My Dog thinks his name is Dammit

(as seen in The Sage)

by BAD GIRL  (Melodie Campbell)

So I wanted something tall dark and handsome, and what I got was something short, blond and furry.   

Actually, I was given the choice of having another kid or getting a dog – and all parents will understand this immediately – I chose the dog.  Delivery is faster, and you don’t have to start saving for university.

Sunny is a Frankenpoodle, ergo, the sort of dog that Dr. Frankenstein might have created.  He is maybe short for a horse, but not for a dog.  We call him a “giraffe in a dog suit.”

Unfortunately, he is eighteen months old and lacks judgement.  This means he retrieves absolutely everything.  Soggy, old cigarette packages, other animal doo-doo, and his current favorite, old mouse skulls.  If I’m really lucky, he deposits them right on my lap.

The other problem with water dogs is, of course, that they love water.  Happily, this makes them easy to bathe (just run the bath, and they’ll jump in.)  Sadly, they are not too discerning about what they use as a bathtub.

Here’s what happened just the other day:

Me:  Where’s the dog?

Him:  Huh?

Me:  You know…the mutt, the mangy curr, your canine son and heir.  It’s too quiet in here.  Where is he?

Him:  I don’t know.  I just got out of the bathroom.

Me (horror-stricken):  You didn’t leave the door open?  AND THE SEAT UP?

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

According to the book, these dogs are quite easy to train.  This may be true compared to training iguanas or dump trucks, but I think Sunny needs a lot of work.  Witness yesterday at the park:

Me:  COME Sunny!  COME boy!  Clever boy.  Come!  COME HERE DAMMIT!  Will someone get the damned dog off that Pekinese…wait a minute.  He’s coming!  He’s actually coming!  Good Boy!   Good dog!  Where’d he go?  COME BACK, DAMMIT.

Yes, my dog thinks his name is Dammit.

Dogs also know that everything in life serves one of two purposes.  It’s either for playing with or for eating.  Sunny follows this rule to the letter, testing all new objects for ‘playability.’  Squirrels respond to being barked at and chased, by frantically running away.  This puts them in the play category.  Socks, on the other hand, don’t run away, so they’re for eating.  Sunny’s first victim was a pink nylon doll sock which disappeared one evening about suppertime, and found its way to his other end shortly after noon the next day. 

The next victim, I regret to say, is all my fault.  I don’t know how he captured my pink bikini undies, but I do know I’m not letting him out of the house until they show up again.  No way is he going to barf up my panties in front of all the neighbours.  (“Oh look, dear!  She shops at Walmart.”) 

Ever wonder how those lone abandoned socks find their way to the side of the road?  I bet you thought they blew out of car windows.

Melodie Campbell writes funny books, like The Artful Goddaughter mob caper, available at Chapters and all online retailers.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY more silly stuff by Bad Girl

What is it about men, and the lure of “The One That Got Away?”  

All sportsmen seem to have a full repertoire of standard tales about “The Game They Didn’t Win” or “The Fish They Didn’t Catch.”  Anglo-Saxon men will wiggle and squirm when reminded of their victories in a public setting. <Shrug.  ‘It was nothing.’>  But bring up a personal Dunkirk, and watch the enthusiasm (and the story) grow to mythical proportions.

Fishermen are the worst.  I never met a fisherman who didn’t know a bigger fish.  Now I admit that sitting for hours in a tin boat in the hot sun with a bunch of decaying worms for company, waiting for Moby Dick to swim by, is not my idea of a banner way to spend a summer afternoon.  I mean, what are you going to DO with Moby, if you ever catch him?  The poor thing has been swilling acid rain for YEARS.  More likely, he’ll be thrown back into the fetid muck, knowing he has been personally rejected.  What a label to hang on a fish.

There must be a special lure about a prize not won, because I’ve heard men talk this way about women.

Bill (dreaming): I knew this girl in 1986…she was perfect. Beautiful, smart, understanding, good cook, played a great round of golf – everything I dreamed of.”

