Yes, drug kingpins use email. And pagers. There is such a weird technological divide in that group of people. It’s so odd. One guy, I was like “Hey dude, why don’t you just get an iPhone or a Blackberry. Then you can get emails on your phone, and also make calls. You can stop using pay phones.” His response was something like, “spanish, spanish, burrito, meximelt, blah, blah.” I didn’t understand him.

I’m fluent in one language: American.

So yeah, I got kinda lost in Mexico. And it’s because I took a metaphorical wrong turn. Into a metaphorical snow storm. If you catch the metaphor:

Santa don't do know plowing in this snow.

But I’m back now. And I’ve learned a lot about myself.

1. I like to party.

2. I love to party.

3. PARTY!

I don’t even know what’s happened in the world since I left. Do I care? Does it have to do with bones and shit? No? Then fuck it, I don’t care! Does it have to do with partying? Then tell me!

Me and some dude with a sweet stache partying.

Do I miss Mexico? Sure, I do. Apparently my parents were down there at some point after they got married. Oh yeah, you might be asking “but Gizmo, if you are their son, why were you not at the wedding?” GOOD FUCKING QUESTION.

Bitch.

I’m not giving names, but if you see this person on a bike and you are driving, go ahead, hit the gas, and let nature do its job. Yeah, I’m sad I wasn’t there. I wish I was. I could have witnessed the moment when I wasn’t a bastard anymore. But no. I was busy sitting in my cage, crying, begging for love. Probably licking my wiener and dreaming of bacon.

BACON!

THE BEST DRUG!

I apologize. This blog is very random. It’s hard going cold turkey from sweet, sweet Nosesnow, but I have to. I don’t want to get arrested. I know what they do in jail.

It's not the land that gets plowed...

But I’m glad to be back in America, with my parents. Even the hussy. Hopefully I update more often. I have a lot I need to get off my chest. For example, when a woman claims she is pregnant with your kid, but you are about 90% certain you didn’t sleep with her, should it really be a concern? Boy, I hope not. I don’t need that again.

For those who do not know, tornadoes are like ecstasy to Oklahomans.Weathermen get raging tornaboners and people get crazy. If you asked the average Oklahoman if they would like government-funded health care or a bang load of tornadoes, they’d cheer for the tornadoes (then have nothing to help pay the bills after they get thrown across their yard and impaled by a tree).

But other than that, I crapped myself quite a bit. Have you seen a tornado? Shit! Those things don’t mess around.

Look at that curvy dick! It’s destroying everything it gets in contact with! Can you imagine what would happen to me if I accidentally got caught in one of those? I’d destroy it, but that’s besides the point. If I weren’t possessed with superpowers that dwarf humans, I would get torn apart.

Tornadoes look like penises.

Mark got back from school safely, thank goodness. Fatty feeds me well and I guess I am kinda attached to him now. But apparently people were just hanging out, not worrying about the huge fucking cloud dick that could potentially attack them. Nope, just standing around with their fists up their butt.

One poor sorority girl didn't make it back to her house.

Are you serious? Get in the stairwell, asshole! Who cares about your coffee and your books and your laptop? It’s locked away! Get to safety. Seriously, is your laptop with Edward Cullen desktop photo worth risky your tiny little soccer-shorts-wearing life? I’d put them on par. But I’m a good dog, I care about humans. I am man’s best friend. At least that’s what I’m told.

Clouds look like big curly penises.

And let’s not forget this thing called hail.

Barely bigger than my left nut.

That’s a huge piece of ice right there!

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that weather is crazy. Clouds are huge mythical pieces of fluffy death. I don’t care what your weathermen say or your undergraduate weather school douches: clouds are Satan’s farts. And what do Satan’s farts produce?

Dick-shaped tools of death.

AH SNAP! Who turned one? This guy? Who got plastered on Boone’s Farm? This guy? Did I try heroin? I DON’T REMEMBER BITCHES CAUSE I WAS FUCKING DRUNK ASS CRAZ-AY!!!!!!

Brice and Kiley took enough time out of their day of pooping in their mouths to come party.

