All Rules Have Exceptions

Min pins.  Min pins will be allowed.  Why?  Because they look like dobies, of  course.

Update on Saturday, June 28, 2008 at 11:20AM by Queen2

Queen 2 declares another exception. Gay men must be allowed to own dogs that weigh less than 12 pounds. While I suspect that most homosexual men are cat people, those who are not must be permitted to own dogs of the auxiliary back-up size. Face it, a faggoty guy can’t have a large dog. It violates the laws of nature. Furthermore, since most gay guys are men of unquestionably good taste, I trust that they will choose stylish small dogs. They also can be trusted to adhere to the rule that dogs may not wear clothing, dogs must not be trained to litter boxes, and most importantly, dogs may not be carried in purses. Accordingly lowercase q queens (not to be confused with capitol Q Queens) may have rats on strings.

Update on Saturday, June 28, 2008 at 12:15PM by Queen1

Well done, Queen2!  We (I and the mouse in my pocket) have been breathlessly awaiting your next contribution.  I concede on the “gay men may have gay dogs” exception.  But no bows.  (Just like WWAQ, practically-hairless girl babies may NOT have tacky little bows superglued (or however they do it) to their heads.)

Queen1 Abolishes Dogs Weighing Less Than 12 Pounds

Our canine friends can be categorized broadly into three types:  Canis Majoris, Canis Canis and Canis Verminus.  WWAQ, the last group will be either exterminated or forcefully relocated to a country better temperamentally suited to accommodate them, such as Canada.  A dog that can be injured just by falling off a davenport is an abomination.  If you can’t pet a dog solidly (and hear that comforting “thump”) without it flying across the room and smashing against the wall, it isn’t a dog—it’s a rat. 

The Maltese, Rocky, who lives behind us is a vociferous, noisome creature that yaps unceasingly.  I have been known to knock on my neighbor’s door at 11:30 pm (in my bathrobe, no less!) to ask him to put his dog up.  If I give it some thought, I could probably come up with clever ways to kill it and make it look natural.  (A tiny noose tied to the maple tree with a muddy pawprint might be plausible as suicide.)  If the fiendish little beast would just cross the property line…Henry might eat him.  (Henry is an 80-lb Doberman.)  Then again, Henry might invite him to a poop-fest, so we have to have a Plan B.  We once conducted an experiment:  we put Henry out while Rocky was out and let them converse.  After 30, count ‘em, THIRTY minutes of simultaneous yapping and woofing, we capitulated.  I don’t imagine that the dialogue was as benign as Queen2 ascribes to Ace and his neighborhood cohort.  I think Henry and Rocky are playing the dozens.

“Your momma’s a bitch!” would be the start and they would ratchet it up from there.

I know that many people adore the rodents-disguised-as-dogs that make up the bulk of the terrier breeds.  Canada would probably allow visitation privileges—or those wingnut rat-lovers can just move across the border.  Perhaps if we air-dropped millions of the things over Iran in Gucci purses, the mullahs would surrender.  We could put the bitches in tiny little burkhas and strap plastique on the rest.  It would save Israel a lot of trouble.

Update on Tuesday, June 24, 2008 at 03:04PM by Queen1

I was thinking in broad brushstrokes about progressives versus conservatives and dogs today, and I came up with a survey for Rasmussen or Zogby.  What is the correlation between political self-identification and dog ownership?  First, I would bet that conservatives own more dogs, period.  More than that, though, I expect that more progressives own faux-dogs like miniature Yorkshire terriers and Peek-a-Poos or whatever they’re called.  While where one resides has much to do with whether one owns a dog and what kind—and more progressives live in urban settings, I would hazard a guess that progressives prefer ratdogs to realdogs.  Ratdogs certainly have a smaller carbon footprint.  And they’re so needy—progressives love to be needed.  They don’t contribute anything to society (unless you live out in the country and have a terrier that actually catches things), and progressives are in favor of more and more people/creatures contributing less and less to making things work.  And Hollywood is big on rodents masquerading as dogs, which is a plus for progressives, who seem to believe that pretending to be someone else for a living renders one’s thoughts and actions worthy of emulation.

Conservatives, of course, probably prefer dogs-of-size (remember the ROUS’s?) because such dogs can do useful things, like guard and search and hunt and retrieve.  Big dogs can ride in pick-ups without being blown out the back like a plastic grocery bag in a gale.  If a big dog bites you, you know it—peace through superior firepower.  If you have annoying neighbor kids, a REALLY big dog could eat them for you.  I suppose that all breeds of larger dogs count as conservative breeds for WWAQ purposes, but the boring-suburban-dogs are on the bubble (you know what they are—can anyone say labrador retriever?).  We did have a psychotic golden who lived down the street from us for awhile.  He must have done steroids or had Bush Derangement Syndrome, because that animal was a whackjob.  On second thought, WWAQ, goldens are goners, because those neighbors would never believe Baxter had a canine Mr. Hyde living inside of him.  “Oh, he’s a GOLDEN!” they would say, much the way liberals think their own goodness is axiomatic.

Now, cats….that’s a whole thought episode of its own…

Queen 2 (Finally) Gets a Word In

My husband was generous enough to take three of our four children to the grocery, and my dog is outside pointlessly barking. Finally the solitude necessary to dazzle you with my wit. Do not believe Queen 1. I am content with my designation as Queen 2. After all Queen Elizabeth II is the reigning monarch. Although the first Elizabeth did wear cooler hats, I’ll take the throne over fancy millinery any day of the week.

