitely check out Bumpers.  And for God’s sake, don’t stalk the bar staff! 

Cheers!  Jim