Hey there, East Central Illinois (or random person who stumbled upon this article via an interconnected web portal), I am writing to inform you that I am currently occupied with an attention-draining life scenario: My 2-year-old has begun doing WWE turnbuckle leaps off the couch and onto my lap/laptop/torso/face/floor any time I look at my computer screen. And, unfortunately, because of this, I am going to be unable to write my column this weekkkherehiughinjkf ...
(Sorry about that, kid just Stone Cold Stunner'd my keyboard.)
As a special treat for you, I have subcontracted all opinion-generating duties to my dog, Cujo. He eats a lot around here and contributes jack to the household (unless you count shedding all over the couch a "contribution"), so the least he could do is take over my column once in a while.
For the record, yes, Cujo is his real name. He has not murdered anyone. (But he has no problem with the concept, potential burglars!)
He'll be 6 next month, which will make him 42 in people years unless my brain math is rusty. I don't think he's psyched about hitting his 40s, but these are the facts as they stand. Old age might have pickled the sweetness of his youth, but I promise he's an alright dog when you really get to know him.
And now, so that I may challenge my daughter to a no-holds-barred cage match over whether she's going to brush her teeth today, I present to you the musings of Cujo "Tha Killa" Jackson:
,,l..Wooof woofwoof...barkbarkwoof...bark woof whiiiiiine//...
J.K., America — it's Cujo here. You'll have to pardon my lame attempt at dog humor. I was just trying to emulate the kind of thing that would pass for a joke in a Reluctant Townie column.
The Reluctant Townie is like "Grey's Anatomy" ... they still make episodes, but what's the point? The only thing funny about this column is the smell it is generating. Amirite?
Hopefully, if you do find yourself reading this, you have at least paired it with an appropriate task — like a trip to the bathroom or a stint in federal prison.
Sorry if I seem bitter this morning. I'll try not to rag on Ryan too much — he does what he can with what God gave him and what paint chips took away — it's just that last night I realized my life is halfway over and I still can't operate the remote control.
This problem becomes paramount when my owners leave Netflix on and "Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2" gets stuck on auto-play. Do humans not understand that in dog years, "Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2" is the equivalent of the entire "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, back to back?
Allow me to dispel this myth once and for all: Dogs do not like watching movies starring other dogs.
To put it into perspective, imagine if a race of super-intelligent polar bears got a hold of film equipment and forced human beings to dress up in stupid costumes and act out inane scenes, only later to dub over whatever the humans said with slightly more inane polar bear dialogue. Is that the kind of movie you would be interested in watching for 10 hours? Do you think super-intelligent polar bears understand the human condition?
What's your name again? Maybe we've met before. I can't really remember; dogs aren't great with long-term memory, and anyway I drink to forget. If we have met previously, allow me to apologize.
I'm sorry that you're so bland you failed to make a lasting impression, I usually never forget a face — except that I almost always do; humans look the same to me.
You might be having trouble picturing my voice in your head because you are used to Ryan's disembodied yammering up there (for him, you probably imagine the voice of the Most Interesting Man in the World, but might I suggest, for accuracy's sake, you replace that with a flock of honking geese and Bobcat Goldthwait). If you want to know how to properly read my voice, imagine Eeyore mixed with Barry White divided by I don't care what you think my voice sounds like, human!
Everybody's been talking about politics recently. I could care less. The government shutdown doesn't affect me. Unless the government furloughs bacon's ability to fall off of people's plates and into my mouth, I'll be all right.
Just need to fix this "Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2" situation, and unfortunately my lack of opposable thumbs precludes me from hurling a brick through the television. There has to be another way. Hope is not lost.
Well, I'm out of here. There's a squirrel on the back deck talking trash — and eating it. Need to show this fool why they call me "Tha Killa" (Hint: I look vicious barking at you through a glass door; you will rethink your life decisions.)
Cujo "Tha Killa" will be fielding Ryan Jackson's emails at firstname.lastname@example.org, even though Hotmail isn't a real thing anymore.