I Vote for “Smothered Under the Bodies of the Dead Dogs He’s Responsible For”

Sadly, I am not Queen of the Universe or I would sentence Michael Vick and his cohorts to be smothered to death under the bodies of the dead dogs they are responsible for.

I believe that, when we die, if we go on, we become completely aware of the results of our lives here on earth.  Every good deed that ripples out ten people will be a joy to us.  Every hurt will be a pain.  I sometimes need to believe that because I want to believe that some day, even if not in this lifetime, anyone who would be a part of something that resulted in the deaths of dogs “by hanging, drowning and/or slamming at least one dog’s body to the ground” would have to bear the whole weight of his actions.

But most of the time, I guess I believe they get away with it, not just legally, I mean, it doesn’t weigh on their consciences.  And I just don’t understand that.  My dog will curl up next to me in bed.  She seems to smile when she sticks her head out the car window.  She whines when the cat is laying in the middle of the room and won’t get up so that she can get past.  If you’re laying on the couch, she wants to get up there and lay next to you.

 

You see what I’m saying?  How could you not find this (see photo) a better use for you dog than fighting it?  The Commercial Appeal calls it

a phase that has made it a status symbol in neighborhoods where violence and intimidation are valued, cooperation and generosity are signs of weakness and guns and gangs are rampant.

Even the very young have been infected with the attitude that intimidating others with an angry animal on the end of a leash is a way to acquire respect.

If that’s so, then we are a fucked up culture indeed.

Detective C. R. Beals of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department says “there are people who are animal lovers who would do everything up to and including put a bullet into some of these clowns” and I have to say, if I were on the jury of someone who shot a dog fighter, it would be nearly impossible for me to find her guilty.

Here’s another good one of Mrs. Wigglebottom.  Again, if you could look that in the face and then put it in harm’s way, I question whether you have a soul.

Three Posts on the From Dusk Till Dawn series? That Tickles Me.

I have been working hard all lunch hour to come up with fine refutations to Mack’s assertion that I’m reading too much into the “From Dusk Till Dawn” franchise.

I have the script.

I have screen shots and more screen shots.

I’ve got the screen writer saying “It [the front of the vampire bar] literally looks in some ways like the entrance to Hell.” and a screen shot of the entrance of the club looking very much like a stylized vagina. Here’s Clooney standing in front of another yonic door.

The screenplay says “Seth stands where he was, limp dick of a .45 in his hand” and we see another weapon standing in metaphorically for a penis.

If you don’t believe there’s some subtext going on there, especially when the woman dances around with a snake (!) and then begins to kill people, I just don’t know what to say to you.

Especially because I think the difference of opinion goes deeper than that.  Either a text is just what it is–utilitarian, hard working, earnest–or, well, ha, that’s it really, isn’t it?  Is literature in Earnest or is it Bunburying–pretending to be one thing in the countryside and quite another thing in London?  Are things at play or are they not?

If you believe things are at play, then it’s easy enough to watch a shitty Tarantino movie and enjoy it at its Earnest level–what you believe you see plainly before you–and also for any Bunburying that you might do–finding, for instance, vulvas all over the place, things being penetrated by phalluses in response to the threat of the all encompassing female sexuality, etc.  It’s not hard work.  It’s play.  You are playing because the text is playing with you.

Endless possibilities.

But if the text is in Earnest, then there’s just one right Meaning and thinking about that Meaning is hard work.

I side with Play, even if it means I might “marry into a cloakroom and form an alliance with a parcel.”

There are worse fates.

I’m Not Going Any Place that Charges You Six Dollars for a Burger and Extra for Fries

Lee seems to have been thinking a lot about things feminists might not especially want to hear.  I can only assume that’s because he’s also giving a lot of thought to what kinds of sweet-nothings to whisper in our ears.

On that list, I hope he includes:

1.  “No, no, you stay there and finish watching Divine Design.  I’ll take care of the dishes.”

and

2.  “Do I make this donation out to ‘Planned Parenthood’ or ‘Planned Parenthood of America’?”

and

3.  “Woman, I am terrified.  Why is this house shaking?”

The Staffordshire Bull Terrier is Our Neighbor!

We were out walking again this morning and ran into the Staffywe saw the other day.  We had some time to talk as Mrs. Wigglebottom had managed to snap her collar in order to get a better sniff at his butt and so I had to take a moment to put it back together and get it back on her.

So, it turns out that the Staffy belongs to the new folks right next door.  We hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them except for their vehicle.  But it turns out that they have a cool dog.  He’s two and a half.  He’s got Mrs. Wigglebottom’s coloring and stands shorter and squattier than her.

So, that’s neat.  I should get a picture.

Two pitbulls in the same building.  I feel safer already.