Of Things to Come

The Sound A Doggy Makes is no longer a daily.


With the exception of a few sick days which were made up for shortly after I regained conscious wellness, this page has been updated with something, ideally something comedic or amusing, for 1,585 days. That's just over four and a half years, and I figure four and a half is a good time for a kid to realize there's no Santa Claus.

So it's over. The daily updates, I mean. I took a weekend off and I feel better about it. Most updates have been a chore, and the better posts get buried under a pile of in-jokes and funny license plate photos. Here's a photo of a store I live near:

Click to embiggen.

Anything to get that sweet Top-Three listing in the phone book, eh?


… That's not a blog post. That's a tweet. An Instagram. At a stretch, a Tumbl. I deserve to be seen as better than that, and you deserve to have better content.

So now The Sound A Doggy Makes is going to have fresh content when it's damn-well ready and fully baked. Yeah, if I think "Aardvark Insurance" is hilarious, you'll probably get a whif of it on one of my social platforms. If I Photoshop something funny for work and it's a hit, maybe I'll share it here. But this is the last time you're getting "LOOK WHAT I FOUND YOUR GUYS! HURRR!"




TLDR: Sound A Doggy Makes is on hiatus while I work on other projects, and will resume more intermittent posting as I create new, worthwhile things that don't fall under their own banners.

Additionally, the long-term plan is to hopefully start up a new, larger platform that will curate the best material from these last 4.5 years into a more distilled form of awesome, minus the cat pictures and license plates.


I hope we had fun.

-Dave

Honey, I Broke the Physics

I put Honey, I Shrunk the Kids up on the big screen at work today, then spent about 20 minutes re-researching thr fundamental forces of nature to try and work out how Szalinski's shrink ray operates.

By his own words—either in this film or the first sequel, I forget which—Szalinski states the machine works to reduce the great amount of empty space in what is typically considered "solid" matter.

To achieve this, the device would have to affective lot lessen the coefficient of the Weak Nuclear Force, which governs the behavior of fermions such as electrons. This would allow them to maintain stable orbits far closer to the nucleus of their atoms, thereby allowing molecular bonds to be formed from atoms functionally "smaller" in so far as each atom would now occupy less volumethan previously.

Now, Szalinski says nothing of changing any mass, however it is quite clear from the experimental results that weight has been scaled down proportionately with volume of the shrunken subjects, so it can only be that mass too has been affected. This requires that the machine also interact with the Higgs Field in such a way as to shift down the subject's mass as they shrink.


Notes:

1) Altering the coefficients of the fundamental forces is completely impossible and would likely break physics within the space provided, killing anything within, probably horribly.

2) There isn't actually any "empty space" in an atom to remove. I mean you can't remove a nothing, but the emptiness is really teaming with quantum foam if virtual particles infinitely coming into and out of existence, powering the dark energies and probabilities of the world.

Bieber Fever Leads to Chills, Mania, Withdrawal

I almost didn't have a blog ready for today. Then this happened:

Drugs Found of Justin Bieber Tour Bus | BBC

Somewhere there's a joke about him and Selena Gomez writhing on the floor of the bus, pupils dilated and the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack playing in the background, autotuned for some reason, but, you know what?

No.

No, Justin Bieber is about to hit the "Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman" stage in his little career, and all I have to do to laugh is sit back and wait for him to start lifting weights and try to star in a movie like Mark Wahlberg, because this train wreck is about to get good.

On Overreacting

This is the package of bubbles we are not allowed to sell where I work, because it uses the word "colored."

Honestly, if this were an issue, I'd be more upset as an African American that white people overreacted and then denied me the purchase of something purple.

A Little Perspective

Sometimes I get a a sense of the actual scale of the universe, or buildings, or just really big plants–sometimes I just consider that a worm has a heart–and when I do this, I get a mild panic attack/bout of vertigo. Douglas Adams described a torture device call the Total Perspective Vortex that drives you insane by giving you an exacting display of your insignificance in the universe in a very similar manner.

