Top Ten Things to do when Miami comes to the Q:

Hi, everyone. More venting:

10. Buy a ticket, but don’t show up.

9. Boo The Traitor, Wade and Bosh every time they touch the ball. Don’t just boo The Traitor. They were all in on it.

8. Wear a Miami #6 replica that says “Wade’s Bitch” where The LBJerkoff’s name would be.

7. Sit with your back to the floor whenever The Traitor is at the free throw line.

6. Do the wave for the entire game: but when you stand up, you say “LeBron sucks,” or something similar, instead of the usual cheer.

5. Wear a Dan Gilbert mask.

4. Bring a sign that says: “Your real fans are Mo Williams fans now.” (Or insert your favorite real Cavalier.)

3. When The Traitor is at the free throw line, instead of “MVP,” yell “POS.”

2. Go as a couple: male wearing a Delonte West mask; female wearing a Gloria James mask.

And the number one thing to do when Miami comes to the Q:

1. Cheer for the Cavs like it’s Game Seven of the NBA Championship.


Also, someone had the idea for a great t-shirt: Picture of Judas Iscariot, Benedict Arnold and LeDickface. Caption: The Big Three.

Some ideas I have seen or heard about for the Witness sign on the building across from the Q:
1. Change witness to "Witless."
2. Change witness to "Winless."
3. Make a completely new sign with a noose around LeBum's neck. (I know: that would be accused of being racist. But we all know that it isn't. It's about LeBron.)
4. Best one: replace it with a picture of Josh Cribbs with the caption "True to my word."

Dwyane Wade has his bitch's back with Dan Gilbert

I have turned over the blog to the big dope. He is in rant mode, so it's either let him spew here or listen to it all weekend. I am hoping he gets it out of his system. By the way, there is still no word on whether I will undergo a name change. Since I am undergoing a neutralization surgery on Wednesday, perhaps that will be an opportune time to change my name. In the meantime, I wish the big dope would stop calling me "Traitor."

Dwyane Wade says, "I think I'm happy that I have the owner that I have here in Miami. I'm happy Micky Arison is my owner. I couldn't believe it [what Dan Gilbert, the Cavs' owner said]. I'm speechless. It's very unfortunate and I think it makes LeBron that much better about his decision."

What? He thinks that Micky Arison is a better owner than Dan Gilbert? Are you kidding? The Micky Arison whose strategy was to let the Miami Heat fall apart and play like crap for two years or more. The Micky Arison who did nothing to improve the team but in fact did everything in his power to make the Heat crap. The Micky Arison whose move was to position the Heat to have salary cap room to go after three (3!!!) top level superstar free agents in one year. That is unprecedented. And Gilbert does everything he can to help the Cavs win. And Gilbert was very successful, even if the Cavs didn't win the NBA Championship. That is not an easy thing to do. Newsflash: There are other teams trying to win it, too.

So Gilbert loses his superstar after doing everything in his power to keep him and Gilbert loses his rag. And that makes Arison a better owner. Let me ask you this, Dwyane: When did Arison ever lose a free agent of LeBron's ability? He traded Shaq to Phoenix at the end of Shaq's career. That was not a free agency loss and Shaq's skills had diminished by that point anyway. So Arison never had any reason to feel slighted. When did Arison ever take a player under his wing financially by introducing him to big names in the financial world, by getting him invited to places where not even the rich can go? Gilbert said he felt personally slighted by LeBron's actions yesterday and he has a right to feel that way, considering everything he has done for LeBron.

Some day we will find out that the Heat were overtly tampering with LeBron and Bosh; that Wade was basically the agent for the Heat front office. He pretended to be a free agent when all along he knew he was going to stay in Miami and he recruited LeBron and Bosh. It looks like it is just the three of them talking and that there is no front office involvement, but it was the Heat strategy from the beginning. I call for a Congressional investigation into NBA basketball and, specifically, the Heat and their actions over the last six months.

That is all.

S*** bag leaves Cleveland

Well, I sure am glad that the big dope named me after that POS LBJ. Now my only question is: Is he going to rename me? Or is he going to start calling me S***bag?

So, LBJ says, "I hope my real fans follow me to Miami."

