Tag: afternoon cowboying

Poor Grandpa Fred, he has no idea where he is or what he is doing. Thank god that trophy wife of his helps pull his puppet strings all day, or he might just sit in a chair all day demanding more go-carts on his pancakes. But now that they have trotted the zombie remains of Ronald Reagan out on the road and into the public sphere, let the gaffes begin!

Today Grandpa Fred was in Florida, where he signed autographs, and unfortunately talked to the cameras.

Washington, D.C. – What began as chance meeting during a morning jog snowballed into a screwball comedy of errors as President George W. Bush met his exact look-a-like in a transient by the name of George Burnswick. After a heartfelt speech by President Bush to his Secret Service Agents about his need to get back to the people, the two men decided to switch places for a week. Formerly homeless Burnswick would take the helm of one of the most powerful nations in history, while Mr. Bush would take over Mr. Burnswick’s role of screaming at cars on random corners and digging through trash cans for lunch.

The men’s switch went seamlessly, in a transition only noticed by Karl Rove, who was already getting his media puppet strings ready to cash in on the delightful affair. Though there were some madcap capers as each man adjusted to the life of the other.

“How hard can this job be?” said Mr. Burnswick from the decadent leisure of the Oval Office. “Cheney practically runs the show here, and whatever is leftover goes to Karl Rove and his pack of hounds. All I do is rubber stamp bullshit and take full advantage of the buffet. Life is good for Burnswick. Did you know I can call anyone in the world? Right now? Before I had to wait 6 months to talk to a lowly case worker.”

In Honor of buhdydharma’s successful move to Mexico and blog launch:

Please Drop The Torta
by Dog Staring Intently at You

So, I noticed you got a torta there. Nice torta, I might say. You got that at Ruchi’s, or is that possibly from Torta Mundo? See, I am what you could say a connoisseur of tortas. I even spotted you holding that torta from across the Jardín. But I noticed, you have not dropped the torta.

Okay, we both got all day, but that torta needs to take a fall. While you talk to your friend there, that torta is just dangling in your hand. You neglect your torta, while I cherish the ground it walks on. Speaking of the ground, please drop that torta there.

How can you resist my puppy seal stare? I worked on this sad look for hours back in the old days in Colonia San Rafael. It was not until I was able to bring tears to even the most hardened hearts with my big brown eyes did I earn the right to be a street dog in el Centro. Yet, you are resistant to my well-honed skills, refusing to drop that torta.

Please drop the torta. No? Oh please, oh please, oh please? Still no?
That’s cool. This one time, back in September, this totally drunk dude spilled trying to sit down on that very bench. And this dude, right, he totally dumps a whole box of pizza all over the ground when he bit it. I’m more of a torta dog myself, as you well know, but this was from Juanita’s. That’s choice. But the dude gets up, all pissed off you know, because of the pizza, and starts just flailing away with his arms and screaming and jumping up and down. Well, you know what kind of effect that could have on a drunk dude, and he totally blows chunks all over the bench. But get this, he totally misses the pizza. I ate well that night. I was hoping this long rambling tale would lure you to sleep, so you would drop that torta, helping to bring back those good well-fed times.

Oh, that was just cruel. Did you just pull off some bread for that pigeon, that rat with wings, just to spite me? What do you have against other mammals? Are you leading me to believe that if I walk around like a bad caricature of a 70s pimp going cooo cooo cooo, I am then worthy of that torta? Sir, please, let’s digress, and just drop that torta.

We’ve been at this for, what, 10 minutes now, and not only have you not dropped that torta, you haven’t even eaten it. While I have stared holes through you, using all my Jedi skills to get you to drop that torta, you have regaled your friend there with the latest cantina gossip. That’s great what that dude said after his fifth tequila, but you have wandered off from the issue at hand, the torta. And while she found what he said flattering, while in its own right funny as all heck, that jamon con queso amarillo should be the center of all of our attentions. I know it is mine. Please drop the torta.

No? Oh, well, okay then, I will just sit here and stare and stare and stare and stare…

——-

¡Viva Mexico cabrón, don’t ever be the dog with two tortas, or with none!