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Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 18, 2007 || 11:32 pm


While I was away Important Things were happening. I’m only here to tell you about three of them, though.

FIRSTLY: Get ready to pee yourselves, because I now am the proud owner of an assault rifle, I shit you not. The hippie done purchaseded it (! and !!?!*&^%!) saying –and here I do not embellish not nary a pinky nail’s bit– “I cannot wait to see you firing that thing!” So, in case you had not the first hint of an idea, the little myth that you grow more like your spouse as time goes on turns out to not be so golly-gee mythological at all. Expect me to be buried sporting a goatee, desperately clutching a box of Nag Champa to offer toward my boat passage across yon Styx. I’m just sayin’.

In other words, badass trumps pacifism, yea and verily-like. At least in these four walls. At least recently.

NEXTLY: You might have noticed a little “DECABLOGGERS HAVE GONE FISHING. CHECK US NEXT WEEK” action last week. This was not dramatically timed to coincide with my “Meh, on a break” post a couple spots down the page here. Even I’m not that heinously over-the-top, sheez. What all that was about was a little changing of the guard. I, after an insanely long and complicated time on these here interwebnets, own this domain I’m parked on. In essence, TheDane left the babysitter all carefree and popping popcorn, only to call and say, “The baby, she is too burdensome, call me if you need any emergency medical information, but mostly she’s just all yours. I’ll be Fed-Exing the paperwork any second.” Wow. WHO NEEDS TO BE HOSTED? I’m a snobby bastard, so don’t get your feelings hurt should I say no. I mean really, I’m the woman who told a girl one time to GO IMMEDIATELY AWAY FROM MY WEBSITE, IF YOU WERE MY KID AND READING THIS FILTH, I WOULD WHIP YOUR ASS AND POUR ICE WATER INTO YOUR CENTRAL PROCESSING UNIT.

But seriously, there are some vacancies on this ten-spotter that long for some decent writing and I aim to fill them. You know, in my shambling, booze-crazed way.

THIRDLY: I have wanted an Akita for dang near half my life, which is to say: Eons. Recently I’ve also been possessed of a mad desire to have a pet to run with me in the evenings. Baxter is a huge, unwieldy beast and honestly, prefers the confines of both the backyard and his own personal brand of doggie insanity. If he wasn’t too old at this juncture to learn new tricks, (HA!) I’d teach him to type and host *him* on the Deca. Because seriously, there is some great voyeurnal material knocking around up there in that massive head of his. Baxter would be all about the story-telling, but is not really about all this Encircling The Block At A Steady Pace business.

Ellie, well, she is just this spastic little Australian Shepherd who makes this terrible ‘HACK, HACK, GAAAACK’ noise each. andevery. tiiiiime I put a leash on her. She has things to see! Stuff to freak out about! Side trips to be made! Spazzing to be done! And how dare I, mere mortal and feckless human-person that I am, try to stifle her with something so fucking paltry as a (wrinkle your nose here, oh great Muffinass, in the most disdainful way you can muster) leash. “I will run on my own terms, Silly Person,” is what she conveys to me consistently. So, Ellie (much as I am fond of the excited little knucklehead) is relegated to fetch-partner. I can throw a ball for hours and not get bored, as long as she’ll retrieve it.

So after searching high and low, and after taking a certain amount of abuse from a certain animal activist in Georgia (THAT WHORE, but more on that later), I’ve found what is likely going to be my running companion and the only mutt in this house (to include the childpersons* in residence) that will be allowed past the doorjamb of Yon Hallowed Superior Enclave Of Peace And Reclaiming Of Daily Sanity, a.k.a. my and Maxim’s bedroom.

Here’s a photo of her:

new doggie

She’s an Akita/Shibu mix. You are excited, no?

I’m a little stuck with her name. The one she currently has consists of three syllables and is kind of, well, dumbass in nature. Seriously, a dog’s name should really be two syllables or less, and if not, it better be a damn good roll off the tongue. So here’s where the oft-awaited, but hardly-utilized Audience Participation Stuff comes in. Help me name her, if you’d like. I mean, I have a couple (Nova?) of monikers (Poppy.) in mind, but nothing has fixed itself there yet.

I’ll likely go to check her out in early November, hang out with her, see if she’s a good fit for us; if she passes muster, I’ll be bringing her home that day. I’d like to have her name already considered and pretty much fixed should she climb in the car.

Two considerations: I’d like something of the aforementioned single or double syllable variety and I’m leaning toward something fiercely, stereotypically-bordering-on-comically Southern. Southerin, as it were. I’m not even kidding: I’ve seriously bandied about things like ‘Delta’ (after the region I’m from, and after the Tanya Tucker joint I’ve sung drunkenly countless times, *not* after that chubby belle married to that Gerald McMajorDad guy) and ‘Lurleen’. You see where I’m at with this?

…and the first one of you to say something like ‘Donna Jo’ gets punched. I mean really, I can fuck this one up on my own.

*I’m KIDDING, y’all. They’re allowed in if they have presents for Mommy and Daddy. Or if they’re delivering a stack of freshly-laundered and -folded clothing.

8 worked it out »

  1. Shamrock 10.19.2007

    Fiercely, stereotypically-bordering-on-comically Southern? One-syllable?


    Plus, it fits her color.

  2. skillzy 10.19.2007

    Cornelia, she was way more of a bitch than Lurleen.

  3. Emma Liar 10.21.2007

    I don’t know why, but “Jolene” came to mind. I have no idea where that came from. After a little more consideration (and inspiration from the ‘Pod), maybe Gretchen?

  4. Richard D. Bartlett 10.21.2007

    She looks like a Mindy to me, but that depends entirely on the Mindys you’ve known.

  5. Jettomatika 10.22.2007

    Shammy: Grits would be an excellent answer, but there is this dumb thing at touristy places here where GRITS is emblazoned on books and mugs and tee-shirts, and is supposedly an acronym for ‘Girls Raised In The South’. Food-related considerations have included Puddin’, however.

    Skillzy: You are getting the obnoxiously loud buzzer, because your submission is disqualified as a result of far too many sylababbleses.

    Em: Creeeepy. I mean creepy, because Jolene and Gretchen are both in my top ten.

    Rich: I only recall one or two Mindys, and they were both bitches. So, fitting I suppose. But I hate the name. Backup plan?

  6. RDB 10.22.2007

    “Jazz”? As in, “I’m just so darn jazzzzed!”

  7. RDB 10.23.2007


  8. Jettomatika 10.25.2007

    I think I’ve settled on Coco.

    Derived, of course, from Coco Robicheaux, little bad child from Cajun lore.


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