The Sleeping Bear

“He just pissed on my leg!”

A recent viewing of Marley and Me had me thinking fondly of dogs past and present. My family had a bit of a T fetish when I was growing up - Tawny (#1), Trump, Toby, Tawny (#2) - all dogs that shaped my childhood. And then when I grew up I picked up the P gang - Piper, Petey and Pearl - which soon became the OPP - Oliver, Piper and Pearl. I guess you could say I’ve been living doggystyle my entire life.

With all those dogs, man do I have stories. There was Trump, a jet black labrador with a pair of testicles that would make a blue whale blush. He knew how to use them, too, impregnating our golden retriever a couple times, as well as the neighbor’s black lab. Rumor has it he was Travis Henry’s inspiration. Heck, if there was a dog in heat in Stearns County, no kennel, gate, cage or fence could keep him from gettin’ his freak on. No lie - I saw him climb out of his kennel - which had to be a good 8 feet high, jump to the ground, and make a mad sprint to neighbors, where he pulled another Houdini, climbed the neighbor’s 10-foot-high kennel, lit some candles, threw on some Luther Vandross and got it on.

Rabbits used to kneel before him and call him the chosen one because of his sexual prowess. Even in old age he let his balls do the talking. Don’t believe me? I found him bloody in the middle of the road one day, presuming he bounced off someone’s car. Turns out he was trying to get with some high-class bitch down the road and the owner blasted him with a shotgun. A trip to the vet, some permanent internal bling and a few war scars later and he was up to the same old tricks.

Not only was he literally ballsy, but he figuratively had a set of beach balls. Picture it: My dad had a Harley and the requisite Harley dude friends. One of them stopped on over one day and was festooned with the usual Harley attire - leather everywhere, including the chaps. Trump was intrigued, and walked over to take a closer look. As Harley dude was gabbing away about how he stabbed a dude in a bar, Trump calmly sniffed his leg, gave him the once over, and then proceeded to lift his leg and piss all over his leather chaps. The best part - the guy was so stunned that Trump had finished and calmly sauntered away before said biker could give him a good swift kick.

Yeah, Trump was a man’s man if there ever was one. But I’ve also had the exact opposite - Piper. We picked her up from a breeder when she was about four and it took her weeks to even move in our presence. For a second there I thought we’d picked up a stuffed dog.

We figured it would just take awhile for her to get acclimated to her new surroundings. About three years in she actually slightly moved her tail when we talked to her - it was a moment that brought tears of joy to our eyes. She actually liked us!

She also likes to eat shit. Lots of it. She’s not the biggest fan of regular dog food, but if it’s gone through another dog’s intestine and sat on the ground for a couple days, it suddenly becomes equivalent to an M&M.

What she didn’t like, however, was stuffed animals staring at her. Within a week, she had chewed the eyes out of the toy bunny we gave her for companionship. We figured we’d try another toy, this time a duck, only to come home to find she had given it the old Stevie Wonder.

Shit-eating and leg-pissing aside, I have to admit that I enjoy having a dog around. They don’t judge (probably because they shit-eat and leg-piss and figure they don’t really have the right), they don’t complain and they’re genuinely happy to see me. Happy enough to piss on someone’s leg and have a poop-tart in my honor.

Got a crazy dog story to share? Add it to the comments before I let Trump water your leg.

Last week, as a couple of really rich TV personalities were sniping at each other about journalistic integrity and who’s to blame for the recession, I got to thinking: Blame? Screw that, who should I congratulate for this financial meltdown. Here’s why:

1. Gas is cheaper than a 400 pound hooker. Not that I’ve been in the market for a 400 pound hooker lately, so I can’t confirm that statement with much certainty. But I’m guessing the price of a 400 pound hooker hasn’t changed much since my foray into the flab in the late 90s. Last summer, pre-recession, I was paying between $3.60 and $4.20 for a gallon of gas. For a guy who gets 25 miles a gallon and has a 30 mile commute to work, that was starting to add up. Since the stock market began tanking last fall, a gallon of gas is about 50% of that. For a guy who dumped $40 a week for the privilege of sitting in traffic for a couple hours a day, that’s some nice ching. Probably enough ching to get a 400 pound hooker.

