Category Family

My complicated dog

I believe my dog came from the womb with some serious issues. First, I should say she was a brilliant Harvard educated lawyer, that’s a fact. She mocked her profession by seemingly only taking on the worst of the worst with gusto and pride, all the while garnering millions in fees for representing drug lords, gangsters and former republican presidents of the United States. Her client list at one time included three of the FBI’s most wanted international criminals. She was well paid and disrespected in the legal profession on a world wide level.
She was a racist. From the time we met her to the last time we saw her if she saw a black person, she was filled with a deep rage and singular hatred that was remarkable in its passion. I am almost positive that she never had a single bad experience with an African American, at any time in her life. But I could promise you this, if a young black man walked by our house, minding his own business, ear buds in his ears and a slight dance in his step, my dog would run from the farthest recesses of our house, throw her nose against the front door window and bark like she was intent on stopping the second coming of Hitler.
Speaking of Hitler, my dog was the most anti-Semitic creature I have ever encountered and I know and love many Jews and they can be the most anti-Semitic people you can every imagine. We did not know of her deep seated hatred for all things kosher until one simple, quite evening as the kids and I gathered for a typical night celebrating one of the nights of Hanukkah. At one point one of my daughters just started to sing the dreidel song and our dog went ballistic. She howled like a police siren was blasting in her ear. She would have none of that Jewish singing in her house. From that moment until her very last, if she heard the opening words of the dreidel song, she would bark, yelp, jump and completely tea-bagger crazy on us with relentless carping until we would stop singing. In the last 6 years we have been completely unable to sing the dreidel song in its entirety. That was the power she had over us.
She was also an out and proud lesbian. Now, I personally know way too many gay people, almost all of them are in one sense or another out and proud, but I am not sure if they are really proud of be gay, or that they are at peace with it and could care less if anyone else has an issue with it. Proud or confident in their position in life, it is not really important. My dog, on the other hand, she was proud. When you looked at her, a little chubby sometimes, her hair uncombed, her attitude relaxed and confident and beautiful, she was the epitome of proud. She had a long term lover, a lazy and inconsiderate cat named Momma Kitty, a strong black woman that always made us wonder how such a racist like our dog could be so madly in love with an African American cat.
At a young age Momma Kitty began to be sexually active and as it always is with the irresponsible youth, she got herself pregnant and had some babies. A few months later this moronic bag of horniness and abject desire did it again, pregnant a second time within a three month span. In a short month she spewed out another eight unwanted children. It could not have been two months later that her belly swelled, she moaned and grew even more unpleasant and she gave birth to six more babies. This time it took a surgeon to end her misbegotten ways.
Through all this sex and baby making, Beth seemed to fall deeper and deeper in love. I, of course, lost almost all respect for Momma Kitty, who was a prolific baby making machine, but kind and everything, but uneducated and disrespectful in almost all other aspects of our personal interactions.
We were not friends, but since she soon became Beths longterm partner, I learned to tolerate her, as she did me. I believe in my heart that she thought I was truly a sloth and a bore. Her look alone made me anorexic and neurotic. Beth continued a devotion only available in fantasy relationship rom-com movies.
A week ago Beth and Momma Kitty passed away, at exactly the same time. So maybe I should be kind of happy that the souls of a racist over educated anti semite and a lustful, irresponsible bisexual hater have moved on,but I have to say, I wake every morning and I miss them with a broken heart and a yearning I can’t even explain. Beth Libitard

I ask

I used to have a part of my bucket list that had me laying strapped to a gurney, a broken bone in my spine, pushed into a well lit closet in a trauma unit of a major city hospital, with my eyes fixated on a clock hanging on a blank wall just within my sight, as unknown doctors patrolled the aisles outside of the room. I could see the minutes roll by until 20 had passed, laying in excruciating pain, no medical personal in the same room, and as my mouth dried from recent smoke damage and my back screaming in vile pain and as per my bucket list posting, I would begin screaming out “help” in hopes than any medical professional within earshot would respond. But because my bucket list is a little S and M project, I would lay there for another 15 minutes periodically screaming help, but the busy white coated doctors and their assorted staffs would fail to respond.

A week ago, for whatever reason, I was able to mark that particular adventure off my bucket list, thanks in large part of the careless and moronic staff at Allegheny General Hospital. For those moments of sublime torture, I thank them for their inaction. One more thing I can remove from my list.

