Fat Tuesday: Skinny Dog

Nigel here! My keyboard monkey is slacking this week - he said something about special occasions. I haven't had a special occasion since the cat wandered tantalizingly close to the crockpot last week, so I'm taking over for the day.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm a night owl. Or to put it another way, I sleep all day so I can warm my dangly bits with sunbeams. So when the two-leggers pass out my night is just getting started. And what does a lonely hound turn to for comfort in the darkness of night? The boob tube of course! Speaking of boob tube, I've been seeing a lot of commercials for this movie:

I'm sitting here wasting away in the boonies of Vermont, and these ladies are getting all of the glory. Every time they lift their shirts people go crazy and throw shiny things at them. And they only have two ta-tas a piece! I have like a bazillion. Hell, when it gets cold out I look like a pencil eraser factory reject and nobody throws shiny things at me. Unacceptable.

I decided it was time to mix up a mean melon ball to fill my canteen, fuel up my jet and see what all of the noise was about!

I chose my flight pattern carefully. I did fly over Canada briefly because I heard that the US might be buying it on eBay and I wanted to see if it was worth it. I learned that you can buy beer without ID, so I bookmarked the auction before bidding Canada farewell and pointing my plane south for a Fat Tuesday adventure.

 My first plan failed miserably. I thought if I set up a roadblock I could stop the parade right in front of me and collect shiny things until I needed a wheelbarrow to haul them away. I even brought a few of my own shiny things to make it look like I was already getting a lot of play. The bad news: I was on the wrong side of the city, so the only shiny things I got were a pair of cuffs.

Once I posted bail I made my way to the French Quarter, and the party was in high gear, There was no time to waste, so I immediately shook an ice cube around in my shirt and unleashed some hound belly on the revelers. I saw this crowd of goofy looking dudes and figured if there was no lady competition, I'd need safety goggles to protect my delicate sighthound eyes from the impending downpour of shiny things.

Nada. That snaggletoothed wingnut to my right is decorated like a Christmas tree, and I'm playing the chopped liver role. There is no justice in this world.


I saw a lot of people filing in and out of this bar (and it reminded me of one of my blogger pals) so I stood out front for an hour while I displayed my wares. No takers. They obviously wouldn't know a nice rack if it stood in front of a bar holding up its shirt for an hour.

Believe it or not, I actually had a thought, and if I were any smarter I would have known it was useless. Since I am blissfully unaware of my mental deficiencies, I went with it. I found a couple of hoochie mamas that looked a lot like the ones in that movie that inspired my trip. I figured if I stood really close to them, I could collect their sloppy seconds and make it look like I was getting all of the action.

Much to my chagrin, the only thing they were sharing were their iPhone camera ta-ta pictures on Facebook.



Now this is what I'm talking about. Hell, my name is already on the sign. I emptied my wallet and prepared to sparkle.

The hoz won every time.


I'm giving up for now. You two-leggers are impossible to please. I'm out of money, so I can't refuel my jet. My jeans are chafing. To make matters worse, the Patriots were bored with winning Super Bowls and feeling nice enough to lose on purpose this year so the Saints could try it, and now it everyone here is just rubbing it in.

Of this, I am certain: It sucks to be a skinny dog on Fat Tuesday.