Friday, May 14, 2010

Today I am sore, I am tired, I have blisters on my feet, but I am immensely happy, and here is why.

It's now late Wednesday, but my tale begins on Monday night around 6:30 pm or so.

It was a glorious evening, nice and cool for mid-May but still sunny with the trees in full bloom. I lounged on the deck—there is no other way to live on the deck—and sipped on one of my father's beers—a Stella Artois, I believe it was—and contemplated dinner. The Reds would start soon and I hadn't watched them in a while. They were playing well; my interest was peaked. I decided I'd meander up to Chicago Gyros and eat something greasy while I watched baseball and drank beer. My Dad was outside and I explained my intentions to him.

“Get me a Gyro,” is all he said about it while he tooled with something in the dirt.

I reached down and petted Mojo on the head.

“I'll be right back, buddy,” I told him. It's what I always tell him. Most times I tell where I'm going. If I'm off to work, I don't say that I'll be right back, I tell him I'm going to work and that I'll be back that night. But he knows that without me telling him. Like all dogs, he is a master observer and picks up on the slightest cues from my behavior. Still, I like to believe that he is more observant than most dogs and is what we would call smart.

This time he didn't know where I was going and it bothered him. My Dad continued working on something, transfixed on his task. I wandered away from the house and my mind wandered away from the present. No one noticed Mojo follow me.

On my walk to Chicago Gyro, it dawned on me how content with life I'd been of late. It had been a good run for a while. I enjoyed my job, loved my woman and found being happy the normal state of being; there was nothing worthwhile to complain about it.

But like any good sports fan, I felt the jinx lurking just behind such pleasant sentiments. Superstition may be silly, but it hasn't lasted this long by accident. I see it as a weird byproduct of the freewill of humans. Prior to human intelligence there was no superstition on Earth. Things happened for scientific reasons only and there were no mysteries. Then somebody got the idea that too much of a good thing can only spell eventual disaster, which is invariably the case and then allows some sage of paranoia to leap up out of his hut and yell, “Ah ha! I told ya!” once the shit hits the fan. Based on that guy, the world can't shed the idea that maybe there is something to this superstition stuff after all which leads to all kinds of nonsensical traditions including organized religion, but that rant is preserved for another day. The point is, thinking everything in my life was gravy, immediately led me to regret thinking it in the first place for fear of swift personal tragedy brought on by the power of the announcer jinx—the announcer in this case being me.

I laughed off the notion and once more began considering ways to properly end the novel I'd been tinkering with off and on for years. Thirty minutes later I returned to my house with a six-pack of Sierra Nevada's Glissade and two gyros. There is a large grassy field next to my house where many dog-owners—myself included—use as a play area for their dog's recreation. Mojo loves this particular field. He has spent most of his life coming here to play and no dog has ever played harder in this field than him. Chasing the tennis ball is as much his job as tackling people is for Ray Lewis. It's no-nonsense and visceral. You would be impressed.

In the field on this day, was a different, smaller dog (Mojo is a Rottweiler-German Shepard mix and weighs in around 90 pounds). This other dog's owner was a college-looking dude—fairly non-descript—and was throwing his own tennis ball to this clearly amateur dog. I expected to see Mojo galloping along side this stranger showing it how the game is played, but he wasn't. If he saw this game taking place, he would have stormed the scene and caused a moment of fear and apprehension from the other dog's owner. “Why is this giant dog running at us unattended?” he would have asked himself. “What should I do,” he'd wonder.

My Dad was still fiddling with something and uninterested in the tennis-ball chase taking place nearby.

“Did Mojo try to play with those guys?” I asked him, assuming since he wasn't in sight, Dad had put him in the basement.

“Where is he?” Dad asked.

That's when I knew he was gone. His tennis balls laid there in the yard. I picked one up, called his name and bounced the ball to get his attention. Nothing. Dad tried yelling too—he does have a booming voice that dwarfs mine in a yelling contest, but still to no avail.

The only place I walk my dog is to my girlfriend Melanie's, so I set off in that direction. A middle-aged man who I often see in his yard was there now. He hadn't seen Mojo. I called Melanie and told her I was outside of her apartment and that Mojo was missing. We drove around for a couple of hours looking for him. I was also able to enlist my buddy Aaron and his dog Apollo. The two cars (Melanie's and Aaron's, as well as Dad's briefly), cruised the neighborhood with our eyes peeled. He was nowhere. After a while, darkness set in, and it began to rain. I relieved the drivers, borrowed Apollo and set off on foot. I canvased huge swaths of Clifton yelling his name every now and then. Nothing. I walked for a few fruitless miles and even had the unpleasant experience of hearing one pit-bull kill another other pit-bull, or at least significantly maim him, as I unintentionally got the dogs riled up by simply walking past their yard. I didn't hear anyone come out to check on the carnage. Needless to say, that only sharpened my worry and anxiety for my buddy, Mojo.

Eventually, I became listless and very tired. I reasoned that in order to search more tomorrow, I had to go home and get some sleep. I took the long way home, checking on all kinds of weird, dead-end roads and ended up at home near midnight, dogless and distraught.

Once the idea settled in that I was now giving up for the night, all the terror and fear for Mojo fully set in. There was only one way this saga would turn out okay, and that was getting my dog back unharmed. But there were countless ways it could go wrong, and they all consumed me that night in my bedroom. I'm not ashamed to admit that I sobbed then; a total emotional meltdown. The thing that wouldn't leave my head is that old dogs weren't supposed to run away. Yes, old dogs die, and that was a big enough challenge to wrap my head around, but an old dog wandering off just wasn't the way the universe was supposed to work. It wasn't right. I couldn't swallow it. I tearfully prayed to anyone tuned in to that kind of frequency that night, that I would really appreciate Mojo's safe return, and mentally projected at him to hang tight for the night and that I would find him the next day. It was a miserable night.

I fell asleep close to 1am. I woke up at 6:45 and was out of the house by 7:15. Anyone who knows anything at all about my regular schedule and sleeping patterns will unanimously agree that anything before 8am is completely unheard of, and yet that was the case. No breakfast but coffee, an umbrella, a rain coat and I was out again.

The part of town I was convinced hadn't been covered enough was the basin of McMicken and it's random offshoot streets. I considered the night before to walk around that neighborhood but it's kind of a rough patch of the city and I thought no one gains anything if I were stabbed, so I put it off for the next day. This was the next day and I plowed through those seedy no-outlet streets like I owned every abandoned apartment building in the neighborhood, still to no avail. It stormed that morning and I knew Mojo hated the thunder and I caught myself telling him that it was okay, like I always do.

I weaved through all the area's major parks on my way home to change into some dry clothes. I thought about eating once I made it back to the house but still couldn't do it—I drank some water instead. My next mission would be into the woods; I was really beginning to feel desperate.

I tooled around the woods near my house for about twenty minutes, skimming the wood line parameter. The wooded hills are steep bluffs of a sizable hill that our house sits atop. We live on the ridge of the hill that descends in many directions and my concern was that maybe Mojo had fallen or was stuck somewhere.

I moved into one section of the woods that used to be a trail that connected the grassy field that sits next to our house with the city park perched at the bottom of the hill. There were never proper steps on this trail, but many people used it, especially the Hughes High School football team who would practice on the lower field but still have to walk back to school after practice which meant climbing the trail up the hill every day. My sister and I and our friends used this trail all the time as kids. Now it's overgrown and not much of a trail; you wouldn't know one was there if you hadn't seen it before.

I took perhaps five steps into the wood line when I saw something odd on the old trail. It was a shirt that was sort of upright. The reason it was upright was because something was wearing it. That something also was wearing jeans and New Balance sneakers. It had large, hulking shoulders and was slumped onto the trail. It appeared that it was close to sliding down the hill. It was facing away from me and seemed to be leaning a bit against a nearby tree. It wasn't moving.

I looked over this thing and decided it looked an awful lot like a person and noticed something near its head. At first, I thought it was a long staff that was going through its head, but upon a few more seconds of observation, I determined that it was a necktie which was caught on a branch overhead and the other end was tied around his neck. This was what kept him from sliding down the hill along the old trail.

The idea that I was looking at a dead person began to set in. When it did, for some reason, I decided I should get a look at the person's skin. I for no reason was going to get any closer—I was roughly ten feet from it already—but I could see his hand. It was completely black. That didn't make sense. Dead people don't turn black, do they? I decided it was still inconclusive.

I looked at his head. His scalp was gray with wisps of black hair. At that point it seemed to me that this was either a corpse or a really elaborate hoax. In retrospect, I now realize that it was only my ego that allowed me to even hypothesize someone would go to such an extent to prank me, but I wanted to hold onto another possibility other than me actually finding a dead guy. I looked back at his shoes. One was curled in a very uncomfortable position, and they were decent gym shoes. For whatever reason, that was what convinced me that this was a person who, by my inexpert eyes, appeared to have committed suicide in the nearby woods less than a hundred yards from our house. That's when I realized it did indeed smell like something dead and I got the hell out of there.

I don't know anything about who it was, how he died or how long he was there. I do know this: both myself and our neighbor, Bill, smelled something dead in that corner of the grassy field for the last week or so; I found the body mere feet away from that corner of the field. Many residents on that street have witnessed a small homeless contingent congregate in those woods and I assume that this unfortunate soul was part of that group. I honestly don't want to know who he was or anything more about it.

It was one of the strangest moments of my life. It was a quiet, private discovery. It was creepy but not traumatizing—I couldn't see his face. No matter how you spin it though, it is sad. This man not only presumably killed himself, but no one came looking for him. He may have been homeless, and was likely haunted by depression we should be grateful we don't know about. If anything, I feel sorry for the poor guy. It took me, who was looking for something else entirely, to find him.