Ted (drooling): So what happened?”

Bill (sniveling into his beer): Some guy MARRIED her.”

Women don’t talk like this.  You never hear women boast about ‘the dress the got away in 1992’.

Betty (reminiscing):  Remember that terrific sale at the Buffalo outlet mall?  And you almost had that genuine copy of a fake Ralph Lauren for ten bucks, but that fat woman in purple snatched it out of your hands?

Marge (sighing):  It might even have fit me. 

Nobody, however, can come close to the story telling ability and sheer heart-stopping drama of seasoned golfers.  By Seasoned, I don’t mean spiced.  I mean the ability to stand frowning into space on the 14^th tee for hours, contemplating a shot, as if it might actually make a difference.  I can only conclude that years of wearing polyester pants in tootie-fruitie colours does something to a person. 

For one thing, they can no longer talk in a normal tone of voice.  Ever hear two of them drone on about how the almost bogeyed their golf cart on the sixteenth, or their twelve iron on the seventh?

Bill (in Official Pro Golf Tournament whisper):  Remember that par five in Toledo back in ’81 when I would have birdied with the eight iron on the 4^th, but that seventeen mile an hour wind came out of the south-east and I sliced it just a bit to the left?

Ted (equally hushed):  Sure do, Bill.  (frowning into the hot sun.)  Are you sure that wasn’t ’82?

I tell only one story about the one who got away.  He was six feet tall and Irish, and he took me golfing.  Every time I took a swing at the ball and missed, he convulsed into a snickering heap.  Whenever I swung and made contact, he dissolved into a howling mass and writhed about on the grass.

I would have smashed him over the head with my golf club, but he got away.

Money Laundering and Other Services...by BAD GIRL

I am starting to gather things for doing my taxes, and it made me think about how great things were in the good ole days.   

Remember how simple life used to be?  Someone would mail you a little carbon slip to let you know how much money you made.  All you had to do – as a law-abiding citizen – was run your finger along a little line in the tax guide, and you’d know how much tax you had to pay.  You’d write a cheque for that amount, then go drink yourself blind or shoot yourself in the head, whichever was most expedient.  Things were simple back then.

Now, figuring out your taxes is a profession in itself.  Actually, it’s several professions; taxes now have their own accountants and their own lawyers, lucky little things.  Soon they may have their own psychiatrists…

Which brings me to banking (another insane institution.)  I remember when you’d take your paycheck and give it to the bank for a little while.  Then you’d go back a few weeks later to take out cash for certain life essentials like beer.  All the money would still be there plus some extra cash which you’d made on your money, called interest.  Things have changed radically since then.  Interest is passé.  Sort of like digital watches.

Now when you put your money in the bank (which of course you don’t…you put it in a cute little automatic teller machine where it mixes with everyone else’s little packets of money in terribly amoral ways) – but back to the point.  The point is, that when you go back to draw it out again, you find there’s less than what you deposited.  Most of your money is there, but so is something else called a Service Charge.

I must admit I’m baffled by this need for a service charge.  I mean, exactly what services did these people feel it necessary to perform for my money?  Did they take it on field trips?  Give it a shampoo and set?  Have it drycleaned, and botoxed to iron out the wrinkles?

Frankly, I’m getting fed up.  If they’re going to take my money out on the town and show it a good time, the least they can do is teach it how to reproduce…

Melodie Campbell writes the comic mob caper series, The Goddaughter.  You can buy her paperbacks and ebooks at Chapters, Amazon, and Barnes&Noble.

Introducing...Morticia's Massage Parlour and Free Advice Academy...Again!

Introducing...Morticia's Massage Parlour and Free Advice Academy

Back in the bad ole days, I had a gig writing a wacky advice column for a resto/bar trade mag.  On the urging of a few friends who have absolutely no taste, I am bringing Morticia back to life <sic> on these pages.  Reprinted with permission...

