You Lucky Dog !

[NSFW Warning: This post contains a fair degree of dick humor, and as such it may not be safe for work.  This will be especially true if you work at a kennel or a veterinarian’s office]

Bill Clinton, former president of the United States, was discussing Barack Obama’s having Mitt Romney as an opponent in the most recent election.  President Clinton thought that Obama was quite fortunate to have Romney running against him.  Lucky even.  How lucky?  According to the former leader of the free world, Obama was “luckier than a dog with two dicks”.

See, two dicks are better’n one for dogs. Who don’t know that? Neither one of em has to be any bigger’n this.   (Image from bornrich dot com)

The thought of someone who once held a position of supreme power speaking that way shouldn’t surprise anyone.  Clinton’s time spent at Oxford shouldn’t disqualify him from being prone to saying wacky things either (irrespective of whether he inhaled or not).  If I had to guess, and I do, because no one is talking, I’d say that Bill picked up the analogy back in his days in Arkansas.  In fact, slipping into an Ozark hillbilly accent while talking about a dog with two dicks just adds the perfect zing!

This dog can’t talk, for more than one reason, but if he could, he might well ask how a man with four balls could walk. (Image from noruffdays dot com)

The idea that influential people might use off-color comments in private should not knock anyone’s socks off.  The reality is that when it’s all said and done, these people are still just people.  They put on their handmade, virgin-wool dress slacks the same way I would if I could afford them.

What is truly amazing is that someone somewhere once decided that a dog with two dicks would be a luckier than a dog with the standard issue single weenie.  Men everywhere would admit that having more than one of them would not present much of an advantage.  Most men will tell you it’s tough enough to get the ladies to pay any attention to the ones they already have.  A quick search of the internet will reveal thousands of products to make them harder and/or bigger, but none to make them multiply.  It would seem that having two would only make getting attention that much tougher, not to mention possibly creating some jealousy issues between the little rascals.

Many theorists believe that males think with their “boy-parts”.  While this generalization is usually made in reference to men and not dogs, one need only recall the neighborhood dynamics the last time Daisy the Labradoodle was in heat to realize the cross-species applicability.  A dog with two dicks would likely be downright schizophrenic.  I imagine an angel dick on one shoulder and a devil dick on the other, each vying for Rover’s attention.

This brings up another troubling aspect to the notion of a two-dicked Dachshund;  Where exactly on a given dog would the second one be located?  Putting it right next to the first would make sense anatomically, since all the plumbing hook-ups are already handy.  Beyond the simplicity of pipe connections though, that location makes no sense.  The competition issues will be staggering, and Bowser can forget about trying to write his name in the snow.

As the old real estate saying goes, “Location, Location, Location!”  While I admit that doctoring a photo of a Bassett Hound or a Welsh Corgi might have had better comedic effect, using a Bluetick Coonhound may have been more accurate considering the term’s likely roots.  (original image from Wikipedia dot org, doctored badly by the author)

All things considered, one can see why this colorful bit of whimsy had not made it out of Arkansas until now.  Regardless, Clinton proves that even after their time in office, politicians are still more than capable of amusing and enlightening us.

Willie Prader, Private Eye – Deadly Sin Series – A Glutton For Punishment

Willie Prader had a bad feeling about this one.  Like maybe he’d bit off more than he could chew.

The leggy blonde named Crystal had sauntered through the door and into his life just a week before.  For someone who made his living being observant, he should have learned by now – trouble was always blonde, and it always sauntered.

The job was simple.  She was convinced that her husband was cheating.  Willie’d been a private dick since Moses was a pup, but still had to wonder what kind of guy cheats on a bombshell like this dame.  She had the face of a starlet, and he couldn’t help but notice how her legs got together and made an ass of themselves.

Prader parked his battered Lincoln at the White Castle across the highway from the Palace Diner and waited.  The guy drove a ’68 Fleetwood, so he’d be hard to miss.  When Mr. Light finally pulled up at the Palace, Prader was amazed to find out just how hard to miss he actually was.  The guy got out of the Caddy and the chassis elevated like one the Impalas the kids drive out in L.A.  Only this car didn’t have complicated hydraulics, it heaved up because the guy who got out of it had to tip the scales at five bills or more.  He leaned down and checked his massive face in the little mirror on the door, then shifted his bulk toward the diner entrance.

Prader chuckled to himself.  He never would’ve guessed that a doll like Crystal would be married to a guy who looked like he was built when meat was cheap.  He leaned back on the Lincoln, lit a Lucky and watched across the lanes of blacktop as the round man somehow crammed himself into a booth.  The waitress was hovering at his table, spending too much time for someone who should be hustling up and down the aisle slinging hash for tips.   She laughed and smiled at him,  touching his arm as he shifted his attention between her and the glossy menu.

Willie decided to get a closer look at this little romance.  He jogged across the highway and stood in the shadows just outside the neon glow of the flickering sign.  He considered his surroundings, making sure he wouldn’t be too conspicuous.  He looked back up to the window and saw the booth was empty.  For a minute, he thought maybe he was looking at the wrong booth.  Just then, he felt the massive ham-hand grip his arm like a vise.  He was pretty sure the pain in his ribs was the business end of a Colt, maybe a Baretta.  The man-mountain pushed him toward the diner door and the barrel of the handgun kept him moving.

Light stared at him across the booth with tired eyes.  The waitress looked at Prader with just a hint of dull surprise after putting three platters down in front of the big man.  She smiled briefly at Light as she left.

“My wife sent you snooping” Light declared.  “She knows I’m cheating,” he continued, “but look at this plate of sausage and eggs with hash browns.  Do you have any idea how many points that meal is?  Sorry pal, but I can’t lose Crystal because of what you or some team of cardiologists tell her.”

Prader swore at himself as he lay bound and gagged in the trunk of the Caddy, probably on his way to a landfill.  If he got out of this alive, he’d need to listen closer to clients, especially the blonde ones.