2. I’m neighborless - and loving it! Don’t get me started on my old neighbors. They used to tie their dog up in my backyard, screwed their satellite dish into my fence and spoke very little English. And then along came the recession and - poof! - they disappeared faster than ARod in a big game. Their house was foreclosed, and resold at half the price. But apparently to ghosts, because no one has lived there since, unless you count the rusted 70s era Chevy truck in the driveway. That means me and the golden get to use their backyard for Frisbee retrieving. The recession basically doubled the size of my property - for free!

3. Deflation isn’t just for your enemy’s tires. What I’ve noticed is that during a recession businesses are desperate to sell their goods. If you can manage to keep your job and level of pay, you’re actually in pretty decent shape. For me, that means the staples of my diet - Milk, yogurt, cottage cheese and black jellybeans - have probably dropped in price 20-30%. Sure, that’s caused me to eat 20-30% more and drop 20-30% more green, milky splatters into my toilet bowl, but what’s life without green, milky splatters?

4. Annoying workmates: Here one day, gone the next! We all have those annoying workmates. You know, the ones that talk all day about how wonderful they are at their job. Leaving little time for them to actually do their job. Thankfully, during a recession, the ones getting paid to lick the CEO’s ass start to notice who’s doing their job and who isn’t. And the annoying ones get the old pink sliparoo.

5. Painful gunshot wounds - eliminated! My commuting time has been cut by 33%. Not 34% or 32%, but 33%. With unemployment higher than Gary Busey, that means fewer folks commuting to work. Fewer folks cutting me off. Fewer folks shooting at me when I give them the finger. Fewer bullets in my ulna. And I think fewer bullets in my ulna is something we can all rally around.

For all these reasons, I’d like a give a shout out to everyone the pundits are telling me is to blame for the current economic crisis. What you’ve done for me and my family was a godsend. Thank you!

“Amos, you’re awesome!”

Well, maybe Amos wasn’t quite as awesome at choosing outfits as he was at removing the door pin from my old, decrepit Frigidaire refrigerator. I first met Amos when he arrived at my front door, his Caribbean accent not exactly matching his faded-blue snowsuit and fluffy, ear-flapped stocking cap. He was a walking contradiction - an equatorial accent on a man who looked like he’d be comfortable sleeping in an igloo.

“Hi, my name is Amos,” he said, extending his hand. I soon learned that Amos was a happy chap, as he broke into a smile upon spying my three dogs staring at him.

“Look at that one! He’s just chilling on the couch!” he exclaimed as he made his way to my kitchen to inspect my old fridge and determine the best exit strategy. After taking a few measurements, Amos was off to get some tools to pry off the fridge door.

And that’s when his partner in fridge delivery, Joel (sounds like Joelle) showed up. Joel was sporting some solid facial hair and dressed a little snappier than Amos. Of course, snappy is a relative term akin to saying N’Sync is a better boy band than the Backstreet Boys. Either way, they’re both sucky boy bands.

I have to admit, I was mesmerized by the tin foil - yes, tin foil - adorning the back of Joel’s baseball cap. Being the polite person that I am, I didn’t ask Joel the obvious question - Why the fuck do you have a two inch rectangle of tin foil on the back of your baseball cap? But, judging by his Pineapple Express chuckle and the way he eyed up all the munchable foods on my counter, I’m guessing it had something to do with his desire to deflect the government’s mind-reading wavegun.

Joel’s duty was to remove the doors from the old fridge so they could squeeze it between my countertop and the wall and out the back door. He had no problem with the freezer door, but the fridge door was a problem - one final screw was hidden behind the door pin and hard to get at.

“Amos, do you have that extender for my screwdriver?” His solution was to remove the screw using an extender. Amos had other ideas.

“Let me go get it. But we can just use a pliers to unscrew the pin. We don’t need to access that screw.”

“But the pin is slippery. There’s nothing to grip,” Joel complained.

But Amos wasn’t deterred by Joel’s nancying. He reappeared a short time later, pliers in hand. And much to Joel’s delight, Amos was indeed able to grip the pin, pull it out, and give Joel a clear path to the final screw.