Dear Morticia:
This guy I really like has finally asked me out.  Thing is, I met him at a beach and he doesn't know I wear glasses.  Should I wear them on our first date?
Signed:  Short sighted

Dear Short:
That depends.  What does he look like?


Dear Morticia:
I've been sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under my pillow since last April and it isn't doing a thing.  What do you suggest?
Signed:  Always a Bridesmaid

Dear Always:
Personally, I've never seen the point of sharing your pillow with wedding cake.  Why don't your try a man instead?  Lots more fun and not near as messy.

Dear Morticia:
All I want is a man who doesn't play golf all weekend long.  Is that too much to ask?
Signed Weekend Widow

Dear Weak:
Really?  That's ALL you want from a man?  Must get pretty boring at night....

Dear Morticia:
I like your style.  How about a date, Sugar?
Signed: Swinger

Dear Swing:
Sure!  January 27th?  August 18th?  11/04/21?  MCXXII?

To be continued....

Introducing Fantasy author Tracy Falbe!

It is my great pleasure to introduce Tracy Falbe, author of Judgement Rising, and other epic tales.  The beautiful cover of Judgement Rising is a particular favourite of mine.

How Humor Can Help Readers Care About Characters

By Tracy Falbe

My novels tend to be pretty serious, like most epic fantasies, but I believe in letting characters have good times too. I rarely send someone into battle without throwing him a good party or letting him have a final night with his lover.

Sometimes the mood is lightened with a few jokes among comrades. I don’t do this specifically for the sake of comic relief. Although I love comedy and consider it a high art form, I often dislike how comic relief is used. Tossing some dopey antics into the middle of something very serious is just plain annoying. When I use humor, I do it to make characters feel real. Letting sarcastic comments slip and drinking too much at dinner are things that real people might do when under stress. These lighter scenes tend to happen between the big dramatic events. I try to let characters shine through during the quieter moments because isn’t this when you really get to know people?

Most novels rush characters from one big event to the next without much room to breathe. I know we writers are supposed to keep readers hooked, but I believe in pacing my fiction. I like to balance intensity with moments of genuine living. My hope is that it will deepen the reader’s emotional ties with the characters. When the reader remembers the good times, it will make the hard times even more meaningful.

A splendid example of a good time leading to dire events comes from the mighty J.R.R. Tolkien. He started the modern tradition of a good party in fantasy novels when the Fellowship of the Ring opened with Bilbo’s birthday bash. Throughout my own novels I’ve presented everything from a royal banquet to a bachelor party to wild revels in the forest to that most dangerous of affairs: the family gathering.

One memorable gathering from Judgment Rising has several amusing scenes when Miranda meets her brother-in-law Atarek for the first time. Atarek has crossed the Wilderness in search of his missing brother Dreibrand. Miranda is quite excited to meet him, but her husband knows that her encounter with Atarek will be alarming at best.

From Judgment Rising:

Politely, Dreibrand worked his way through the crowd, tugging Atarek who wanted to say hello to everyone. As people smiled to Dreibrand, he noted how their eyes bounced between Atarek and himself, making a conspicuous comparison. Jolted by juvenile insecurity, Dreibrand hustled his brother along.

The dawdling resistance from his debutant brother suddenly let go and Dreibrand was trundled forward by his brother’s bulk.

Draping an arm around his shoulder, Atarek pulled him close and whispered, “Hey Dreiby, introduce me to those women. That curly-haired one looks fun.”

Dreibrand spun in his brother’s embrace and knocked the arm away.

Interpreting the intense flash of jealousy as only an older brother could, Atarek laughed and wagged a finger at his brother. “You had her,” he surmised, delighted to have blundered upon a sensitive nerve.

“Think harder, Brother,” Dreibrand growled.

“Still working on it then?” Atarek teased. Puffing out his chest, he headed straight for the attentive group of women and children.

Before Atarek said something inappropriate, which was likely, Dreibrand intervened. “Atarek, this is Miranda, my wife,” he said.

Miranda stepped forward with an inviting smile. “How do you do—” she began, employing her best Atrophaney accent, but Atarek interrupted.