Once I did though, I continued searching for my dog. The way I figured it, Mojo could still be alive and the guy in the woods wasn't, so my priorities stayed true. I carried on through the rain and woods without finding anything else of any real interest. After a few more hours of nothing, I went home and called the cops to tell them what I found.

The first cop there was a youngster. He didn't like the idea of dead bodies. He also didn't like the idea of me being too involved in a crime scene so he was faced with the challenge of having me point the body out to him without me disturbing any evidence or anything. We reached the tree line and he didn't want to go in. I went in first, cleared away the branches for him and pointed the guy out. The young cop didn't like it a bit but he soldiered over to the body. I said, “From what we're looking at now, I determined that that's a dead body.”

He took two more steps, became visually grossed out and said, “It is. You need to get out of here.”

A slew of more police arrived. Adhering to traditional sexism, the men cops made the lady cop stay with me to chat while they investigated the scene. We mostly talked about my missing dog which I was eager to get back to finding, and she tried reassuring me with stories of a dog she found after missing it for two weeks. She took down my information and they “let me go home” even though we were all gathered on the driveway of my house.

The next stop was the SPCA. This was a chaotic place of scared, loud mongrels essentially screaming at you to take them home or back to their owners or anywhere else that's not called the pound. There were rows of cages of all sorts of dogs. I scanned the cages with a desperate anticipation feeling increasingly let down as the options dwindled to nothing. There was one dog there that looked a lot like Mojo. He was younger and smaller but had a lot of similarities; enough to make me stop and make sure it wasn't him. It wasn't. The guy working there was sympathetic and reassured me that they get new dogs everyday and that it's important to keep coming back.

I felt like my last real hope had gone and my sadness soaked all the way to my bones. I had officially let him down and now he was truly lost. Not seeing him again was a possibility that was hurdling toward the forefront. I started emotionally fragmenting and a deep regret began to build within my chest.

When I returned, more cops were there to talk with me. They wanted to know if I knew him or recognized him or moved him. They even asked if I saw any identification on him. It was a series of head shakes and “no”s.

My friends, Elliott & Jen, came over to help me look for Mojo. While I dealt with the homicide detectives and the rest of the Police Circus, Elliott & Jen made “lost dog” posters. After answering just a few more questions from the detectives, I caught up with the poster-making duo and admired their work (it was Jen's work, really). They made flyers to put on cars, posters to put on lamp posts and cardboard signs for busy intersections. We posted maybe six posters around two intersections when I got the call.

“Hi, I just saw the sign for your missing dog,” said a college-aged female voice.

“Yes?” I said.

“I found him. I have him. He's at my apartment.”

At those words, a thousand lashes were removed from my back. I thanked the woman as legibly as my lips would allow, and, for the first time in my life, had a happy cry.

Later that day, I leashed my healthy, happy dog once more and brought him back home. I gave the girl twenty bucks for her trouble and talked with Mojo the whole trip back.

He's an old boy, ten and a half, and I got him when he was only six weeks old. To have lost him would have been unacceptable. It would have gone against all logic, belief and superstition that dictates the universe in my head. Once I knew he was beyond my help, which was, in all honesty, long before I found any dead bodies, I put all my faith in humanity and it worked. People saved my dog. Not me, nor the institution of the SPCA, nor Mojo himself. It was a person who cared; a stranger.

I have ever so slowly become a person who believes that things happen for a reason, and while I trudged through muddy hillsides and pouring rain with sizable blisters looking for my aged and arthritic lost dog, I questioned that belief to its fullest extent. I never really believed that any superstition played a part in Mojo's disappearance, as coincidental as all of that may have been, and so it came down to finding a purpose to him disappearing to prevent me from giving up hope.

It still didn't make sense until I got Mojo back: Mojo ran off to make me look for him but it made me find the dead guy instead. And look at the nice, neat happy ending we have all tied up into a bow. I have my dog back, who spent his only night away—a stormy night—comfortably chilling with some young woman and her puppy in a Clifton apartment, I found a deceased human being who may have gone a lot longer without being found and now doesn't have to haunt the nearby woods, and the girl got twenty bucks.

Everybody wins!

Friday, February 05, 2010


X-Live!

Almost sounds pornographic doesn't it? Yet that's close to what this year's Super Bowl looks like; XLIV.

I think Roman numerals are cool with low numbers, but when 38 becomes XXXVIII, or 44 is XLIV, it gets a little silly.

It seems obvious that the NFL stuck with the system to emphasize the magnitude of the event, not unlike World Wars. It also adds to the gladiator motif that football marketers insist is the way to go---the first Super Bowl was played in a place called the Coliseum after all.

Now that so many have been played, however, the Roman numerals are annoying, especially when reading about a variety of former Super Bowls. Converting the numbers needlessly slows me down and at some point, it seems pretentious.

I realize this just sounds like another lazy American unwilling to take the time and energy to actually learn something new like Roman numeral conversion, and while that isn't entirely accurate, it's close enough to disarm me of any decent comebacks, but c'mon! We don't speak that way; it would take forever to spit out 38 (“ecks, ecks, ecks, vee, eye, eye, eye”), and our brains aren't programmed to rapidly handle anything over 12 really. Sure, we can take a few seconds and figure it out, but when you're reading, you don't want to stop the flow and do some math. Those are two distinct brain hemispheres that don't always work well simultaneously, at least not for me.

Therefore, anything written by the feathered plume of Mojokong (did I just go fourth person?), will, in the best interest of you, the gentle reader, ignore the the Roman numeral system in regards to past Super Bowls and will do what typically scares most Americans: go completely Arabic.

So here's to Super Bowl 44; may the 45th (as opposed to the “ecks, el, veeth”), be wrapped in Bengal stripes.

[A hearty cheer, glasses raised, clink, drinks all around.]

Mojokongus Tyranusis Rex---has spoken.

Monday, February 01, 2010


NFL Squabbles Could Lead to UFL Success
B. Clifton Burke

While the negotiations between the NFL and its players over a new collective bargaining agreement continue to stall and worry its fans, a new football league, the United Football League, is quietly building momentum and could stand to gain a swell of attention should the NFL owners lockout their players in 2011.
 
The general attitude toward the NFL's future beyond next season is as bleak as the Mayan calendar.  The owners claim the players haven't made a serious counter-proposal to their original offer.  The players say ownership isn't listening to their demands.  They have met 11 times with little progress of any kind and the possibility of a work-stoppage grows.  
 
The main sticking point is the amount of team revenue that must go to player salaries.  The NFLPA wants that percentage to stay at 60; the owners want it down to 42.  The thinking is that 51 percent of team revenue earmarked for player salaries could end the impasse and allow the games to continue uninterrupted.  It remains likely, however, that serious negotiations will not heat up until closer to the March 5, 2011 deadline. Until then, expect both sides to do their fair share of posturing for the public's support.  
 
If the NFL is unable to make a deal on time, and if there are no games played on the first Sunday after Labor Day, then many fans could very well tune in on Thursday and Friday nights to watch the UFL instead.  
 
The landscape of the UFL as it enters its second season will look much different from the “premier” season of a year ago.  Two existing teams will change locations---The California Redwoods (based in San Francisco) move to Sacramento and will change its name, and the New York Sentinels will go to Hartford, Connecticut.  The league also said it will expand by two more teams in 2010, bringing the league total to six.  
 
The two new sites have not yet been made official, but UFL Commissioner Michael Huyghue announced that either Omaha, Portland, or Salt Lake City would be selected for one of the expansion spots.  Other cities rumored as possibilities to land the second team include San Antonio, Memphis, and Los Angeles.  
 
With more teams, the season will grow to 10 weeks, beginning in September and ending on Thanksgiving Day.  UFL games will be aired on Mark Cuban's cable network Versus for the upcoming season, but the league has not announced a television deal in place beyond that.  
 
The UFL is taking some unorthodox methods to ensure its survival.  Unlike start-up leagues in the past where one or two owners outspend the rest of the teams and ultimately kill the whole operation, the UFL has hired one person, Rick Mueller, to perform as general manager for all four teams as a way to properly allocate its resource of talent.  
 
That talent is more impressive than one might first imagine.  There are many players and coaches with NFL experience, and a majority of the UFL front-office personnel also worked with the NFL in the past.  Each roster includes a handful of reputable players that football fans will recognize, and last year's four head coaches were Jim Haslett, Jim Fassel, Dennis Green and Ted Cottrell; not bad.
 
Fassel led his team, the Las Vegas Locomotives, to the league's first championship with the help of the game's MVP, running back DeDe Dorsey.
 
Dorsey, who was released by the Cincinnati Bengals, found a roster spot on the Locos and went on to average 6.4 yards a carry and five touchdowns on the season, tops in each category.  
 
“[The UFL] was a fun experience,” Dorsey said.  “the league has some hall-of-fame caliber coaches, it's some quality football being played there and I think it will stay around for a while.”
 
Dorsey said it is possible that NFL players could be interested in playing in the UFL should they be locked out in 2011.
 
“I could see it,” Dorsey said.  “It would be a good way for guys not to stay idle.  It's a chance to stay in shape and play good football.”
 
In 2008, the NFLPA instructed player agents to consider the UFL as a viable option for their clients.  Commissioner Huyghue told agents that his league would compete with the NFL for players drafted in the third to seventh rounds in the NFL Draft, and has since seen UFL rosters filled with many players formerly on NFL practice squads.  Even veterans like Simeon Rice and Dexter Jackson have made their way to the new league.  
 
No matter how big the name, though, none of these guys were rich last year.  
 