“Amos, you’re awesome!” an awestruck Joel exclaimed.

Door off, it was time to strap up and get the fridge out the door. As Joel moved behind the fridge, he spied my wife and dogs on the couch. He channeled Cassanova’s spirit, smoothly cooing “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I didn’t see you hiding there.” and then following it up with some chitchat about how well behaved the dogs were.

Amos, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, agreed. “My boy would love that little dog. He’s just chilling on the couch. He’s so chill. He and my son have a lot in common.”

With that, they were off, making easy work of the old fridge and hauling in my shiny new Samsung. A slight mishap with my dining room light aside, it went smoothly.

Which meant it was time for Amos to bid a fond farewell. He bid a slightly creepy “I’ll be back for your dog!” and followed that up with an “I’m serious.” when we laughed at what we surmised was a joke. A quick smile, a nod, and Awesome Amos was off into the cold Minnesota air for more delivery hijinks.

I like to push my heart to the extreme, defying death by bicycling for miles on end, daring to drive a heart-pumping 75 in a 70 and worshipping at the altar of heartbreakingly bad Minnesota sports teams. But even I had some moments of trepidation today as I stared into the beanie eyes of death incarnate, knowing there was a chance my heart could falter and lead to my untimely demise.

Let’s start at beginning. Rumor had it a restaurant in the area served a meaty concoction so mouth-wateringly huge, so fantastically carnivorous, so scarily fatty that ingesting it could cause instant arterial blockage and certain death. That place? Jimmy’s in Vadnais Heights. That product? The Hamdog.

What’s a Hamdog? Apart from Fugu, quite possibly the world’s most dangerous food. But unlike Fugu, damn f’n tasty. As Jimmy’s no-frills menu says, the Hamdog is a 1/2 pound burger wrapped around a hotdog, topped with chilli, onion and cheddar cheese and served on a hoagie bun. The menu calls it “Enough Meat to Satisfy Anyone.” I call it “Enough Meat to Make Ron Jeremy Feel Inadequate.”

Defibrillator in hand, we made the trek to Jimmy’s to defy death. Located in a stripmall at the intersection of 35E and County Rd E in Vadnais Heights, Jimmy’s isn’t much to look at from the outside. The clean, dimly-lit interior features numerous big-screen TVs, most of which were showing Hockey Day in Minnesota. We slid into a booth in the corner, said a few prayers and waited for the waitress to come, take our order, and ultimately bring us what may have been our last meal.

“Are you ready to order?”

We nodded in assent. My wife ordered the walleye sandwich. The waitress turned to me. This was it - my moment of truth. Some men blink in the face of death - but not me. I took a deep breath, turned to the waitress and shouted “I’ll have the Hamdog!” Then let my gaze wander triumphantly across the room as everyone within earshot jerked to attention, mouths agape. One woman, obviously unnerved, clutched her cell phone and practiced dialing 9-1-1 in preparation for the inevitable. The waitress, in the midst of writing my order on a piece of paper, muttered “Nice!” under her breath. I was everyone’s new hero.

Within minutes the Hamdog was before me in all it’s meaty glory, garnished with a side of barbecue potato chips, some lettuce, a pickle and a tomato. Even better, I had to fill out a form with my name and phone number before I ate it so I could presumably be entered to win a free t-shirt proclaiming the glory of the Hamdog. I didn’t flip it over, but I’m guessing there was some legalese and a waiver should I choke out on the Hammer.

And it was on. So on. It was love at first bite. As I sunk my teeth into the Hamdog, I have to admit I shivered a little. It was slightly orgasmic. Seriously, the dude who one day thought “This hot dog just isn’t enough. What if I wrapped a shitload of dead cow around it and then topped it off with more dead cow, chili beans cheese and spices?” is my new hero. Screw Cialis - if you have erectile dysfunction just hop on over to Jimmy’s and sink your teeth into a Hamdog - you’ll be pleasing your wife or significant other in no time.