The above image has been circling the Internet for several days with varying notes attached to it. It is a still image of the Martian dusk sky taken by the Mars Curiosity rover depicting (from horizon up) Venus, Jupiter, and Earth.

Recall that the small dot seen here is divided infinitesimally by the microbes scurrying across its surface, warring over imagined slights and invisible markers, hording certain mineral elements and trading them in exchange for other elements with which to hopefully damage other little microbe people.

And a few of them are hoping to get up off that small dot and visit other small dots and maybe one day not have imagined slights or invisible markers, so they drove a nuclear-fueled RC Power Wheels they shot out of a capsule in a bullet in a cannon to the nearest dot they could find and took this picture to show us the most zoomed-out selfie you'll see all week.

And here you were watching Dancing with the Stars.

The Diary of Lisa Frank

When I go to Hell, and they ask me why I think I wound up there, if I can remember no other fun I had while winding down that path, I will show them this. And then I shall waltz into my well-deserved Hell condo and rule over the Plains of Fire as a Discordant Lord.

Good times.

On Cat Stevens and the Hall of Fame

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio is kind of horrifically depressing. It's like looking at all the best things about rock that have already died, and then tribute pieces to the still-living pieces who are doing their best to discredit their early innovations with weak attempts at reinvention and re-invigoration [read: "relevance"].

That said, it's still by far the coolest, most amazing museum a museum can be without those crazy-realistic animatronic raptor costumes. Truthfully, the only down-sides to the R&R HoF are

1) The coolest exhibits are all dead and you can never rock out with them in person, and

2) It closes at 5:30 p.m. on Fridays.

Seriously, what kind of rock and rollers close shop at 5:30? Answer: the kind old enough to be in the Hall but didn't live hard enough to be dead yet. So the B-squad, I guess. (In their defence, wednesdays the Hall is open until 9, so maybe Wednesday night is concert night.)

Man, I hope this style comes back in fashion soon. I've been failing to rock it for 20 years already.

Now, Cat Stevens was nominated for entry to the Hall of Fame back in 2006. There is some speculation that he may never be inducted in life simply for fear that he might make some religiously-themed comments in his acceptance speech. This is patently ridiculous.

Firstly, let's just get tolerance out of the way. Yes, Islam is a touchy subject, politically, but what kind of rock and rollers should give a fuck? None. Also, they wouldn't care I just said, "fuck." Yes, most probably, "Yusuf Islam" would likely say some political, theological bullshit. So do Tom Cruise and Isaac Hayes. We just don't want to hear them say anything they believe in, we just want to hear them do their jobs entertaining us. Big whoop.

No, the more important thing here is that Cat Stevens should be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Yusuf Islam hasn't had a relevant album, single, or compilation in his entire career. Yusuf Islam has no business being the the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Now, I understand that's like saying Prince is a separate artist from "The Artist Formally Known As Prince," except Stevens wasn't a dispute over contract negotiations. Cat converted religion, changed his name again (he was originally Steven Demetre Georgiou and in fact now goes under the stage name "Ysuf" sans-surname), and for a time wrote only music glorifying the prophet Mohammad and making Islam relevant and accessible to young people.

Functionally, Cat Stevens and Yusuf Islam are completely different musical artists with separate careers in wildly different decades.

Honor Cat Stevens with a lifetime achievement award, or a Medal of Honor for services rendered.

Then give Yusuf a big pat on the back for trying so hard.

A Spectacular Failure

I just tore my pant leg on a chair. On a padded chair.

Do you know why we invented chairs? To prevent us from being stung or cut or dirtied by sitting on the ground. What the hell, chair? I'm good to you. I don't get far and sit on you, I brush crumbs off you before and after I sit down, i even saved your sweet looking red relative from the dumpster when my old neighbor moved in and decided to cast it out upon the dumpster. What have I ever done to you to warrant this type of behavior?

You got a debt, now, chair. You got a debt and you're gonna fill it.

Power Girl Regains Her Boob Window

This is actually a rather tasteful and less cartoony cover for PG.