The UFL paid a league-average of $35,000 to each player, with quarterbacks making a little more and punters and kickers making a little less; miniscule next to that of the NFL league-minimum of around $300,000.  What attracts many players to the UFL, however, is not only a chance to play and stay in football shape, but also the fact that the league offers free housing to its players during the season equipped with what it claims 'first-rate facilities'.
 
“It helps,” Dorsey said of the housing program.  “Not having to worry about something like that makes it easier, and I think that is something else that will help this league improve.”
 
Mueller, the UFL's general manager, said in an interview with Pro Football Weekly last November that clubs will gain more autonomy as the league expands and becomes more established, but that a firm and equal salary base is important for the league to control costs.
 
Game rules were also somewhat unusual in 2009 in that they were designed to assist the quarterback.  Defenses must always use four defensive linemen and can only blitz one additional player.  This rule was set up to allow inexperienced quarterbacks to become more comfortable facing pro-style defenses and to ensure the QB's health.  It is said that this rule will be eliminated in the upcoming season, though the UFL has not yet made such an announcement.  
 
Like the rules, the cities where the teams play and the league's unsightly uniforms worn a year ago, there are many scheduled changes that will improve the UFL next year and beyond.  Dorsey sees the league as a work-in-progress too, but is encouraged about its future.  
 
“Whenever you're working from the ground up, you're going to face some trials, but [the UFL] is making strides and is only getting better.” he said.
 
If DeDe is right, the NFL has another big reason to end its squabbling and get a deal done soon.  Otherwise, the UFL may get more of our viewership, more of our favorite players and ultimately more of our money; all things the NFL has worked hard to corner in the past 50 years.  
 
As the AAFL and the AFL have proven in the past, the NFL, at times, can be effectively challenged; I believe this could be one of those times.  If there is an NFL lockout in 2011, I certainly hope that is the case.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Haiti

An earthquake of all things---a damn fault line right under the world's poorest place. Of course, of course. Not even humans can be this cruel. Yet, like everything, I suppose, humans are Nature's byproduct, so in turn, not only can humans be that cruel, they are designed to do so.

A pessimistic outlook, I concur, but it's hard to think of it in other ways when something as shitty as this flops upon the news stand.

As a kid, Haiti was probably the poorest country I could recognize and only because a friend of the family had traveled there and he told me it was poor. “The poorest,” he said. So now, when I read that the Right Wing is concerned about their various military campaigns being sidetracked by the efforts to restore life to the poorest of people, it darkens the spirit of humanity.

People will always show their true selves in moral crossroads. The fierce Libertarian ethos of “leave me and my money out of your problems” is maddening in a situation like this.

Yet what am I doing about it? Texting Haiti to 90999 and feeling satisfied with myself? If I really believed in these words I would be standing in Haiti with a tool in my hand, complaining about my back and feeling really desperate for a beer. Instead, not only am I comfortably ranting on my laptop drinking a beer that is realistically more expensive than my lifestyle should allow, but drinking it out of a glass no less.

Perhaps the unreasonable fruitcakes that are overtly selfish are actually better people than the ones who agree that it sucks, then pretend they kind of want to get involved but never lift a finger, and eventually completely forget that it even happened eight months later. I still don't think that's true; mainly because I don't want to get grouped behind the Right Wing on the shittiest-demographic-during-a-crises list.

Still, Haiti has had it rough. Out of the Caribbean, it is the one place you don't want to visit. Every other place is known for its still very serious poverty but also its fun. Haiti is known for its dirt, and I only know that because of the first Fugees album.

And now they get clobbered with an earthquake. Just them; the nation it shares an island with, the Dominican Republic, was somehow not effected. I have miniscule to zero knowledge behind the science of seismology or epicenters, but, if nothing else, it seems giving Haiti an earthquake is like taking the New Jersey Nets' draft pick; there's no fairness involved.

That's the thing about this weird planet and this weird existence; it whimsically continues. As Nature's lead creation, we like to assume we have this life thing under control, and for the most part that's certainly the case, but every now and then something comes along that unexpectedly changes things and we're reminded of who's house this is.

I don't mean to say God, though you can take it like that if you're inclined to, but plate tectonics, for instance, is a hell of a thing. There's science that we seem to understand regarding how it all works, but we still don't have a very good handle about predicting when all that groaning and stretching takes place. The rub of it all, is the major damage it always invokes. There are forces on Earth that, from this day, seem uncontrollable and impossible to fully understand or predict, and these unknowns are as natural as mankind or any old tree.

What we can do about it all is instead of boosting up Haiti to return to its daily misery, we can work to make it a less shitty place to live by instituting social change that promotes sharing and a value on humanity rather than competing and a value on capitol---you knew this would turn into socialist rhetoric at some point.

Good luck, Haiti; may you survive better than before.


Mojokong---Internationally renown.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Knee Deep in Gossip and Fleece
I've recently relocated to another part of the zoo and I now share a cage with the acclaimed Basilgrey. I settled on a particularly sunny area so I can work on my ashy complexion. That, and Basil needs his reading light. The cage is pretty comfortable. It smells okay for now, and the area is quieter than the ape house I lived in previously, but there is one concern.

Basil is a goat and a damn sharp one at that. He 's been at the zoo for a long time and has seen just about everything within it's walls. He previously lived in the area with the other caribou and sheep and gazelles and such, before they moved him in with me. The sheep love him and constantly follow him around. When he made the move to the new cage, many of the sheep trailed closely behind.

Now it should be known that I have no problems with sheep. Through Basil, I've even made friends with a few. He is a sort of unofficial leader to them, and often enjoys his role. They hang out by the cage all the time, even when Basil is away, and I admit that it's better than sitting by myself most times. It's apparently unusual for sheep to socialize at all with bipedal species or anything outside of the ovis genus in general, but they've really taken to me and I've been told I should be grateful. The problem is they wont go away.
They baagh their woolly heads off about who's mating who, about who's fleece is the best, and about how certain sheep don't deserve to be anywhere near the front of the flock. It's ridiculous. They might as well be chickens.

I, like Basil, am the only one of my kind here at the zoo. He's somewhat anatomically similar to the sheep which allows him to rub hooves with them fairly easily. I on the other hand am more of a novelty to them and slip into the token ape role. That's not so bad, but an orangutan has dreams too, and this ape gets a little tired of counting sheep every night before I get there.

I miss my primates, especially ol' Ming Krosky. He would tell me that I'm wasting my time around sheep. He's never been a sheep fan. He would smack me for even complaining about such a thing. "You're a big fucking ape," he'd say. "If somethings bothering you, fix it. Who's gonna stop you? A bunch of worthless bah bah's?" He's a cantankerous old cuss, but he's right. If Goat (the little dog I used to hang out with, not Basil the actual goat) were here, he'd ramble on about how sheep are nothing compared to the evils of the hood rat bitches he loses his mind over. He's always one to top a complaint with some gut wrenching tale of his own. I haven't heard from Goat since he was taken to the pound on a drunken driving charge. He smashed his van around a telephone pole on a bender one evening after chasing a young chicken head around the back streets of Price Hill. He claims she was cheating on him when they really didn't have any established relationship to begin with. It's too bad to. I could really use a good night out on the town. Away from all these damn sheep
Thursday, July 27, 2006

A Mammoth Waste of Time

South Korean scientists admitted to trying to clone a woolly fucking mammoth yesterday! They acquired mammoth DNA from a glacier in Antarctica and tried to clone one in three attempts but failed each time. Now I'm all for stem cell research, but I'm not sure cloning extinct species is a good idea for anyone. Wasn't Jurassic Park featured in Korean movie theaters? Earth seems to have a very finicky ecosystem, and re-introducing an animal that didn't make it the first go around all that well is just asking for trouble. Then again, what more could we humans possibly do to screw up this lemon of a planet even more than we already have?

I could see a mammoth being cloned and hate life from day one. For starters, it's woolly. Our planet is warming. Why bring back an animal that sweats a lot, and wears a thick coat everywhere? It's like those homeless guys in the ghetto all wrapped up in an old puffy Charlotte Hornets parka in the middle of July. Who needs it? Then there's likely birth defects to deal with because lets face it, we mortals can't crank out good old nature like the Big Guy Upstairs Corporation can....yet. Pfizer and Merck have been negotiating purchasing some possible trade secrets with BGU Corp., but the bartering of souls have proven to be a tricky legal process. The mammoth would probably be blind and smell awful too. It would feel the need to spit all the time and the weird enzymes in it's saliva would cure any bird flu threat because it would immediately kill off every bird on the planet. Then the cloners would need to do dinosaurs again in hopes of a quick evolution into more birds. Rather counterproductive if you ask me.

They might clone mammoths and then realize they cant be killed. Tar pits would be developed throughout the US in hopes that the mammoths will happen into them, but gruesome reports of pet and child accidents will ruin that suggestion as well. They could potentially serve as useful mountain guides but remember they're blind and the tours would take upwards of months to finish.

Eventually, once the sheer usefulness of a mammoth became apparent, it would be subjected to being the worlds most popular gag gift and become a species of humiliation and low self esteem. They would be dropped off at bachelor parties and going-away events with messages actually pinned into the thick skin of the beast that read "Like marriage, this too is your problem now." Modern elephants would rally for the euthanization of all cloned mammoths for fear of being replaced at their jobs. "No dumbass mammoth can do what we do. I don't care how cheap you can get 'em. Go ahead there Woolly, balance your hairy ass on that ball there. I don't think so," said one angry elephant at a nearby rally. "I say put all of these test tube debacles out of their misery."

Surly their could be a cooler extinct animal we could clone. How about those little hobbit like people who lived on the island of Flora like 10,000 years ago? They weren't midgets per se, but they were close enough to them to remain funny, and if we cloned them then maybe it would be morally justifiable to hunt them. That would be good cable TV viewing.