“Wife!” He laughed and flung his arms wide like barn doors flapping in a heavy wind. “Sister!” he sang and scooped Miranda off the ground. Atarek helped himself to a lusty handful of her left buttock and kissed her on the lips. When he put her down, she was wide-eyed and speechless. The pressure of his hand was still fading from her well-toned rear, and she was confused by her inability to react.

Dreibrand separated them and took possession of Miranda’s nearest hand. He reproached his brother with a stormy look, which amused Atarek mightily.

As you might imagine, Atarek gets well into his cups at the ensuing banquet. Once he’s intoxicated enough, he’ll even question the paternity of his brother’s sons.

Atarek is one of my favorite creations. He’s funny, flawed, and full of heart. He taught me that it was all right to goof off even in an epic fantasy. He’ll swing a sword when he has too, but someone better get him a drink when he’s done. My novels aren’t comedies, but some of my characters have a sense of humor. There’s no sense if fighting for your life if there’s nothing to smile about.

If you’d like to get to know Atarek, you can find Judgment Rising at your favorite ebook retailer. Don’t worry that it’s the third novel of The Rys Chronicles. I wrote it as a new point of entry into the saga. 

Save 25 percent on an ebook copy of Judgment Rising at my website Brave Luck Books. Checkout with promo code JRinJune. Discount valid through July 1st. http://www.falbepublishing.com/braveluck/Judgment_Rising.html

See all of my novels at http://www.braveluck.com or:

Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/braveluck

Amazon Kindle http://www.amazon.com/Tracy-Falbe/e/B002BLWI3S/

Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/tracy-falbe

iTunes http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/tracy-falbe/id365797627?mt=11

Sony Reader Store http://ebookstore.sony.com/author/tracy-falbe_160285

Kobo http://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=%22Tracy+Falbe%22&t=none&f=author&p=1&s=none&g=both

I'm a 38C long and I don't know what to do about it

Today, I’m going to talk about the uselessness of today’s undergarments.

I’ve always been a 38C. Okay, when the kids were born, I ballooned (more like watermeloned) up to some ungodly letter. But basically, we’ve been sauntering around the C mark for most of our lives, kind of ignoring the fact, like below average kids at school. (Note the school reference here. We cleverly come back to that in the last bit.)

This I’ve learned: if you’re sort of satisfied with something, you don’t even think about it. It doesn’t bug you, so it’s not on your mind. Occasionally some guy says, wow, nice rack, and you look down absently and think, oh yeah. Still there. Good show, mates. And then go back to worrying about your thighs.

I’m not saying ‘good show’ anymore. I’m saying, ‘what the hell happened to you?’

It all started in the lingerie shop. Big Fraulein is apparently a professional ‘fitter.’

Let me digress here. Did you know that there was a paying vocation for professional bra fitters? I didn’t. But I really have to ask: how do you train for this? Is it a college course, a distance course (unlikely) or do you go for hands-on training?

What if you don’t pass? Imagine the embarrassment.

Seems to me this would be a dream job for an eighteen year old guy. Or maybe even an eighty year old one. Or any age in between.

But I’m in the store and I don’t get Hans <sic>. I get Brunhilde.

She ordered me into the changeroom. Demanded I hand over the bra I was wearing. Took one look at the thing, said: “Deece is garbage.” Then she threw it into the waste paper bin.

Take my word for it, when you’re standing half naked in a skinny-mini change room with Brunhilde guarding the door, you are not inclined to dash out and recover your underwear from a garbage can.

And then I got the bad news. Here’s the thing: The numbers and letters are still the same. But according to Brunhilde we’re going to have to force the girls into a different shape than they naturally tend to occupy.

(Men, stop reading here.)

Sob! I’ve 'graduated' to a 38C Long.(There's that school reference.)

Apparently, I need winches.

My bra needs a bra.

And I need a drink.

Pass the Jack Russell. Wait a minute – that’s a dog. I meant Jack Daniels.