I learned today that DC Comics superheroine and exploited feminine icon in perpetuity Power Girl has this week donned her old costume, complete with a ovular cutout where typically a super's insignia would go. (This happens to showcase her ample cleavage.) I didn't even know she had a new costume. Apparently, it wasn't very long in the running. Best guess, it was from the last "New 52" update after the Flashpoint continuity reset about a year ago.

Anyway, it's back now, and that got me thinking:

Did Power Girl have her "can't take you seriously as a crime fighter" F-cups prior to gaining her powers? Of is that just a side-effect of her, er, endowment?

Actually, yes. It turns out I was confusing Carrol Danvers, a.k.a. Ms. Marvel–a former government agent/spy turned hero after being artificially givern the powers of existing hero Captain Marvel–with Karren Starr/Kara Zor-el, who in main continuity is not the age-accelerated clone of Supergirl as in the animated series like I thought, but rather the actual, older Supergirl from Earth-2, what was explained to be the world of all the "Golden Age" comics.

So yeah, she had super Kryptonian boobs all along. And Ms. Marvel's rack isn't enormous, so there goes my whole comedic tear-down of yet another reason DC comics craps all over its female characters (and creators, and fans, historically).

John McClane Where Are You?

The news today sounds like the plot of the next Die Hard movie.

Actually, it sounds like the last Die Hard movie. I imagine this is what it was like to watch the chaos run through the news cycle while Bruce Willis was off being awesome somewhere else.

Car chases with explosions, Little brother making it out of a shootout and miraculously avoiding the police? The kin even looks a bit like Justin Long.

My bet is Older Bro got in over his head trying to stop some Chechnyan terrorists and now Bruce is trying to get the little kid out alive as a witness.

Yippee ki yay, folks.

A Horrifying Discovery

At work yesterday I saw on the floor by the entrance what I thought was a black doo-rag. Thinking it something someone might come back for, yet possibly was endowed with gross head sweat, I picked it up by as little of my finger tips as possible and went to place them in the Lost and Found. I recoiled in horror, dropped them to the ground, and probably shrieked a little less than a manly bellow. Immediately I sanitized my fingers, and the rest of my hand to the rist.

They were underpants.

Dirty underpants.

Dirty, feminine, underpants. Inside-out, upside-down, probably size-M basic black women's panties, casually laid out on the floor. And I accidentally touched them.

The most vile part of this experience is the realization that this only points to something even more disgusting happening elsewhere yesterday, very likely right in my store. Best Case Scenario: some teenagers thought it would be funny to leave one of their sisters' dirty drawers in the entranceway to a public location and then laugh about how "punk" they were. That's Best Case.

Worst case?

Something tawdry happened in my very store, possibly in the bathroom, more likely in the corner of reference and computer books next to the kids' department, away from prying eyes. Just a quick finger or two, something to rev the engine without blowing the gasket, so to speak. Something that necessitated the removal of said undergarments and their wadding up into the corner of a pocket, not so well constructed as to hold its contents all the way out of the store.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it was pretty hot for them, but I'm in no mood to have to get a herpes test any time soon, and I would appreciate it if anyone and everyone could refrain from boning royally in the confines of my place of business.

I don't think James Deen has starred in a Sexy Bookstore porno yet, but if not, any day now.

On Sewing

After sitting in a chair sewing for hours on end, it occurs to me that being a needle and piercing fetishist must make it incredibly difficult to darn one's socks.

The Only Thing I Will Ever Say About What Happened In Boston

I will be brief. Opinions abound, and I am loath to the kind of "Our prayers are with you!" Facebook Activism that does no real good.

To anyone who wants to help: Take a day off from work if at all possible and drive up to Boston to volunteer somewhere. Anywhere. Help. If you can't do that, please consider donating even $5 to Red Cross or another local charity. (I'm not a fan of Salvation Army's anti-gay policies, but I really don't think they're asking about victim/first responder preferences when offering crisis counseling and free food. Help them out.)