MK- Clone me, and suffer the circumstances
Sunday, July 16, 2006

Bread Crumbs pt.2

Is Israel being a bully? It sure seems that way when they destroy civilian infrastructure and claim that's what a country does when one or two of their troops are kidnapped. But we really don't know what it's like over there. Innocent, non-combatant folks from both sides are blown to smithereens regularly going about their daily business . The reports we get are difficult to discern any quality opinion from. It's a sprinkling of information of quotes and numbers from spokespersons, and intelligence officials who are the least trustworthy of all sources.

I've read there are 9000 Palestinian prisoners in Israel. Since the conflict isn't termed as a war, these prisoners are not prisoners of war, and therefore can be handled, interrogated, ect, outside of Geneva convention and any other globally agreed upon, but largely ignored humanitarian laws. The US and little bro Israel have made it clear they're above any of that shit anyway. When Kofi Annan yells at us for being tortuous nation builders, the Bush administration responds by sending linebacker Ray Lewis to the Hague to thump his chest and yell, "We must protect this house!!!"

Kofi and everyone else there, shits themselves and calls it a day. That's how we negotiate so well in these trying times. "We must protect this house!!!"

What's an Arab to think these days? If your from a poor family and in the way of US/Israel interest you have to stick it out and hope for the best. All around the middle east, today, as we speak, American weaponry is blowing shit up. That'd make an Arab think that America wants to at least control his land, and he'd probably resent it.

It's like the US is a mall developer, and they really want a super giant mall in the middle east, but the middle eastern countries are a little strip of small mom-n-pop stores who have been there for years and don't want a mall there. The mall developers try to be nice at first and offer something lame for their "inconvenience" and get progressively tougher as necessary. Eventually uniformed men and bulldozers physically make the mom-n-pops leave and a mall is constructed. Mom-n-pops get jobs at Wal-Mart and Home Depot and take to drinking the harder stuff and experimenting with meth. In no time spirits are broken, televisions are turned on, and people everywhere get fatter. The mall does okay for a couple of decades before going bankrupt and being converted into a trucking school. The area becomes popular for strippers, crack distributors, and graffiti artists. The mall developers move on to the next town and do it again and again The end.

Hezbollah's and Hamas' tactics have been inexcusable for ever. We westerners feel they should fight a military battle to oppose occupation of their land and not terrorize the civilian innocent. But they can't organize an army without Israel vaporizing every soldier before they can even tie up their combat boots. Not to mention they're not legally allowed to obtain weapons from other countries. Israel has a blank check from the US for weapons. It's like those cheesy action movies, where the guy is about to go on some dangerous mission and stops over to his weapon buddy's house and gets to pick out what he needs from a secret room in the basement loaded with guns and rockets and shit. It's just like that.

So Hezbollah acquires some missiles and just randomly fires them as deep into cities as possible. It seems like a waste of military resource, but they cant really damage strategic military targets within Israel. The Islamic fighters are simply over-matched, so the just try and wreak havoc in any form. I'm not condoning it, but I see their struggle to find a morally just military alternative. That can be easily misconstrued so please don't think I support or condone terrorism in anyway.

It's also interesting how Israel has responded harder to abductions of a handful of soldiers than to marketplace bombings that have occurred for years. It's the shadowy motives of world leaders and the timing of key decisions they make I cant get a handle on. How should we interpret these actions we read about? What's really going on?



MK- We must protect his house!!!
Monday, July 10, 2006

I emerge from under the rubble. *

I think mosquitoes like me more because I drink good beer. The things you ingest in life are worth the most money. After all, you're only allowed to bring one pair of shoes to the afterlife. Mine will be basketball shoes. Probably Air Force Ones. Though I could see the advantages of basic flops too. Especially with all the nice swimming pools and beaches just waiting to be jumped in. You're not gonna want to untie big ass basketball shoes every time. I'm changing my answer to flops. It being an afterlife, we can probably play barefoot anyway.



What an amazing game futbol is. The whole world cup tournament was time well spent watching television. Their command of the ball is insane. And the running, and running, and running... One things for sure, the US isn't good enough at the sport to be the only ones to call is "soccer". A Brit first called it that, and England still calls it football. I propose we as a nation, refer to our football as Madden and to soccer as football. Old timers would gripe their old wrinkled faces off, but the kids would get it. And the next generation would make an easy transition. The NML it's one letter difference, what's the big deal? Now I admit that calling the actual ball a maddenball sounds too ridiculous, so there's a few kinks to iron out still, but that's nothing really. Watching players like Zadane, Cristiano Ronaldo, Toni, and all of them, showed me why the world loves this sport. I've become a big time fan.



You ever hear of "tennis elbow"? It doesn't sound like much of an injury, but that shit is for real. With all my injuries, I sometimes wonder if my body was constructed with leftover parts . "We got a big pile of scrap over there, why don't we just use that stuff for the next one?" I'm going to a chiropractor this week to be told I'll soon need a cane and a new spine. I'm gonna be one of those old timers who takes like 120 seconds to get on the bus and then another 48 seconds to get my money out, pay, and find a seat. Lately, I've felt mentally crotchety too. These young whipper snappers and their outlandish public behavior these days. Sometimes it takes all my restraint not to lecture some of the real prize winning ghettoness I see regularly. But a smart ape knows his place, and a crowded bus aint one of em.

Mojokong- Looking out through the thin bars.

* Title is a quote from KRS-1. All legal rights reserved.
Friday, July 07, 2006

My Early Book Review

Early Book Review

I'll finish my novel in October and I expect it to be rejected, ridiculed, and even spit on. It will not be great or even very good. I imagine no more than four people will read it and they will only do so because they're friends.

It wont sell. In fact, Ill have to pay for it to be read by a small-time editor who will make notes on the book, throw the book away, and tell me how much I suck.

Hundreds of years after my death, a social phenomenon will sweep the literary world, motivating readers to dig up crappy books and marvel at their crappiness. My novel will be born again and new generations will find new ways to tell me I suck. Financial proceeds of any book sales will never go to any surviving relative of mine. Instead it will appear in the accounting journals of a global corporation who owns everything ever written. They'll have a special division of crappy writing where my picture will hang above the entrances to the buildings. They may even name the division "The B. Clifford Burke Division of Poor Literary Skill" in honor of my immense lack of talent, which future critics will hail as timeless. Of course, my name isn't Clifford, but that detail will be washed over during my own lifetime. What does the true name of a bad writer matter to anyone anyway?

Perhaps my book will be used in my lifetime, but not for reading, of course. Discount stores in small rural towns will collect and reproduce thousands of copies and advertise them as "cheap kindling". The paper weight industry will pounce on the commercial value my book presents, calling it a "perfect weight to keep papers in place." Babies will become potty trained with it, the homeless will construct shanty towns out of copies of the book, and even dogs will be allowed to relieve some nervous energy by chewing it to bits.

It will be a complete literary embarrassment to which books will be written on how not to write a story. It will be compared to such failures as Communism and the Hindenberg. In churches, sermons will be given to exemplify how my book is whats wrong with America. School children will be shown how to safely burn it. Couples will wear matching t-shirts about it. One will say I'm with stupid with an arrow pointing to the other shirt which will have a picture of the cover on the front.

It will become the most reproduced piece of writing in the universe, yet only four people will read it. Those four wont remain my friends for long and will demand some type of retribution for having spent time on such a pointless activity. I will be court ordered to sell my gull bladder in order to financially settle the four pending law suits filed against me. The operation will kill me and the doctors will install a copy of my book inside my body where my gull bladder once lived. They'll explain later how it proved to be a good fit to make it appear that I had died of natural causes, hoping to avoid a lawsuit of their own. By the time this information will have surfaced, there will be no surviving family members to pursue any legal action on my behalf anyhow. I will be buried in a modest grave whos headstone will say this: B. Clifford Burke - A waste of time, ink, and now earth.
Friday, May 19, 2006

This here's mine.

I feel it's time to weigh in on the immigration issue. I see it in two words, "manifest destiny". It's not just the US either, pick up a NY Times and every article that mentions immigration (and there's lots of them), all take place in an Anglo-Saxon origin country. White people. They don't wanna share. Here, the whites in power know they can't kick out the black folks, because of obvious reasons (slavery). And they've done a pretty good job at breaking the spirit of the precious few Native Americans left. But it's different when minorities were not forced to come here. Those types are not gonna ruin things even further for the white man who has killed so many to establish this here America. Not on their watch. France is crapping their pants about the Muslim wave sweeping through much of western Europe. Laws in France have been passed that allow the govt. to base immigration on a value basis. "What can Brown do for me?", they ask. Dutch immigration officials are throwing out a Somali-born legislator for lying on her application seven years ago, even though she admitted to the mistakes publicly when being nominated into Parliament. England's getting tougher, Germany's getting tougher. Expect Canada to make noise about it soon (new p.m. Stephen Harper is more conservative than most recent Canadian leaders). White men in power historically have been, and will continue to be, hell bent on taking then keeping other people's lands. Enough of that.

Military contractors have been commissioned to provide materials and technologies for border protection. We know about the warm and fuzzy relationship between Republicans and the weapons makers.

Congressional elections are fast approaching, and the Republicans need a response to a whole bunch of ugly shit. War, oil, bribery, privacy invasion, debt, inner-city collapse, emergency response, global outlook, that kinda ugly shit. Immigration isn't a new phenomena, it just blew up because Team Bush needs some leg to stand on. Board meeting notes in oval office; "Fuck it. Let's just do the Mexicans."

