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.

More Completely Useless Advice from Morticia (With apologies to sane folk everywhere)

Read the National Expirer

…for the best in Graveyard Journalism

Dear Morticia,

I just got an invitation to a ritzy wedding, and wouldn’t you know, I’m supposed to bring an escort.  What should I do?  I’m between men right now.

Signed, Forlorn

Dear For,

Bring both.  (I never mind being between men, honey.)

Dear Morticia,

Help!  All these chores need to be done and I’m exhausted.  What can I do?  The baby was sick again and kept me up all night.

Signed Tired

Dear Ti,

Sorry honey, but you married him.

Dear Morticia,

I’ve just found out that the guy I’ve been dating is a real snake.  What should I do?

Signed, Livid

Dear Liv,

Belt him.  (Act fast: this relationship is bound to be constricting.)

Dear Morticia

I am a born again Christian and now have a totally different perception of the afterlife.  I urge you to give up your misguided ways and find the true meaning of life.

Signed, Second Chance

Dear Second,

No thanks.  I wanted to be born again, but Mom said No.

Confidential to Offended in Oakville: You are absolutely right, and a girl has a right to pick and choose.  I would never agree to try that position with a man I wasn’t married to.  I mean, what would your husband say? 

Bad Girl Comedy - More from Morticia's Massage Parlour and Advice Academy (reprinted with permission)

More from Morticia's Massage Parlour and Advice Academy

Many thanks to those demented people who asked for more of Morticia.  (reprinted with Permission)

Brought to you by:  MORTICIA & CO., Distributors of Aftermarket Body Parts.

Dear Morticia;
My husband was married once before.  When he passes on, would it be appropriate to bury him beside his first wife?
Signed Planning Ahead

Dear Head;
Only if she's dead first.

Dear Morticia;
I keep asking my boss for a raise, but he keeps saying no.  As a last resort, I'm thinking of offering him my body.  Think it will work?
Signed Blondie in Bowmanville

Dear Blondie;
Gee, I don't know.  Chances are he has a perfectly good body of his own.

Dear Morticia;
My boyfriend and I won five hundred thousand dollars in a lottery.  I want to buy a house and he wants to buy a 427 AC Cobra four speed.  What should we do?
Signed Homeless

Dear Less;
Recent reports suggest that it is very difficult if not impossible to prepare a proper meal on a 427 engine block.  On the other hand, most houses built today can't travel at more than 2 miles per hours.  Tell you what.  Forward the winnings to my address and I'll do a test run for ya.

Dear Morticia;
What is the quickest way to a woman's heart?
No Don Juan

Dear No Don;
Zippered sweaters, although wrap-around blouses run a close second.

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....

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.