Autumn came too. She likes to party. And I mean party. If you’re ever driving around one day and you see a bunch of drunk people standing around a burning car, it’s because she did it. Oh yeah, nice photo bomb Mark, you dick.

This is my favorite picture. Why? Because she doesn’t know that I dumpstamped her arm during it. Look at me, all innocent and cute. But behind the scenes, I’m pushing out a turd ever so slightly just so the tip of it grazes across her arm, leaving a stinky and greasy residue. Boom, sucka!

These people need to stick to their day jobs because they couldn’t sing the pants off of a whore, let alone a whore that takes his/her pants off to decent sounding music.

Mark wanted me to blow out the candle. Bitch! I’m a motherfucking dog! I can’t position my mouth to blow. Get your mom to do it, she’s good at that.

By this point I was so out of it. I remember the cake being good but honestly, it could have been cat shit and I would have eaten it.

This was my birthday gift. Not an iTunes giftcard (which I asked for) or an iPad (which I deserved) or some dog porn DVDs (which I know Mark owns away). No. A huge bone. I like bones and all but come on! You can’t just shove a huge bone in my face, I’m not your mom.

And here I am with my best friend Boone!

Overall, it was a great birthday. I do appreciate Mark and Hailey throwing me this shin-dig and everyone showing up. It was a grand ol’ time, from what I remember. And I can report that the itching has finally gone away! Gizmo – 1, STD – 0!

They say I sit like Buddha. I say I sit like sex.

There’s an old proverb that says he that hath knowledge spareth his words.

So I’m going to leave it at this: Pimpin’ ain’t easy, hoes.

Wisdom.

And when I’m in my crate? Caged wisdom.

So yesterday was Easter. I went to the park and peed on a lot of things. Electrical pole? I now own that. Big rock? Mine. Two-year-old? Could have been, but fatty pulled me back.

Other than that, I have not done much lately. Someone asked me what I thought about health care reform. I asked them, “Do I get more bones per day?” and they told me no, so I think it’s bullshit. But that’s politics, huh? Another person asked me what I thought of the nuclear arms treaty President Obama is going to sign with Russia. I asked, “Do I get more bones per day?” and they asked me, “why do I care about bones?” and I responded “because I’m a fucking dog, moron.”

Speaking of dogs, this President Obama’s dog:

What a bitch. If I were caught wearing that, I’d tie my leash into a noose and call it a day as I jump off the back of the couch. And check this out:

That’s pretty awesome, but not for some dog that wears stupid colorful flowers around its neck (not that I’m against colorful flowers. They are beautiful and delicious). Here is the way this photo should have been:

That’s right, me, in a hot dog costume, running with the Prez. After this, we will have a meeting where I address the lack of bones issue.

Moving along, Mark was in New York City working with B-Side Entertainment. Mark loved it. He got to meet some really cool people, learn a lot of important lessons about the film business, and make some great friends (meanwhile, I was learning that licking myself is awesome). But today, B-Side announced they were shutting their doors and that just sucks.

B-Side was a great company ran by great people. It provided an invaluable service to filmmakers and film festivals. In 2009, they started their distribution arm and put out some great freakin’ films (find out about them here. BUY “Still Bill” and “Visioneers.” Do it or I’ll shit on you. It’s not an empty promise. Ask Hailey’s bed).

So needless to say, Mark is sort of down right now which means I get less tummy rubs and less HAND action. That’s bullshit. I’m not happy. So for those who didn’t step up and help keep this awesome company going, I’m going to get your names. I’m going to find you. And I’m going to shit down your throats.

That's the face of anger, bitches.

I want to take a minute to discuss something serious: the current economic crisis.

I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “What does he know about the economic crisis? He’s a pug. He sits in a crate all day licking himself.” Yes, I do. But guess, what, bum, I’m not the one who’s probably out of a job right now, so I would shut that pie hole if I were you. You probably can’t even afford pie right now. You shut your Ramen Noodle hole, or I’ll crap on your welfare-taking face.

But in all seriousness, it’s bad out there.

In economics, Okun’s Law states that for each percentage point by which the unemployment rate is above the natural rate, real gross domestic product is 3 percent below potential GDP.