Well, here's a news flash for you LeBron: the big dope was a Cavs fan before he was a LeBron fan. And he will be a Cavs fan tomorrow and next week and next year and when your career is nothing but a memory. You made being a Cavs fan fun, but only during the regular season.

The big dope says, "Good luck, LeBron. I hope that you do the same thing for Miami that you did for Cleveland: win lots of regular season games."

On the plus side, Cavs tickets just got easier to get. I'll be there for a few games next year.

Go Germany!

Tried my hand at a little footy in honor of the Germans wins against the bloody English and the ridiculous Argentinians. Finally time for a serious match tomorrow against the pre-tournament favorites. I think the Germans will win and it will be an all-northern European final. Sick and tired of hearing how the northern Europeans can't hold a candle to the Mediterranean types. We'll see tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy the vid.

Slept alone last night

For all my fans out there:



I am feeling great. But Reagan, on the other hand, is feeling a little under the weather. You probably can't tell from the picture. It looks like she is sleeping. But, trust me on this, at the moment that picture was taken, Reagan felt like butt warmed over.

I am hoping that she will be back home tonight so that I won't have to sleep alone again tonight. Hey, there's lots of weird noises outside that door every night. Reagan is pretty tough and is keeping me safe while I grow up.

Dinner Time!

Look at how good we are. We wait patiently (well, maybe not patiently, but we wait) at the top of the stairs ... a million miles from our bowls (well...). When the bowls have been filled, we are called. Watch what happens when the big dope says, "Reagan, go Irish. Bronwyn, go Cavs."

How about that? We each go to our own bowl. I am the best at that of course, because I go right past Reagan's bowl to get to mine. Isn't it incredible how I leave Reagan's food alone? Do you see the sweetheart in the background at the beginning of the video?

Wednesday Update

Here are some new pictures of me. The first picture is me with St. Francis and Reagan. Now, look closely at the picture. Which of us is the most photogenic? That's right. I feel bad for Reagan. She looks like such a dope.



Here are some pictures of just me and my favorite saint.

Burger King

The big dope went to Burger King yesterday.

What do you think he saw?



That's right. The president of the United States!

Which one is me?

Here is a picture that might show me with my brothers and sisters. Which one is me?

Daisy

I have been told that Bronwyn and I have a new cousin: Daisy.

Welcome, Daisy!



So, Bronwyn and I have decided that we would pool our money and buy a little welcome to the family gift for Daisy's big dope and sweetheart.

A Super Duper Pooper Scooper:




Now all you need is an extra large garbage can to hold it all.

Three Lions!!!

Moments before disaster:




Well, well, well. The three lions looking more like three little pussy cats, don't you think?



Time to get rid of the crap generation and move on to the next load of shite that England will put forth onto the World Cup stage. At least in America we aren't delusional about our football.

Deutschland uber England

Rule Britannia,
Britannia rue the day.
England's clearly worse than USA

New pictures of me!!

Here is a picture of me with St. Francis. Oops, looks like I was too fast for the big dope. I was sitting one second and, as he pushed the shutter, I took right off. Hah. Good luck to the big dope getting a picture of me.



I think the big dope is underestimating my sneakiness.

Rhubarb

Well, Memorial Day was great! I had loads of fun, for awhile, at least. Here's how it went:


The big dope decided he wanted to plant rhubarb a few weeks ago. Mistake number 1.
The big dope looked at his rhubarb on Memorial Day and thought it could use a little water. So, he left a hose with a little running water at the base of the rhubarb. Mistake number 2.
Attracted by the pool of water which was forming around the base of the rhubarb, I wade in. Mistake number 3.
Then I dig and splash around. No mistake here, at least, not so much.
But then I decide to eat the rhubarb. Mistake number 4.
The fourth mistake was the really bad one. Everything else was just an accident waiting to happen. Like tort lawyers say: "Everywhere I look, I see litigation waiting to happen."
So, the pics below are what I looked like just after the big dope stopped me. He and the sweetheart both thought I looked cute. They weren't thinking about what it was I just ate. What a dope!
Anyway, the rhubarb gave me pretty bad gastrointestinal distress which didn't really manifest itself until about 4 am, when I let loose in my crate. No one woke up until about 5:30. And their hearts sank with the prospect of the cleaning job in front of them early in the morning on the first day back to work after a long weekend.
It took them until Tuesday evening to determine that the cause of my problem was probably the rhubarb. They decided to let me ride it out. Hah! By Thursday, they decided that I should go to the vet. They gave me metronidazole (what?) for the rhubarb and that makes no sense to me since it is an antibacterial. The vet said it would help to ease the distress in my bowels. And, maybe it did. Now, I haven't gone since Thursday at 2 pm (as I write this it is Saturday morning at 8 am).
Well, enjoy the pictures. It was what I looked like the last time I felt good. And, by the way, I lost six pounds since Monday, from 34 to 28 pounds. That diarrhea will get you every time.