The world continues to shift as urgency over things like land, oil, and water continue to shrink. Capitalism is taking on more of a protective approach than the traditional "take yo shit" form we grew up with. A restlessness smolders everywhere, with a cautious eye toward tomorrow and an occasional glance at the clouds in wonder of the unstoppable ecological change headed to theater near you. Currency value is bouncing all over the place, and the smallest world event in the news papers tilts every market more and more everyday. Too many humans. Stay tuned.

Mojokong in May
Friday, May 12, 2006

To the Nukaks chillin up in the brush.

An Amazonian tribe called the Nukak, emerged from the brush recently in Colombia, ready to assimilate into the "real world". They were forced out of their habitat by the fierce civil war happening in Colombia, and were told there would be trouble for them if they stayed. Humanitarian aid groups have fed and sheltered the Nukak since they've arrived, and say they're a happy, peaceful people. The Nukak are flabbergasted that other people would just hand food over to them for free. They still return to the brush to hunt little tree monkeys, which they consider their favorite delicacy. They've had no exposure to the common viruses we breathe often, and even a common cold would probably kill them. They are unaware of their countries name, and would be horrified to discover it's in tribute to one of the worst people in history. They have never heard of Earth, or God. A similar tribe emerged from the brush some months ago, and now do nothing but wait for aid groups to feed them. They don't work, don't migrate, don't farm. They hang out. Human nature at it's most raw. Hand outs are easy gettin' used to. The Nukak says (via interpreter) they want land with water, nuts, and monkeys. How many stories start out with a tribe, group, family, sect, wanting their own little piece of land with the basics of survival? And how many of them end in sadness, and violence? The Nukak is gonna have to fight someday, probably for their land with water, nuts, and monkeys. They'll learn about guns the hard way. Disease my not give them a chance for even that.

It's hard to remember that all of the planet and it's people lived like that, thousands of years ago. Strictly based on location they've been able to carry on the ancient way of life. Now they get to see how we fuck everything up. They get to learn about ideas that will add stress and regret to their lives. Money. How great their lives will be when viewed in monetary worth. Before, in their minds, their individual identities were obliviously sufficient. Now they're given a new measuring stick to gauge how well they've done in their existence. Money.

THe final thought on the Nukak is that of "the clean slate" idea. When a baby is born in the amazon it's understanding of the world is the same as you or me, right? First things we learn are language, and how to get food. Then we learn to what were exposed to. What is shown to us, what is told to us. When were young we all look up to learn. An American baby looks up the same way an Amazonian baby looks up. They both see their parents, and base who they become off what they see. Point is, man made principles we've determined as truths are not natural, and therefore can't be true.

* I strongly oppose, and condone in no way, the hunting of, and especially the eating of monkeys of any kind.

MK - The ape with the cape
Monday, May 01, 2006

Stork Hunting

I don't think I've written about kids yet...so let's do that today.

Do want 'em? Do you see yourself as a parent? For those that already are parents, how is it?

* Don't worry, there are no future apes on the way.

When I dream of having children, I see me playing in a comfortable yard with my kids on a clear sunset in autumn, laughing. Not on the verge of a nervous breakdown from sleep deprivation and constant loudness, while your kid won't stop puking/crapping all over everything. I think many times, more than we'd like to think, people allow themselves to buy into the grandiose version of being parents instead of allowing themselves to be jarred by some harsh reality. I did it with my dog. I love him, but I shouldn't have taken him when I did. Obviously, teens and other immature individuals, are the most likely culprits to the "better life" fantasy of having children, but right-minded, down-to-earth people can have these moments as well. Not to say this is always a bad thing, but it's not recommended unless your life is already pretty under control. The point is, I guess, is having children will rarely make living conditions more stable. So plan accordingly.

Another thing is the whole population issue (take this time to scoff and roll your eyes). Without getting into the drawbacks of overpopulation - which are fairly obvious - I just wanna remind everyone that the world is gonna get progressively uglier as we begin to run out of natural resources. Less means more.

It's important to acknowledge the instinct we all have to carry on our own genetic bloodline. I know men consider this a bit of a pride issue. Like they've fulfilled a duty that will carry on after they've died. I imagine the instinct in women is probably stronger, though I'm just assuming that. It should also be said that individuals instincts range from very strong to indifferent, to almost anti-children. But everyone has at least some of that instinct within them.

Alright, I've rambled long enough today.

Uncle Moj
Friday, April 28, 2006

Cininnatus the Microwave

Did you know?:

The Roman general Lucious Quinctius Cincinnatus, was a farmer his whole life except when the Romans were threatened by barbaric tribes. They would then call on Cincinnatus to lead Rome during tough battles. Rome would win the skirmish in sixteen days and he would then return to farming immediately. He feared for his family's farm during his call to duties and would only serve the Roman military when they absolutely needed him. Otherwise he was known as a regular citizen and a farmer. Like Vinnie Johnson off the bench.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Global Positioning Scam

Osama is not a real person. The "messages" we receive from him, are fabricated govt. attempts at scaring everyone a little bit more. Ever notice how when the news falls into a lull, Osama sends Aljazeera something threatening to the US? With our satelite technology and all the other Bond like inventions for finding people anywhere on Earth, certainly we could at least catch him outside making these video recordings every now and again. The US needs a boogieman and Osama is the perfect fit. I think he died a while back and they just keep perpetuating his image to frighten the common folk into agreeing with current foreign policy.

Hopefully big brother won't get all Ezra Pound on me for sharing these opinions to y'all. Then again, I already live in a cage.



Mojokong - "He brought a note from his doctor...it's a suicide bombing".
Saturday, April 22, 2006

Bonus Time

It was my father's birthday yesterday. He told me he felt he deserved to live to fifty. Anything after that is bonus. He's in his second year of bonus.

Happy Birthday - Bob Burke 4/21/1954
Friday, April 21, 2006

"And now they got me in a cell"

In the past ten days, Cincinnati police have carried out huge sweeps of arrests in the west end, and over-the-rhine area in response to the killings of two white kids from the suberbs trying to buy drugs. 527 arrests have been made in the "clean-up" effort, and police have issued fines for things like jaywalking and spitting.

The claim is that drugs have saturated our inner cities and the easiest way to remedy that problem is by locking up anybody with an unpaid moving violation, and boarding up another thousand or so buildings rotting away in the ghetto.

A couple of things to think about here.

We all know many black folks have been shot and killed over drugs. Most of us shrug over such crime. "If they wanta kill themselves off over drugs, let em." But the moment a white teen from the burbs is killed, city council loses their shit, and orders a Nazi sweep over the entire inner-city ("your papers!"). White life seems obviously more valuable than any other skin tone, check your history. It's not about drugs at all. The police and city officails see these murders as a reason to improve the living conditions and escalate property value in neighborhoods where developers are trying to lure wealthier (mostly white) young urban proffesionals. That's right...yuppies. Check the west end. The new condos built there are not for the former residents of the Lynn st. projects. No sir. Those people have been pushed into Price Hill to make way for the yups.

The same in OTR. The city NEEDS more entrepeneurs to take the risk and open up in the hood to bring new money into the area. That's fine, nothing wrong with that. But the only way to make people feel comfortable to shop there is by removing the undesireable demographic that constantly hangs outside. There not going anywhere on their own so police give them a good reason to flee. "Move out or I'll arrest you". CIncinnati knows it's image is circling the drain and they can see a future like that of Flint, Mich., so they'll do whatever it takes to stay afloat, including arresting your inner city ass for sitting on a milk crate that doesn't belong to you.

The other thing to think about is how "good" this looks for a police force who's image might be the worst in the US. They need better PR to allow the migration of yuppies back into the hood. It's a show of force that says "see, we got this. They can't riot again if they're all in jail. We run this shit. Move into these neighborhoods. We'll keep you safe." Police chief Tom Stricher seems awfully Rumsfeldish to me. The buildings that are being boarded up are hoped to be converted into usable business space, which I'm all for. But the crackheads are gonna go somewhere right? If there are no crack houses to smoke and sleep in, what places will their desperation lead them to? My yard? Your car? Drugs won't leave the Nati all together (see blog entry: druggies), but the gustapo may push them out of OTR and West End. Bad news for Northside, Price Hill, Evandale, and the like. The crack zombies are coming.

Cincinnati is a racsist town, plain and simple. Black inner-city neighborhoods are used as zoos where social control dictates everyday life. The residents in these spots have the right to do what they're told or the right to be arrested. Largely, their futures are determined by city officails and police. And whatever place these folks get pushed into they should expect more of the same.

MK - A big chip on a big shoulder
Monday, April 03, 2006

This Message Brought to You Buy...

Yesterday I watched a local news report about the Iranian torpedoes and their hi-tech capabilities. I could hear the entire west side of Cincinnati ask their TV's in unison, "Can they reach the US?" Get to the fall out shelter you Bush-backers, but first donate to the Republican party, buy a bunch of overpriced shit for your "nesting" efforts, and sign your freedoms over to the federal government. Okay, now go be scared in your basements. Propaganda bullshit.

I'm sick of every "news" report telling me how scared I should be living my life. It's all social control methods that encourage us to behave in a particular fashion. "The terrorists want to change our way of life". Please, what the hell do we do to any country we ruthlessly invade? Wouldn't you say that we're changing their way of life? I'm way more scared of the neo-cons that run our own country than Osama or his homies. I'd rather die instantly by a WMD than spend my years in prison for expressing my dissenting opinion of our national foreign policy. Okay, that's a little extreme, but you see my point.

The media scares us when it's election time. They scare us when our economy needs a boost. They scare us when rallying support about an issue we otherwise would have no opinion on...like Iran. How many middle-class republicans are engaged in global politics? American high-school seniors have a hard time finding states in the US on the map, I doubt their all that familiar with real going-ons in the middle east. Yet once they're "informed", they get all fired up and are willing to send their kids to die for it. Suckers.