To Bostonians: I assure you, New Yorkers will continue to hate you and the Red Sox with a burning fervor, but you are our annoying little brother. You are ours to mess with and no one else's. While I don't like it as a response, be assured we are going to help crack some skulls over this.

On Justin Bieber and Fruit Loops

One day, Canada is going to look back on history and apologize for Justin Bieber.
Just like they did with Bryan Adams.






Fruit Loops taste uncomfortably similar to crunchy cardboard that has been shellacked with citric acid and painted with melted sugar, and though I know this, I could still very happily eat an entire box. Whoever first thought of making tiny, edible Play-Doh donuts was a mad, mad genius.


 

On Fitness

If you need to get pumped for the gym, I suggest putting on an UnderArmor shirt.

Personally, I feel like a superhero but look like a less perjurious version of Lance Armstrong, which, incidentally, is just the right impetus to be healthier but less of a pompous douche.

The Amazing Spider-Man | Is Peter Parker Autistic?

Though it's not exactly timely, a though occurred to me in the car yesterday that finally put the latest installment in Sony's Spider-Man franchise, starring Andrew Garfield.

I had read that Andrew closely modeled his posture and behavior on actual arachnids, to give Peter Parker a more alien, more alien vibe. He achieves this with great affect. Post-mutation, Peter Parker is a strange, cocky little fellow who moves like something a little more or a little less than human.

Before that bite, however, Peter is sort of … well, spectrum-y¹.

Peter is emotionally closed off at school, very reactive, not all that talkative, despite for all purposes appearing geek-chique handsome, sporting stylish hoodies and military jackets, and possessing cool interests: skateboarding, photography with a $3,000 camera. It is out of his character to stand up for a bullied little person, or to speak up in class. He is dumbfounded at being engaged by a pretty girl. (Granted, it's a skinnier-than-usual, blonde version of Emma Stone, dressed like a naughty schoolgirl, but still.) The point is Peter Parker seems to be someone with abandonment issues who doesn't understand how other people work outside his close-knit family unit. He has no trouble lying to his aunt or placating authority figures, but he will do his own thing quietly and resent dealing with the "normal" outgoing jock-types, who also appear to be enormous, dickish bullies

No, this isn't much more atypical than your average high school loner, but it's a new spin on Peter Parker. Traditionally, Peter has been the Nerd, the skinny boy who was transformed overnight into a disproportionately strong, super-sensing super-man. He was a nerd, a geek, a loser. He had few friends, sure, but predominantly he was a boy-genius with little aptitude for girls, sports, or alpha-male behavior. He was the first 40 minutes of Revenge of the Nerds.

So why not play the same? I mean, yes, you're trying to reboot a franchise that only finished a few years previous, but is it a necessary change? The two easiest ways to bork up a reboot is to follow the source material too closely or not closely enough. Peter has always been a nerd. Tobey McGuire nailed that. Why change canon law?

Because nerds rule your computer right now, and your computer rules your life. The audience knows that. Half the audience of a Spider-Man movie is that nerd. However it has nothing to do with alienating your target demographic:

The only way for Peter Parker to be a social outcast in a world full of increasingly common nerdiness is to make him more socially stunted, and that means withdrawn to the point of emotional underdevelopment.

Gwen Stacy is a genius in her own right. She is strong-willed and empowered. Flash Thompson may be an alpha-douche, but he damn-well knows how to sext a girl, browse Facebook, and follow Dita von Tease via Twitter. All Peter's classmates, and probably a few faculty members are all over the Internet and integrated with their PCs. That interest in science that made Peter an outcast for much of the character's history is just part-and-parcel for the average teen now.

The only way to alienate Peter from his peers is to remove him from the social networks. He can't understand them. He can mirror them, utilize them, but he can't be allowed to understand the intricacies by which they function. He can school Flash on the basketball courts, but he has to be punished for it the way Flash never could be. Peter has to be physically incapable of joining up with the status quo of high school culture.

Peter has to be a little spectrum-y to be who he always has been but no longer can be.