We currently have a double-digit unemployment rate. The natural rate of unemployment is 5 or 6 percent. Economists say that about 3 million jobs would have to be created this year to lower the unemployment rate by 1 percent.

Again, your snark is detectable. You are surprised at my knowledge. Oh, what fools you humans be.

Your crisis is affecting me. Fix it. Please.

Here’s why. This is Gizmo’s Law: For every percentage point by which the unemployment rate is above the natural rate, the hussy and the Mark are 15.73 percent less likely to find jobs when they finally graduate. (If I had any other owners, it would be about 3 percent, but they had to go and get degrees in the dying fields of journalism and film making.The hussy thinks newspapers are going to be around awhile. Silly. I won’t even crap on a newspaper anymore. Crapping on a Kindle? It’s the way of the future.)

Anyway, the average rate of the hussy and the Mark not finding jobs is about 78.21 percent. For every 1 percent increase in their inability, I get two fewer bacon-flavored treats as an incentive for going into my crate.

For every .86 percent increase in their disappointment about their stupid degrees, I get 2.2 percent fewer belly scratches and 38 percent more angry looks when I chew on the hussy’s shoes. (OK, you get the idea. Fewer bacon treats correlates directly to my chewing more on shoes. I’d might as well be a shelter dog.)

I am feeling unloved. Sometimes I just need a good pet on the face and a look that says, “You’re OK, pug. You’re OK.”

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not usually this kind of emotional wreck.

But this economic crisis has broken me a bit.

Love me. Somebody.

Here we are looking at something out of the window. I don’t remember what it was. I was high. High on life, that is. On a serious note, don’t do drugs. I had a friend once, Sparkles. He got so into cat nip (he was constantly hounded by his name and had an incredibly low self-esteem) and he couldn’t stop. Eventually, he climbed to the top of the roof and jumped off. Being a cat, he landed on his feet and was just fine. But then he was shot by a cat nip dealer he was in debt to. So drugs = bad.

Meanwhile, Mark says my head is too small for my body. I don’t think that is very funny. In fact, if the fat kid wants to talk more shit, I’ll dump in his mouth while he sleeps. He’s always on his back, mouth agape, breathing in air so hard you’d think he was breathing chicken strips or something.

But I don’t care what he says. I feel awesome. The air is blowing through my normally flat hair under my collar. It feels good.

So thanks, Hailey. You are no longer a hussy, but one of my good friends. Until you put that collar back on. Then you’re right back to hussydom.

But today, something messed up that series of awesome events. My owner has a friend named Lindsay. She’s British, not American. I can deal with that… for now. She has a cat, and that cat has cancer. And cancer is a piece of shit.

Pickle (left) and British lady (right)

Pickle seems like a cool cat. He’s spoiled, I’m spoiled. He likes food, I like food. He hopes Kate ends up with Jack, so do I. So even though I don’t know Pickle, I feel like we would be good friends.

But the good news the cancer has not spread. Now there are all sorts of procedures and stuff ahead that I can’t understand because I’m a dog. But I just wanted to give Pickle a shout out and say that I support you and pray for the best for you. And your British master. If possible, I will pray harder if she can somehow become American. Are there blood transfusions for this? I’m a dog, I don’t know.

For more information about Pickle, go here.

]]> http://gizmothepug.wordpress.com/2010/02/03/for-a-friend-of-a-friend/feed/ 1 gizmopug IMG_0586 http://gizmothepug.wordpress.com/2010/01/30/stupid-snow-day/ http://gizmothepug.wordpress.com/2010/01/30/stupid-snow-day/#comments Sat, 30 Jan 2010 00:52:02 +0000 gizmopug http://gizmothepug.wordpress.com/?p=39 ]]> You know what I like? Sleeping. It’s awesome. And I usually get to do a lot of that during the day. But not these last few days. No, the humans are scared as hell about this fluffy white crap that’s everywhere so no one is leaving their house. Which means I AM BEING BUGGED ALL DAMN DAY.

Notice the hussy is smiling and I'm not.

Whatever. I guess it’s nicer than being alone all day. Then again, I can lick myself and not get yelled at when I am alone. I think the fat guy is pissed I can do that and he can’t.