I'm gonna live life smiling the best I can. If my smile vanishes because of a biological weapon, a bird flu, or a prison sentence, at least I didn't stress my minutes away. Jack Atherton can go fuck himself, because he's not foolin' me. Read more news sources. Decide on your own.

Mojokong - "about to blow the fuck up..."
Monday, March 27, 2006

The Greatest Getting Some (Try The Adlibs)

Goat got laid last night, and he's worried he caught something. He got really drunk and emotional and decided as a social experiment, he'd hit on women in awkward locations. All day he'd been whining about his ex, and finally he got drunk and cracked. Well, he drove about a half block and scored with the second woman he'd seen. Experiment over.

The first one was an old haggard lady that knicked his car door with a rock when Goat "hollard". I asked him not to (I was riding on top of course), but he proceeded to say one of the most crass things a dog has ever spoken to a woman before. Whatever you just imagined it was he said, is it exactly. (Adlib 1)

The lucky lady at the bus stop was a big one. She could have been a not-so-distant cousin of mine. She had on the worlds poofiest coat which looked like bubble tape wrapped around a baby sperm whale, all squeezed into one of those bus stop shelters. Goat rolled down his window again. It wasn't as bad to her because he used his best material on the hag earlier, but it still might make your mom cry.(Adlib 2). The fat girl stared back wide eyed, and turned around. I thought she was going to cry, but instead she pulled her pants down to her ankles and began jumping. Plate tectonics come to mind. Tremors... everywhere. Goat lost his mind.

He ran out of the car and scooted the huge bouncing, rippling ball of sex freakazoid she apparently was, into the back of the van. Laughing maniacally, he raced the half block back and scooted her this time into his shitty apartment. I just stayed on top of the van until he came out minutes later. He asked me for twenty bucks, and he was making those dog throw up noises when he went back inside.

Today he says he feels "funny", and wants to see the vet, but is ashamed. Me and Ming Krosky didn't let up on him at all about it today in the cage. Krosky is the king of caps (Adlib 3). Goat left cussing us out...it was really hilarious.

Mojokong the Laugher

with guest appearance,

Ming Krosky the Pointer
Sunday, March 26, 2006

Empty Eye Sockets

I want non-sports fan to realize the magnitude of George "muthafuckin" Mason making it to the final four. It's like Iraq winning Desert Storm, or Ralph Nader pulling the upset for president. Mid-major schools are considered triumphant if they pull off a first round win. To beat the schools they have to make it all the way to Indy is unfathomable. Then again, their nickname is the Patriots and I love conspiracies...

Meanwhile, Mike Brown has talked about selling naming rights to the stadium "to keep up with larger market teams". I hope Larry Flint can scrounge up the money to name it "Hustler Dildo Stadium", or maybe "Cumshot Commons" or something. Mike Brown is a dooshbag.

MK - The MojoDome
Saturday, March 18, 2006

Grandma the Champ

My grandmother turned eighty today. Eighty! She has ten children, five boys - five girls. She has like twenty four grand kids. She's a beautiful lady in every way. She always has to share her time between everyone at functions like these, yet she's able to make everyone feel as if she'd been waiting for only them to show up.

Time with your family is important. It's hard or even impossible for a lot of folks, and that's too bad. Grandma's don't need much more than time with their loved ones. Ask an eighty year old woman what she wants for her birthday.

Imagine being eighty. You slow down. Your life slows down. You wake up earlier and go to bed sooner. You probably think about death, a lot. Your kids and grand kids move too fast. Their lives move too fast. It's difficult for them to slow it down enough to hang with you, especially the grand kids. You don't understand the world as well as you used to and it scares you. You nap regularly.You probably pet your dog more often, and find reasons to make phone calls/dinners.

I used to live next to an elderly woman whose husband had died a few years back. When she saw me anywhere near the porch she would talk my ear off. She would call me sometimes and tell me to come over and get the dinners she would make me . My girlfriend at the time would tease me about having an affair with an older woman. She was supremely lonely and often I appeased her with lengthy idle conversations, but sometimes I didn't have time to talk and I could tell how disappointed it made her. Of course I would feel bad and rationalize it out by thinking that she wasn't even a family member. But the real point is that getting old and dying happens. Sometimes alone like my neighbor.

My grandmother is a rose on the bush. Still strong, elegant, yet delicate. She has tremendous support from her family and blesses God everyday for it. Simply put, she's the shit.

Happy Birthday! Margaret Burke March 18, 1926

Mojokong - one of many
Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Take This Blog and Shove It. (Sports Rants)
Category: Sports

Final Four: UConn, Boston College, Memphis, Texas.

UConn over Texas.

Sleeper: Mich. St.

Cindarella: Wisco Mil, Iona

M.V.P.: Craig Smith B.C.

NFL

Arizona will not have the best offense next year. Edge is cool, wide outs are great, but Old Man Warner is still throwin' it.

Indy may feel the loss of James more than they think. (Bengals immediately match up better with the Colts).

Dexter Jackson is a solid upgrade at safety. Reports have the Bengals waiting to sign Sam Adams, and ESPN reports Arrington might be on our radar as a DE. Add a good draft (TE, CB, DT, OT) and our D is a legitimate top 10.

Cleveland is handling their business in FA. B-more is not. Steelers have been quiet (I guess you don't change much to a championship team).

Miami should win the AFC East with Daunte. Nick Saban seems to be a good one. Jets need more certainty before they improve. Do the Bills have a coach yet? Pats are aging.

Who will the saints draft now? Not Leinart. Ferguson or trade the pick. Leinart should go to Titans. Norm Chow is there, and he could sit and watch McNair the first year. Who wants to try the Aaron Brooks experiment? He'd be the top back up in the league, but somebody like the Raiders will give him a try (suckers).

Giants helped out themselves with Madison, but I still think they need LB's. Arrington may be on their radar too. Washington spends a lot. Archuletta got overpaid. Keyshawn still has some good catches across the middle in him. Why sign Matt Shoebel for five years to sit behind LJ Smith?

Rams improved with Glover, Chavious, Witherspoon. They could win that sorry division next year (sorry Hawks). Alex Smith had better show me something this year or he gets the "flop" brand. I was never impressed. Antonio Bryant can get open, but can't catch.

AFC West has been very quiet. TO to Denver. I hate shanahan but he gets it done. He looks like a Bush.

Kitna might do well in Detroit. Too bad he needs like three years in an offense to feel comfortable. Solid QB's are so precious. Aaron Rodgers is soft. Green Bay stinks. If I were Javon Walker, I'd want out too. What's a rich, young black guy gonna do in Green Bay when the team sucks? It's like the T-Wolves trying to attract FA's. It's cold and too white.

NBA

Spurs shouldn't be allowed to have Finley, Barry, Van Exal, G Robinson, all on their bench! Phoenix without Amare, or Dallas can't beat them. Detroit is just a cool team. Hard workers, grunts, good team chemistry, thorny defense, and Sheed is the recipe to success. Spurs still win in the finals.

Shaq is fading. Wade is spectacular. Paul Pierce needs a new team. The Knicks are a mess. The Bulls need size, but they're a fun team. Bogut is a very nice prospect. LeBron is feeling the pressure of a superstar. Is he even 21 yet? Melo has a bad attitude, and is not smart (snitches?!). Dirk is the ultimate reg. season player. Artest is better than you want to admit. the whole league needs more true centers. How can they just die out from our generation?

Baseball sucks (sorry Isaac). I'll get into that another day.

Mojokong- The Primate Prognosticator
Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Don't Panic

My Recent Adventure

Last week Goat rolls by the cage to burn one and watch some hoops on TV. Of course, he brings a fifth of some cheap nasty brown liquid that he insists we finish immediately (Goat's pretty pushy about drinking with him). As we do so, the baboon nextcage, Krosky, came over to collect the roach. He's been collecting our roaches for like six months. He says when it's ready, he'll have the biggest ming joint ever. Anyway, Krosky starts to reminisce about his old cage in the San Diego Zoo and all the women in that city. Goat's tail starts wagging and he suggests we get another bottle. I tried giving him some excuse about weekdays and hard liquor but he countered with the "you don't have a job", and I was thwarted.

We drive off, but pass the thousands of liquor stores in the hood and proceed to the highway. Goat gave me a crazy look and I knew I had been roped into some road trip mission.

We ran out of gas somewhere around Aurora, Illinois and found the local train yard. Goat knows a lot about trains from his graffiti days so after stealing food from the back door of a gas station, we loaded ourselves into a train car headed to New Mexico.

On the way I had to pummel some train bum who tried to stab Goat. It's hard to express to you readers how much shit Goat talks. And if your stuck in the same confined space with him, you'd eventually try to stab him too. I feel bad fucking up all these guys who just snap from the barrage of his antagonistic yapping, but what are you gonna do?

We finally arrive and immediately get sauced at a local shit hole bar called "Slimey Sally's". I broke the mechanical bull when I sat on it, got mad, tore it out of the ground, and threw it into somebody's window shield. I spent a day and a half in jail (including my birthday), while Goat spare changed $30 to get me out. In the holding cell I met an old black guy with a mohawk named Bernie. He owned a junk yard in town, and rambled about motors of all kinds constantly. Goat bailed me out and the cops let Bernie go too. The three of us went to Bernie's lot and he lent us an old beat up truck.

Goat and I made it to Flagstaff, Arizona before the truck died. After a few hours of just sitting there, we found three massive bricks of cocaine under the seats. We traded the coke for a ride with a bunch of bikers (of course), to San Diego. I looked like one of the worlds fattest twins riding on the biggest bike they could muster for me. Goat fit right in with that biker crowd. We ended up near San Diego, but just across the border in Mexico. Goat argued that wasn't the deal, but there were too many for me to handle so we gave up.