¹ We used to say "Aspergers-y, but now we have to use "Autism Spectrum Disorder-y" THANK YOU VERY MUCH DSM-V.
² Actually, one bully. Flash Thompson. This school has about 6 people with speaking rolls.
³ I promise you he's really a nice guy once he realizes in college he was a douche, especially after joining the military and losing both his legs overseas.

On Recommended Serving Sizes

I've joked for years that a Real Serving Size is the recommended serving size multiplied by 1.5. Two cookies you say? You will not be satisfied by less than three. Eight ounces of soda? There's a reason they switched to twelve ounce bottles. It's not even a joke anymore, really. I've retired it. It is now simply a fact of existence.

Yet I still seem to hold to the percent daily values on my foodstuffs. Calcium still has a recommended dosage, even if a fat American wouldn't be sated by the paltry sum of matter bequeathing it. It was even in attempt to follow these guidelines that I discovered the reason my nutritional intake a few years back wasn't helping my attempt to build muscle: I was getting close to 100% of most vitamins and 200% of my protein, but only consuming 1700 calories on average; I was literally too full of food mass to fit in more for the calories. I had to add back sugars and fats.

Though I try now to maintain a balanced if not numerically happy diet. Moderation and mild indulgence. That sort of thing. So I'll allow myself, to dabble in experiments. I haven't touched that 327% sodium "Jimmy Dean Breakfast Bowl" since college, but I'll try an organic energy shot I find in Mrs. Green's.

Yummy looking. Actually, it tastes like weak, strained cough syrup. Utterly horrifying. I think perhaps wheat grass juice constitutes a major portion of the product. But at least it's full of vitamins!

If you don't feel like click-to-enlarge-ing, that is 15 calories and 4g of sugar for 333% your Vitamin C, 300% your D (I already had 250% for my day per doctor's orders), 75% Niacin, 100% B6 and Folate, 13% Zinc, 143% Selenium (pretty sure this is what killed the aliens in Evolution with David Duchovny), and 100% Chromium.

Oh, yeah, and 33,333% B12.

Yes. Recount. Five threes in that one. Comma isn't in the wrong place. One giant B12 shot right to your gut. So fine, it tastes atrocious. At least it's healthy and gives you energy, right?

As expected, nope. Not at all. Nada. Zilch. No hyperactivity, no even moderate activity. Just normal activity at best. So EBoost organic energy drink: complete failure. But at least I shouldn't worry about whether I got enough nutrients while getting over my cold.

First World Problems

A couple weeks ago, after seeing this image, I came into work with a soar throat from yelling myself horse alone in my room, working on my Macho Man Randy Savage voice.

All things being considered, I am happy if this is one of my most immediately troubling problems.

On Elected Officials

So Kenya just elected a new president who has the word 'Kenya' right in his name.

I propose we in the rest of the world follow suite:

• The next American president shall be "Ugly Betty" actress America Ferrera, a woman, and Latina.
• The UK will elect as Prime Minister Welsh footballer Mike England.
• Even though he is not a citizen, NFL player Willie Germany will lead Deutchland in its economic expansion, because "Willie Germany."

This was UN meatings can get rid of those little flags or name plates, and the whole thing will be a whole lot more like Hetalia. The real trick is going to be finding somebody named "Tobego" to co-rule with Trinidad Jame$.

On Ferocity, Tenacity, Zealocity

I love animals. The cute ones are fun to hold, and, typically, the ugly ones tend to taste amazing.

However silent auctions are for people who think yelling never solved anything.

Sick Day Lazies

Seasonal Change means everybody I know gets sick.

And that means while you all have a flu or a bug or a death coma, I've gotten my 72 hour head cold.

Thus, I have had quite a bit of time today to finish a book, start the most recent season of Doctor Who, and write out a new shopping list. I even managed to straighten the house a bit, eat fairly well, and place an order for a shipment of specialty mustard. Basically, 80% of what I'd have done on my regular day ff anyway.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch another few episodes of the Doctor until it's time to try to churn out another half-assed post before joining the rest of you coma patients for the night.