Before I knew it, I was halfway through my Hamdog, needing just a few fists to the chest to jumpstart my heart. A waiter walked by, did a double-take, stopped and said “You did the HD, eh? Nice. How is it?” With my mouth full of PETA’s worst nightmare, I mumbled “Great!”

But in all reality, I was done. My stomach was full. I was starting to get gassed (figuratively and literally). It was time to throw in the towel and call it a day. I knew when I was beaten, waived over the waitress and asked for a doggy basket for my H-dog.

In the end, I didn’t finish the entire Hamdog, but I did manage to maintain consciousness through the entire event. I had stared down the beast, and though in the end I did blink just a little, I conquered my fear of arterial blockage and scarfed down 3/4 of a Hamdog in one sitting. To me, that earns a bit of a boastful “Who’s yer daddy?” That’s right, me.

The Business End of a Hamdog.

I recently attended the Timberwolves season-opener (or as my wife calls it, the starter) at Target Center in Minneapolis. Don’t get your hopes up Rusty, it won’t be a regular occurrence. I happened to get free tickets (I’d like to give a shout out to Patrick for the tix), and still had to make a tough decision between sitting at home and watching Obama buy an election on 16 channels or go to the game. Since these weren’t just any free tickets - these were $125 free tickets in row 8 just to the right of the hoop - we chose the game.

So after spending 45 minutes trying to get the 15 blocks from 35W to the Target Center, all the time bitching about how my couch would be more comfortable, and then trying to figure out how the hell to get from the parking ramp to the skyway, we hit our seats. Yeah, they were sweet. Just how sweet? I was mere feet away from press row. Yeah, Reusse, Shaver, Sid, and the boy toy himself, Cory “Sludge” Cove from the KFAN morning show and the Sludge and Lake show (yeah, he’s a grinder) were all right there.

Yup, that’s right. Sludgie was right in front of me in his negative glory. I swear there was a black cloud over his head. Not to be a stalker or anything, Sludge, but I watched you barely talk to Henry Lake on your left, watched you get a hug from the T-Wolves MC, watched you check out chicks as they walked by (come on, dude, we all know you swing the other way. How much did you pay that psychic to say you were going to get a chick? I’m thinking the L is for Louis.) and watched you roll your eyes when walking death himself, Sid Hartman, walked up to Lake, asked if anyone was sitting in the empty chair next to him and then sat down and proceeded to fumble dazedly through his media guide.

Run-ins with local talk radio sidekicks aside, the game wasn’t half bad. Something called John Salmons lit up the Timberwolves for 24 points, though his last second jumper from 15 feet missed the mark and sent the Timberwolves home with a 1-0 record. But despite a disgraceful defensive performance against a pretty bad team, the Timberwolves found a way not to lose a fourth-quarter lead, which was surprising considering the Timberpuppies are the Ron Davis of the NBA.

Even the wife enjoyed the show. She “Looooooooves Kevin Love.” And she nearly pissed herself when she saw Randy “Dark Horse” Shaver walk by. And when some dude with an Ace Ventura hair-do sauntered past and sat down a couple rows in front of us, she couldn’t stop laughing. Oh, she also got a couple good looks at some serious ass-crack courtesy of the girl in front of us. Seriously, get a belt or some pants that fit, girl. Or at least take up plumbing so we should expect it.

Though my wife did enjoy some of the “basketball throws”, I think she enjoyed the periphery entertainment more than the game. When the prize-dropping blimp circled the stadium, she kept her eagle eye on it, hoping to score big, even yelling at it to drop its payload her way. And when the cheerleaders were tossing shirts into the crowd, she was on her feet yelling for one. Until she realized “they throw like girls” and couldn’t hit our seat in the 8th row.

Even after the game the wife went over to the railing where the players exited the game to hit the locker room, strip down and talk to reporters, shouting “Up here guys. Come on. Give me some skin. Yeah!” Of course, I was also there shouting “82-0! Yeah! Come on guys, you can reach me!” and shoving the 12-year-olds out of the way in my quest to touch NBA greats like Brian Cardinal. Don’t mock me - have you touched the hand of Purdue’s all-time steals leader? Yeah, didn’t think so. Me 1. You 0.