Two days in Mexico were bad. It's filthy, and every drug in the world is shoved in your blood stream whether you want it or not. STD's are flying all over, dirty little kids are running around in the chaotic streets collecting bottle caps for like a half-cent. It's like a party in hell that's gone on far too long. I remember sitting on a rock wall eating exotic pills that had me questioning if I could see or not. Goat scammed some American kids out of their money thinking he could get them pot. We climbed the border fence and bought bus tickets to Aurora, Illinois with the kids money. It took three days and we stole like twenty loaves of bread off the back of a delivery truck. So we survived on Butternut white bread (blagh!). Goat found a thug woman on the bus with six-inch colorful finger nails and red "stentions", who showed interest in him. She was from upstate New York and he almost went with her. I tried coaxing him into it, but he won't get over the last one. I think it's self imposed torture, he likes it for some reason.

We found Goat's van in Illinois, stole a tank of gas and headed home. Upon our return, Krosky sparked his ming joint and I melted into the stack of hay in my cage. I'm still there. Big up to Bernie in New Mexico, you're a jerk but you saved us.

Mojokong the Abducted
Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Naivete Running Rampent

Yesterday I argued with a group of students about the financial American Dream for over an hour. They claim anybody and everybody has a shot at being a millionaire in this country through hard work and a good education. It's an open road of success where all you have to do is travel it and everything will work out fine...for anybody. I sighed with a slight disapproving head shake.

First, economics in capitalism makes it impossible for everybody to be doing okay financially. There will always be a small, elite upper-class who claim huge percentages of our national income. Then there's this shrinking middle class where the majority lay. Finally the bottom feeders who have failed in the rat race make up the rest. This lower-class greatly outnumbers the upper class, and with the dissipation of the middle, is growing more everyday. That's simple economics.

The next question usually goes in the "why have the people of the lower-class failed?" direction. An example is given. The example's always a service job,often a janitor. They say "the janitor is lazy for not applying himself more in his educational process," or "he should have known how to play the stock market and increase his wealth." In short, the janitor consciously settled on a harder life with less money.

I argue social structures are implemented on the lower classes to limit financial opportunities for them. They don't want to hear it, "Naw! A degree gets you money. The poor don't want to have to go to school." I'm serious, this is how the discussion went.

I point out they're in a community college who doesn't offer any bachelors programs. I mention how the value of a degree becomes diluted as society approaches a more global job-market. I offer that all the nation's poor can't be that way because of their academic laziness or their indifference about having money in life.

Then the quiet guy in the back pipes up. "I invested in Google during the dot com craze and made over $800,000." Friends, I noticed this man earlier in the day looking at his Yugio cards in a protective binder. I was skeptical of such an audacious claim. His clothes and appearance indicated he didn't leave the house much and might have an on-line girlfriend. I check out his gym shoes and they were beat up Starter brand. Why lie? Try and make friends a more honest way, o' dragon slayer. (I had to mention that guy)

Back to the topic. Immigrants come here and bust their asses for sure, but it's normally an entrepreneurship they put their sweat into. Unless you want to try to be an entrepreneur, it's not up to you if you get rich in life. Hard work and determination can help that happen, but eventually other factors come into play.

One of those factors is you apply for a job, or submit your info for a job. Your giving your fate to these potential employers, hoping they'll pick you. All that hard work on your education just became obsolete because now a richer person decides if it's good enough. It doesn't guarantee you shit to get a degree, but a hefty loan to keep you down financially a little more. The other factor is the competitive advantage. What do you offer that the next man can't? A good attitude? Good luck. Does race come into play during interviewing for open positions? Um...yes. Therefore, is being non-white an inherited disadvantage when competing in the job market. I say yes.

Sure there's programs designed to fix that disadvantage but it has very little macro impact, economically speaking. Affirmative Action has produced bitterness in competitive workplaces due to positions being handed over to less qualified minorities. The better schools which give a person better credentials, cost more and promotes the rich kids, while making it nearly unattainable for the poor kids. The good ol' boy system is firmly in place among the upper crust to ensure generational success.

I'm not saying it's pointless; it's not. But it bothers me when youngsters are quick to blame a person's inequalities on not trying to do more to change it. The powers that be are not eager to share their power, especially not with any common folk. The American Dream seems to have low clouds.

Mojokong the Mirror
Monday, March 06, 2006
Follow Your Shot (Big Dance Preview)
Category: Sports

Contenders:

UConn - Best team in the country. Very tall, shot blocking extroardinares (Boone, Armstrong, Gay) solid swingmen (Brown, Andersen), and a good point guard (M. Williams) leaves little to exploit against this group. Calhoun knows what he's doing.

Duke - Solid but gay. Reddick is the college Kobe (although nowhere near as talented), Sheldon W. is an ore-hauler, but the supporting dookies aren't championship level. Not this year bitches. Duke sucks.

Nova - Has terrific guards. Ray and Foye are point producers, but they lack size and depth up front. They need a fast paced, high scoring game to beat other contenders.

Memphis - I've not watched once this season. They're in a lame conference.

GW - Run n' gun paced team. Needs turn overs to win. Also in lame conference.

Zags - As good as Morrison is, the rest is too random to make a major tournament impact. Lame conference again.

Texas - Gibson, Tucker are good. They always have a big white guy who can rebound. Barnes has done well in recent tourneys. Could get hot during Big 12 tourn.

Illinios - Augestine can play. Dee B. is a jitterbug who can shoot and doesn't turn the ball over. They have smart role players.

UNC - Hansbrough's agility and ability to face up and take the ball to the rack impressed me. I also like Terry. They're very young but pretty tough.

Mich St. - Has underachieved late in the season, but still has lots of talent and a good coach. I like big Paul.

* I haven't watched Ohio St., Boston College, Pitt (Krauser is good), or any Pac-10 this year.

UC has played as hard as they can for Kennedy. He inherited a pretty crappy roster, compounded by injuries. I have traditionally been a UC hater but even I pulled for these overachievers. Keep him.

UK is the opposite. They have real talent but don't take games seriously enough to win. They go through basketball motions but don't concentrate during crucial stretches. They stand around on offense and have trouble rebounding. They need to heat up in the SEC tourn. to win any games in the big dance. It hurts to watch them blow it all the time.

Watch for some bubble team to win or almost win it's conference tourn. and go deep into the NCAA. West Vir. and NC State are recent examples.

Mojokong - "with the jump hook"
Friday, March 03, 2006

A tribute to the cat.

I warn you now, this isn't worth reading.

The cat has lived with my family for like twelve years. No one loves the cat but everyone feeds her and puts up with her being there. She has never had a true name, but we have grown acustomed to adding an "o" to whatever month it is (i.e. Septo, Octo, ect..), and just calling her that. Right now she's Marche' (Basilgrey) because the theme has expanded over time.

She's gangster as fuck. She used to battle the other cats all the time in the woods in her younger days. You could here them fighting in the middle of night. She's now O.G. status and lives peacefully on the porch. Goat even recognizes her status as an established member of the cagehold but feels very conflicted about it, him being a dog and all. He has a contract to live up to concerning cats, but out of the immense respect she demands, he reluctantly allows her presence when he's hanging out. She's bad ass.

This is the most attention she's ever received. Who knows how long she'll be around the cage. To the cat.

Mojokong the Drunken Monkey (heeheehee)
Friday, March 03, 2006

Druggies

How about some conspiracy drug talk?

Illegal drugs are perpetuated by the US government for the following reasons:

Internationally: US govt. monitors and allows, and probably funds, the crop harvesting of the raw materials needed to make illegal drugs. They ensure the process goes smooth enough to keep the drug trade booming, while marginally reducing land used to grow poppies, coca, whatever. They also use drugs as a front for international political agendas, like invasions (see; Panama, Afghanistan). Recently we hear of broad connections of drug trafficking linked with various terrorist groups. Just more rhetoric to paint "enemies of American interests" as soulless monsters who will stoop to any level to "destroy our way of life".

Domestically: US govt. uses drugs as reasons to elect politicians. Reagan's "War on Drugs" came in response to the crack epidemic of the 80's. It's been debated the CIA initiated the distribution of crack to American ghettos at that time. Drugs are perpetuated to ensure the survival of prison systems. Majority of prisoners are convicted of drug related activity. The FBI has to appear to be doing something, after all. Drugs serve as a very sound social control which eliminates productive citizens in poorer communities and removes other citizens from society altogether via prison.

Locally: Drugs keep local police officers necessary. We're told the streets are dangerous and drug infested so we need police to protect us from them. Arrests are made on the street level instead of targeting bigger distributors who are wealthier and more powerful. Drugs boost the local economy, particularly through fines and court costs. Police like to point to a cities "drug problem" for more funding that gets them cooler guns. If they cleaned up a town too much the "problem" would go away and so would additional funding.

People get shot all the time in Cincinnati. Nearly all the shootings stem from something drug related. Not like people getting all messed up on drugs and going on shooting sprees. More like sellers battling over turf and/or customers. The crime stats nation wide are skewed due to drug trafficking. Aside from an occasional armed robbery, innocent people rarely get shot. Drugs are going to exist in society no matter what. The effort to eliminate them altogether is a farce, a cover up. It's an unrealistic goal spoon fed to us to trick us out of more tax money to combat it. Parenting/mentoring/teaching kids to stay away from dangerous drugs is a far more effective deterrent than wiping out the drug dealers of the world. Bush snorted coke, Clinton smoked weed, and everybody gets drunk. Is this the problem? No. I say let the drug traffickers of the world to do their thing and just leave me and mine alone.