How to Tell If Yours Is Not the One True Religion

• No one ever photographs you silhouetted against a backdrop of streaming, radiant light.

• You actually get to see the zombie apocalypse, but your neighbor disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

• The last time you skipped church, booming, ominous choruses of trumpets didn't signal your soul's eternal damnation.

• Your religion encourages you to murder anyone for any reason.

• You are required to convert others just to be considered a good person.

• The first time you made love, the crucifix nailed to your wall fell down and hit you on the head.

• You have to pull into a gas station because your car lit up a "check soul" light.

• You had gay sex outside the missionary position while using birth control with an atheist member of another skin tone after getting drunk on stolen sacramental wine on the Sabbath, and baby Jesus still didn't cry.

•  You are Tom Cruise.

On Phonetitcs

I cme across this insert for what I'm gathering is a DK children's educational product, however, I came across it upside-down, as pictured above. Phonetically, my brain attempted to read the letters as "dick." You know, like "PETA" or "FUBAR," not "Dee-Kay."

So "I'm a dick girl."

Yeah, I bet you are, sweetie. Wait a minute. No. No. You're like nine. That is not cool, DK. Only Disney can market to children sexually. I mean, maybe, one day, by like middle school, high school at the latest, sure, you're going to be a dick girl then. One step-daddy is all it takes. But "fun, hip, sophisticated and confident"? no, I don't think so. Everything but sophisticated, maybe. I've never known a high school whore to be described as sophisticated. This isn't Pretty Woman. You're not Julia Roberts–who I may also say, I dislike strongly as well–you do not get to be classy and a fabulous slut.

And come on, don't mistake a familiarity with dick for confidence. Underneath every teenage trollop is a little girl terrifically afraid of not being accepted or loved. And underneath her is an STI.

That's "Ess-Tee-Eye," not "sty." Although I'm sure she's an emotional mess, too.

Requirements For My Perfect Girlfriend | An Exercise of Choice in Begging

• Owns her own leather jacket

• Has had and likes cats

• Dislikes small dogs

• Shorter than me & weighs less

• Knows how to smile for photos but does not pose the same way ever time

• Does not wear large hoop earrings

• Eats meat, loves bacon

• Is not allergic to basic food components or most berries/fruit

• Has a preference either way in Star Wars v. Star Trek that does not involve Chris Pine

• Keeps her finger nails short

• Prefers that we keep separate bookshelves

• Her favorite author is dead—possibly by suicide—and is either a woman, a Russian, or a raunchy Englishman. She hates Jane Austen.

• Believes gay marriage is none of her goddam business and refuses to discuss it with company, but still votes for expanding civil rights

• Will actually smell/taste/watch and then laugh when I hand her a mysterious substance/expired milk/weird Internet porn

• Has a thin upper lip but round bottom (lip)

• Does not smoke

• Thinks babies are weird, possibly gross.



Image originally from Jeph Jacques

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Planet Fitness has possibly the best business model possible:

Every month they host Free Bagel Day and Free Pizza Day.

No one ever uses that gym membership to begin with, but now they're going to come in just to gorge themselves on carbs. Way to keep your fat, lazy customers from canceling their memberships.

My buddy just told me the SUNY Plattsburgh gym will actually mail you a letter if you haven't showed for a few weeks.

"Hey, buddy. We've missed you. Where you been, lately? You sure you want to keep that membership? Hmm?

You write a letter back, " Hey, sorry, I know, I've just been working a lot lately, and I'm running to class every day-"

"DON'T GIVE ME YOUR SHIT! I know you've been seeing another gym! I bet she's got a Pilates class, doesn't she? How many treadmills does your whore like??"

Which of course leads to the inevitable "Dear Jim/Gym Letter."

Lady Chaterly's [X]

 

A Bit Literal

We told him to "man the fort."

I told him I expected a real fort when I got back.

(That sign reads "No Girls.")

He not only made a fort, he made it man-only.

Well done, Boz.