About pointless barking. as I type, Ace the Wonder Dog is outside barking without reasonable cause. There is nada happening on our quiet little street. So wtf is up with the barking?  Is he out there saying, “Helllllo. It’s me, Ace. Anybody out there?! Yoo hoo. Hello!! Anybody?!” Or, is he saying, “I got birds over here. Anybody else out there got birds? Doves, lots of ‘em. Robins too. What about you guys? Any birds?” Or perhaps it’s “ Squirrels. OH ….MY….. GOD….. SQUIRRELS! Squirrels in the trees. Squirrels on the ground. Squirrels in the neighbors’ yards. Let me count them for you. One, two, three, four, five. Five freaking squirrels over here.” And when, a distant bark finally sounds a response, will it be, “No squirrels over here, but I got rabbits!”

The Spay/Neuter Clinic

WWAQ, humans who irresponsibly produce children they can care for neither emotionally nor financially will be under a strict “one strike and you’re out” policy.  You get one freebie that allows you to feed at the public trough for it’s financial and emotional needs, then you get fixed.  As it stands now, the whingeing cry of “But what about the children?!” means that useless idiots can churn out progency like chickens produce eggs and reach into my purse to pay for their kids’ food, housing and medical care (including psychiatric care for the unfortunates born to negligent, abusive, moronic no-goodniks).  Baby after baby comes out of these people, yet we are powerless to say, “No, I am not going to pay for this one, thank you very much.”  Well, WWAQ, that will  change pronto.

Sixteen girls at a public high school conspire to get pregnant (and the one that allegedly chose a homeless man should be institutionalized because she is a danger to society)—and we will get stuck with the tab.  Predictably, the liberal apologists explain that the poor economy of the area and the hopelessness of their lot forced these girls’ behavior.  Bollocks.  No one had consigned these girls to the life of a fishwife.  Every single one of them could have finished high school and said to that little town, “Hasta la vista, ba-bee!”  No.  This is a glittering example of the entitlement sensibility infecting the American populace like smallpox ran through the Indians.  Not one of them gave a thought to how she would care for the little brat she produced.  Not one of them, I would assert with 98% certainty, even thought that her family would help her take care of it.  Why should her family (and the boy’s family) step forward and fulfill their moral duty when they can just have the government take it from the ever-dwindling minority of those of us who actually produce more than we take? 

The Human Spay/Neuter Clinic will reversibly sterilize all homo sapiens in America (legal or not, citizens or not) who bring forth a single being for which they cannot care either financially or emotionally.  After proving themselves capable of actually rearing a child, their reproductive capacity will be returned to them.  If they err again, they will have a little snip and stitch done, courtesy of the Queens.  Free, but on an outpatient basis, of course.

Crossword Puzzles

Has anyone ever found a crossword puzzle that used NO commonplace clues?  No “one from a latin trio” or “Nice season?”  No answers that include eon, era, Eden, Reo, else, per, or etc? (Why do so many of those type of clues begin with “E”?)  I don’t know if creating such a puzzle would be possible.  In fact, I don’t know how the creators of crosswords do it at all.  Is there a template to follow?  If I Google it, will I find a “Crossword Creation for Dummies?” 

Here’s one of my pet peeves about crossword makers:  they make stuff up.  Forget about just getting outlandishly creative with spelling…they flat-out invent words.  I’m all for imaginative wordplay, but shouldn’t there be rules?  If it isn’t in the OED, it’s out of bounds—excepting real, authentic, can-be-found-in-another-language’s-dictionary words. 

I ran into a glitch with crosswording recently (and yes, I just made crossword into a verb).  I can only do Sunday NYT puzzles (or the equivalent in difficulty)…and I began finding reruns.  I was a little unnerved.    Part of the reason I do crosswords is to ward off Alzheimer’s, and that’s not going to work if I run into the practice effect.  Apple, table, penny.  Name as many animals as you can in 15 seconds.  The brain must constantly be given new Everests.  I may have to resort to British crosswords—they do that tricky cryptic stuff.  And then there would be the whole Britishism challenge.  How do those people over there come up with those words?   Thinking about it, the British seem like concrete people.  Concise.  Why say elevator when you can use a four-letter word like lift?  Flashlight?  No, let’s say torch.  Who wants to go to the trouble of apartment?  Flat is much snappier.  One British slang term I find counter-intuitive is “chuffed.”  To me, if you’re well chuffed, you’re pretty pissed off.  Just the opposite.  You’d be well chuffed if you won the lottery, but not if some wanker stole your ticket. 

Update on Sunday, July 6, 2008 at 12:29PM by Queen1

I loved the move In Bruges, but was off-put by frequent expellations of the c-word.  Misha over at www.nicedoggie.com noted that since he learned English from the Brits, he does indulge in more liberal use of the term than we do here in the States.  Here, women tend not to say it at all, and men only apply it to women they despise.  Even thinking it to myself makes my brain feel dirty.  It’s probably the only epithet I don’t use at least occasionally, and the only one that still holds any shock value and power for me.  I would guess the same is true for most Americans. 

By and large, the Brits don’t have many good swear words.  “Bloody,” I suppose—is it a more scathing term over there than it appears to be to us?  Because on the whole, it seems rather mild.  “Bugger” and “wanker.”  They call women “stupid cows” a lot, which doesn’t strike me as very nice, but neither is it very insulting. 

Back to our friends in the now-quickly-warming North…I had a long internet discussion with someone about what the Finns say when they are honked off.  Seems the Finnish language doesn’t encompass what we would call swear words.  How is this possible?  Supposedly, and I would like to check this out with a knowledgeable Finnish authority, when they get pissed off, they exclaim, “Restaurant!”  That doesn’t seem satisfying to me, from a limbic perspective, but perhaps I fail to understand some nuance here.  I did notice, in Henning Mankell’s novels (the Swedish detective stories), that the Swedes don’t swear very often.  That leads me to posit that perhaps having a sense of humor is mandatory for having satisfactory swear words (and edible cuisine).