A reason to vote for McCain

For those of you who don't know, John McCain and I know each other. We've known each other for about 16 years now (I think). The relationship, if there is one still left, is...well, frosty. In fact, I don't like him personally.

But I think I'll vote for him. Especially if things like this keep happening:
"If McCain is elected, I think I'll leave the country. I might move to Italy or Canada."--Susan Sarandon.

Now that's motivation, right there, to vote Johnny Mac. But this got me to thinking--what would it take for me to do more than just vote for McCain? So I made up a scorecard:

To get me to convince Momma Pug to vote McCain Tim Robbins has to leave the country too. Neither can ever come back, much less make a movie.

To get me to convince my dad to vote McCain Alec Baldwin has to leave the country. Same rules apply, and no 30 Rock, either.

To get me to convince my leftist grandmother to vote McCain Donald Trump must set himself on fire. I want to see the hair explode from all the product in it.

To get me to donate $25 to his campaign McCain must waterboard Keith Olbermann. And he must do it on the O'Reilly Factor.

To get me to donate $50 to his campaign McCain must kill the entire cast of Grey's Anatomy. Except Patrick Dempsey; he's cool.

To get me to donate $100 to his campaign McCain must watch the entire Sex in the City movie. Then hunt down Sarah Jessica Parker and make her pay for her crimes.

To get $500 McCain must LAYETH THE SMACKETH DOWN upon Michael Moore. I mean, backhand the tub of lard, make him cry like a little baby and make him sing God Bless America.

To get $1000 McCain must tell Madonna that, since she now uses an English accent, she's no longer American and has to get out. Now.

If he kicks Suge Knight's ass, I'll be his personal bodyguard.

Text messages at 1:47 a.m.

Last night, Momma Pug and I were sound asleep, pug and silky snoring between us, when I heard a loud electronic beep. Now, this probably harkens back to my days as a cops reporter, but whenever I hear a beep on the phone, I jump up.

Now, a little background. The phone number I have harkens back nearly a half-decade, when Momma Pug and I lived just outside of the holy land of College Station (we now live south of Houston--281 REPRESENT!). The area code stretches from the Brazos River to Huntsville (more stories about that later) to deep East Texas.

East Texas can be...well, a tad bit scary. There are some...interesting folks living out there. Some think nothing of calling you for a drunken hookup at 1 in the morning (and that means ladies and gentlemen). I've had to tell several people that 1) they have the wrong number and 2) sorry, I'm married and not interested anyway. Yes, sir, I'm quite sure that I don't want to try something new. Ma'am, I'm very happy to hear what you can do with a golf ball and 40 feet of garden hose, but no, I'm not interested in trying out your talents tonight. I work for a living and work starts at 8.

Anyway, back to the beep. I check the phone and there's a message.

"Coming back 2 nite, baby?"

I guess, because my legs are sore from working out, that it's gonna take a while to get back to sleep. So I figure I'll screw with whoever sent it.

"Gonna get some chew. BBL" I reply. (Note: I don't chew. Just sounded good.)

30 seconds later, a beep. "Thought you quit."

Hmm. "Baby, when you work me like that, I need just a little"

40 seconds, another beep.

"You think thats good wait til u get back but spit out that stuff before you work on me"

Ok, that's more information than I needed.

"What about me?"

20 seconds, a beep.

"i can do that again i guess"

Ok, time to end this game.

"Can I bring the wife over? She can watch or more"

No beep. I was back asleep by 2.

Thank Goodness for friends

I'd just like to take a moment to talk about the importance of friendship. As someone who didn't have a lot of friends while growing up, I've come to truly appreciate the goodness of solid, loyal friends who are willing to listen, who care about your well-being, and do things for you that are above and beyond the call of duty.

They do things like go to the Sex in the City movie so I don't have to.

Momma Pug and I do nearly everything together. There are very few things that could make one say to the other, "uh, you have fun with that."

Baseball games? No problem. Hoops? That's ok too. The theater? I'll suck it up and go.

I draw the line at Sex in the City.

Shockingly, like 99 percent of straight males (and approximately 45 percent of gay ones), I hate Sex in the City -- or, as you can call it, Horseface, Old Horny Chick, Chick from Melrose Place and the Dyke. I think, for lack of a better phrase, that it's putrid.

I've hated Sarah Jessica Parker for years and she is perfect for Carrie Bradshaw-- a completely inept, socially awkward, neurotic unlikeable bitch. Oh, and as a human being, I find her to be loathsome too. Considering that she was named the ugliest woman in America by a popular vote of men (readers of Maxim), I guess I'm not alone. I'm just glad she's at a premier next weekend, because I'd hate for Big Brown to win two legs of the triple crown then lose to Beuller's wife at the Belmont.

I liked the concept of seeing Kim Catrall in the buff--when she was in Porky's. That was 25 years ago. Seeing her now, when she's having trouble remember the glorious days of menopause, is just disgusting.

Speaking of disgusting, check out Cynthia Nixon's chick. That's not a woman, baby--THAT'S A MAN!

I like Kristin Davis. She's still hot.

But, all things considered, Sex in the City is a plunge in the estrogen ocean. And, frankly, that's a catty place I'd rather not go.

But one of Momma Pug's friends--a female--has said she wants to see it too. So, on Saturday, they are.

And I'm not.

Thank God.

Don't mess with the Big Guy

This happened a while back, but it’s still funny – and, depending on how you look at it, revealing.

Momma Pug and I were having a fairly good natured disagreement about something while talking in the master bathroom, which borders the wall going into the back yard. On the other side of the wall, literally a foot from the window, is the air conditioning unit.

After Momma Pug said something I deemed inflammatory, I stepped back from her and said, “Just so you don’t miss, Lord, she’s over here,” and pointed at her.

She laughed and said, “He aint gonna do shit.”

Immediately, there was a large flash of light and a shower of sparks. A bolt of lighting had shot down a tree and hit the AC unit. Amazingly, we lost no power or AC.

But it put Momma Pug back on the straight and narrow.