At the top of the stairs

I closed my eyes and all I could think of was how angry I was at my best friend, a chipmunk. Sure, I am positive that at some point a friend or spiritual advisor warned me not to fall in love with a chipmunk, but I was much younger when I met Billy Bob Chipmunk and now we are just stuck with one another.
Chipmunks age differently than humans, so when I found Billy Bob living on the bumper of my old Ford truck and I asked him what he was doing there and all he could muster was a smile, I knew he could end up being trouble. Of course, at the time, I had no clue what sort of trouble I would end up getting into.
He was young then, but that was eons ago and now he is old and cranky and sometimes cynical and brutish. I forgive everything because sometimes I am the same way.
Billy Bob has long been known for his dancing.
I’m not quite sure how this came about, because at the time we met, I was a professional dancer and he was, well, a chipmunk. Soon enough we were doing double bills at Carnegie Hall and “Shake and Bake,” the first a professional theater in New York City, the second, a strip club for stoners in Denver.
As Billy Bobs knees began to give out and his racist diatribes became even more offensive, I had to give up the stage to dedicate my life to my first love, medicine. Sure, I flunked out of med school long ago, but like most doctors working in America, I just faked it. Looking back on my decades as a surgeon I can honestly say that a decent percentage of my patients did not die painfully.
So imagine my shock this week when I found out that Billy Bob Chipmunk had secretly been keeping detailed notes on not only my illegal medical activities, but also my moonshining business. I think I did what any professional surgeon/moonshine provider would do, I brought Billy Bob to the circus and sold him for five dollars.
When I was talking to my shrink yesterday, Dr. Fivingstook, I mentioned that Billy Bob was no longer with me and the good doctor dropped his maniacal on the floor and said, “why that can’t be, I saw him just yesterday, performing at “Spangles” which is one of our cities grimiest and disgusting pool hall and frenzy dancing palaces. A lot of people don’t even know what a Frenzy Dance Palace is, but then again, we are not in Europe anymore.
That said, life without Billy Bob Chipmunk has been a lot nicer than I could have imagined. My super smart lawyer told me that while my recent chipmunk removal was highly immoral, it was also super legal, which in the end is almost all that matters.
That said, I got a call from a mormon missionary this morning who told me he had spent the majority of the evening drinking illegal moonshine and “talking shit” with a very verbal and racist chipmunk and it was then that I knew, at some point, our paths would again cross.

I believe that was God

I met God the other day.
At least I believe I met god the other day. I was standing in the line at my local pharmacy and this long gray haired Jewish man, with a bad back, was standing in front of me. At no point in particular he turned and with a wry smile on his wrinkled and weathered face he asked, “how ya doing?”
I smiled, because quite honestly, I could not remember the last time anyone had asked me such a caring question, and I replied, “could not be better, how about you?”
“Oye, my back hurts,” God said, “that’s why I’m here. I don’t like to take the pain medication, but it’s the only thing I can do to get any rest.”
“How old are you,” I asked.
“Today? Today I feel like I am a thousand years old.”
“Well, then, you should take all the pain medication you need.”
“Oh I will, but as I said, I don’t like taking it. I have much to do and the medication slows me down.”
“How can you have so much to do, you are obviously quite old.”
“Being old does not preclude you from accomplishment,” God said.
“Well, good luck to you,” I said, without any hint of sarcasm.
“So we are done here?” God asked, almost seeking sympathy.
“Well, I was getting the idea you needed to move on.”
“Not at all, I am enjoying our conversation. You seem like a friendly sort.”
“Oh I am.”
“You do know who I am, yes?”
“An old Jewish man waiting in line at the pharmacy?”

“That is true, but I am more than an old man.”
“Arn’t we all,” I said, that time sarcastically.
“I am a father, and I am more than a father,” God said, with all sorts of intonations that seemed to reveal he was speaking in metaphor. My ears seemed to perk up just a bit and my focus was sharper than I can recall it being in years.
It was right after he said that little poetic mystery that a cashier opened up and waved him over. He walked away from me, in obvious discomfort. I was waiting in line when it dawned on me, that old man was God. I sensed it more than anything, but it was a clear give away when I realized that not only was he in great personal pain (probably from the sins of all humanity) but he was also still finding the time to comfort a stranger and offer sage advice. For a second I closed my eyes and basked in the beauty of my conversation with God.
Another cashier was waving and so I walked up and gave her my name and she turned to get my medication. I looked to my right and God was gone. Just like that. A small miracle because an elderly Jewish man who grimaces when he walks could not just disappear so quickly, unless, of course, he was God.
When the pharmacist assistant came back with my medication, she looked at me and said, “you look blissful, as you sure you even need this medication?”
“Well, I was talking to God a minute ago and now I feel a sense of peace I have never quite experienced,” I said, with a beatific smile on my face.
“Yeah,” she said, “ you totally need your meds.”