Mojokong the Manipulated
Thursday, March 02, 2006

Hell on Wheels

This goes out to all those tough guy drivers of the world. The type that wouldn't even look you in your eye if you passed them on the street, but inside their cars they're cold blooded gangsters. You could take the most mild-mannered, happy-go-lucky guy/gal, throw them behind a steering wheel during rush hour and they become Jack Lambert.

Yikes!

How come? The fact cars are just big metal chunks being piloted around at decent speeds adds a lot of power to a driver. We're all familiar enough with the ugly side effects of power over the next man. That's a big factor.

The bigger factor, however, is the social shield cars provide to drivers. You aren't really outdoors inside your car. You aren't really interacting with the people of your society inside your car. It's a protective bubble from the "outside" world that carries you around. People allow their inner aggressions/hostilities/competition/stress to surface freely at any other who crosses them wrongly on the road, because they feel safer from repercussion inside their bubble.

Another factor is the likelihood of seeing that driver again, or at least on any regular basis. Chances are, you can scream at someone, flick them off, honk at them, drive away pissed, and forget about it twenty minutes later. You might meet that person a few weeks or even days later and it not register being the same person you were pissed at. So weird.

You never hear of sidewalk rage, or bike trail rage, or bus rage (bus rage exists, but in a different forum for a different discussion). That's because there's more accountability in these face-to-face situations. You can't just yell profanities at someone and speed off, unless your really spry, or Kenyan.

Next time you're cruising in your mid 90's Japanese car, and an old, twenty foot Buick, with temporary tags, rust spots and dents, and shiny rims, cuts you off, think to yourself: would I yell at this guy on the street if he walked in front of me? Prolly not...tough guy.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Cheatastic

Cheaters. Why do they do it? What brain function goes wrong inside a person head that leads them to cheat on a loved one?

Everyone gets tempted. Everyone. We're human, it's gonna happen. Sometimes the temptation is too strong and we just have to do something about it. That's how it starts.

A monogamous realtionship is a contract. Both parties agree on the terms and business is fine for a while. Then one party, as an example we'll say she, becomes unsatisfied with the current situation. She usually feels unfulfilled on various levels that makes her want out. Maybe dude isn't making her feel special enough, or maybe she doesn't feel independant being around him, or maybe she all of a sudden feels too young to settle down and there's more wild oats to sow. Maybe she imagines their relationship fifty years from now as sterile, cold, and not worth going through. Whatever it is, she's looking elsewhere.

The problem is she acts too soon. She's out one night, she's been thinking about it for a while, she meets someone else, that person is into her, they dance, it's fun new and exciting, they leave together and that's when she lost it.

Meanwhile, dude's at home freaking out that she hadn't come home yet, suspecting the worst, ready to pounce when she finally does arrive and the sitution gets hostile and ugly, quick.

Typically, she'll lie about what's happened, compounding the problem even further. Dishonesty tends to grow if you let it, and it becomes a classic sequence of deceit. The poor other guy, who lots of times is unaware of the complete picture, has to defend himself in what has become a regretable triangle of drama.

Why? Because she didn't have the courage to end the relationship when she discovered her unhappiness with it. She broke the contract, outright. No one likes getting dumped. But everyone would rather be dumped than be cheated on first. It allows the dumped to keep some dignity. It's hard to tell someone who loves you, "I don't want to see you anymore". Sure. But it's a responsiblity one has to live up to.

So then there's the post cheating phase. Maybe he still wants her back after the damage has been done. Like a wounded dog, limping over for some pets. She may acquiesce and have a little make-up sex, which gives him hope for a future together again. He starts feeling better about things and she goes out and cheats again. She's afraid of hurting him yet she remains happier outside the relationship so she plays both roles. Dude knows what's going on but is willing to ignore it as long as she sleeps in his bed most of the time. Now, not only is she wasting her time in this broken realtionship, she's causing all kinds of long term confidence issues in him.

The thing is this. When you decide you've had enough, and want out, and you know it's gonna hurt the other person. You have to officially end the contract before you can prospect other business partners. It's encouraged to give a brief time period before you start entertaining suitors. It's how it goes. Whatever reason your unhappiness stems from is fine, as long as it's outwardly stated prior to "fixing" the problem. Respect your contract.

Now it should be known that I've not always behaved accordingly within this topic. I've never specifically cheated per se, but I've exploited certain loopholes in my personal contracts of the past. I'm ashamed of my actions about this more than maybe anything else (I can't really ride a bike, I used to steal money from my Grandma, I beat up my sister as a kid, ect.). I, like others who feel as if they've failed on certain levels concerning honesty within relationships, can only improve from our failures and be sure to not intentionally or otherwise, hurt people we've cared for by being so disrespectful. Honor your contract.



Mojokong the Morally Challenged
Tuesday, February 28, 2006

What's Really Hood?

Why do hood rat teens prefer to stroll slowly around the block as they devour their KFC/Taco Bell/White Castles, instead of sitting somewhere while they eat? Sit near an inner city high school as it lets out for the day, and watch this phenomena unfold sometime. They almost always toss their shit on the ground after they're finished. A garbage can in front of KFC/Taco Bell has remained 2/3 empty for at least two weeks now, while trash is stacking up all around it. Thanks White Castle for insisting to put each little burger in those cardboard containers. It would be an interesting study to see how many of those things actually end up in the garbage.

The experience of getting "food" from these places is genuinely ghetto. The workers are ghetto, the customers are ghetto, the old stinky guy with the raging red eye balls who just wants to use the bathroom (which needs to be buzzed open) is real ghetto. The rats in the dumpster out back are ghetto. The fryer is ghetto. The sticky, filthy floor that gave up the hopes of a thorough mopping a long time ago, is...yep that's right.

The customers are usually loud, dumb sounding young people. Or run down, over worked older Black men. An occasional White drunk dude. Old haggard women without their teeth.

The workers are usually a medley of over-the-hill hapless older folks who missed a lot of trains in life. Or the pregnant, loud talking, gold front wearing, chicken head (White or Black), who is way more concerned with talking to the thugster leaning over the counter trying to swindle some free shit out of her, than ringing up any paying customer. Plus there's the manager who actually has to make this circus operate. They always look like they havn't slept in years, and their will power and/or sanity is on the brink of ruin.

What needs to happen, is they tear down that portal to inner city hell, and a Black entrepreneur open up a market and sell food with some nutitional value. Not malt liquor, not Black and Milds, not fucking donuts, not beef jerkey, not lottery scratch-offs, not Nerd ropes, not porn mags (okay porn mags, but keep them back further behind the counter), and not phone cards.

Preserve inner city architecture. Reinvest in the hood.
Sunday, February 26, 2006

My Cabbie is a Dog Named Goat

Last night I was chillin in my cage talking shit to the peacocks and being bored when off in the distance I heard the "La cuca rocha" jingle getting closer. An old yellow van appeared and parked in the street outside the fence. I knew what to do. I slipped out of the cage (they never actually lock it), jumped the main fence, and climbed on top of the van. I waved to my jealous primates as we drove away, and they frantically flung poop in the general direction of the street in protest. They're haters. (it should be known that I got over the poop throwing issue as a youngster, no worries)

The van's driver is a close friend of mine. He's a little cantankerous dog named Goat. We go out almost every weekend to various local pubs or just roll around and see what we see. We both get pretty complacent in our everyday doldrums, so these excursions are crucial to both of our sanity.

Goat lives in a crappy, rundown effeciency on the west side of town. He writes obituaries for a bunch of fledgling newspapers across the country, and tries to swindle people through different on-line pyramid schemes. He drinks Mad Dog 20/20 every night until he pukes himself to sleep, and smokes (but more like just chews on) Backwood cigars which have rotted many of his teeth away. He remains heartbroken over a hoodrat teen named Kiki who left him two years ago. She was, and likely still is, gangster as fuck, which is why she even messed with a dog in the first place. She used Goat to get drunk and high all the time, and ran off one day with a gun runner. He's never been the same since.

He picks a lot of fights when we're out at bars. He's the classic shit talkin' little guy with quite literally, a monkey on his back. He hates the show Family Guy because of how it portrays the acceptance of an intelligent dog within our society. "Brian the dog, is a fucking farce. It's not like that at all. People aren't cool to intelligent dogs. We're the bottom of the food chain in this society. Even the big fucking ape here has it better." He rants about how at least I'm an exotic animal who people expect to find in a cage and where all my primary needs are met on a daily basis. "I have to eat fucking cat food some nights. CAT FOOD! Do you know how degrading that is?" he'll ask fighting back tears. I've offered to move him in to my cage but he thinks that just sounds too weird.

He's a pretty good guy underneath though. We usually have a good time, and I can get him laughing sometimes. I'm trying to build his confidence up enough to talk to more women, but it's tough due to his severe emotional scarring.

We returned that night from our bender...wasted. I think I made an ass of myself again at the tavern, and may have even been banned for good this time. I have some strange bruises on my hands and my fur smells like grilled cheese. Goat and I tuned in a little in the cage when we got back, and tried discussing some permanent escape plans.

We always talk about me taking him back to Indonesia with me, but we both know it'll never happen. I can leave the cage for a while, but I can't go too far. Let's be honest, I've got it made here. Sure I'd like to see Moms and dem again, but a 3000lb. orangutan has a hard time just slipping through security at the airport. I tell Goat, "You being a dog, can travel abroad a lot easier without me. If you just act like a regular dog..." He always cuts me off at that point and says he refuses to conform to society. He is a dog of his principles and I'm not gonna stand in the way of that.

So that's Goat. If you ever see us out one night, say something nice to him. He sure could use it.

Until next time.

Mojokong - the passenger not the driver