Donald was out!

Reagan and I have been having a little argument. Donald was out. The moment Galarraga touched the base with the ball in his mitt, Donald was out. The umpire did not need to make the call for Donald to be out. However, the referee DID blow the call, so Donald got to stay on first and the official scorer called it a hit. More on the official scorer later.

Even though I think Donald was out, I have an issue with the dopey ESPN writer who is writing in this age of entitlement. Here's the link, if you want to give him a hit. Here is the article, with my comments in red, below:

Bud Selig can get the shrug back. Right here, right
now.
Mulligans aren't normally awarded in sports. Bill Buckner cannot get
that Mookie grounder
back, Scott Norwood
cannot get wide right back, and Greg Norman cannot get a hundred Sunday putts
back. [And that's as it should be.]
But Bud, this one's for you. Remember that shrug at the 2002 All-Star Game
in your very own Milwaukee backyard, where you threw those bony hands in the
air, slapped on your best Willy Loman expression, and told the finest baseball
players in the world their spirited 11-inning contest would end in a 7-7 tie?
You're getting a do-over, Bud, and here's a little unsolicited advice: Don't
shrug this second time around.
Invoke your best-interests-of-the-game powers
to make Armando Galarraga and
Jim Joyce and Jason Donald and
the rest of baseball whole. [WHAT?]
The imperfect man pitched the perfect game, Bud, just like the old newspaper
story said. The offending umpire, Jim Joyce, is in full agreement even as he
picks through the rubble and ash of a distinguished baseball life.
[+] Enlarge
Andy Lyons/Getty Images Bud Selig, we still remember the 2002 All-Star Game.
Make us forget it.
"It was the biggest call of my career," Joyce conceded as
he reportedly paced in his dressing room, "and I kicked the [stuff] out of it. I
just cost that kid a perfect game."
So this isn't only about granting
Detroit's Galarraga
his rightful corner of history, or about acknowledging that Galarraga caught Miguel Cabrera's
throw and put his foot on the first-base bag before Cleveland's Donald did the
same.
This is about freeing Joyce from the grim prison cell that will hold
him for the rest of his professional days. [Please.]
Don Denkinger can fill you in. He once told me on the
phone about his infamous blown call that turned the 1985 World Series, when he
ruled Kansas City's Jorge Orta safe at first before replays showed that the
Cardinals' Todd Worrell had beaten him to the bag.
"It's a
crushing feeling," said Denkinger, who received death threats and a
never-ending stream of hate mail from gamblers and fans. "You can't imagine what
a person feels when you're written about, talked about, and then they show 13
different angles of the call in slow motion."
Life isn't fair [That's right, life isn't fair.], but we like to
think of stadiums and arenas as places to go to escape life for a few hours.
Games are supposed to be fair. [But, they still aren't and can never
be completely fair. Human error happens.] What went down in Comerica Park on
Wednesday night was a million miles from fair. [Maybe so, but, the rules of the game were followed. The umpire
made his call. It was a bad call. There is nothing that can be done about it.
Worse things have happened. Should we go back and overturn every bad call? Has
any other perfect game ever been ruined by a bad call in the first inning? The
second? Should we scour through the history of all one hit games to determine
how many of those should be overturned? Why, all of a sudden, does nearly
everyone want to give this pitcher a perfect game after an umpire blew it for
him?]
So the expanded use of instant replay is the issue of
the day, the item atop the commissioner's morning agenda. Only there's no time
to measure the merits of . technology against the charms of a sport officiated by fallible
men.
That debate isn't going to help Galarraga, or Joyce, or millions of right-minded
baseball fans who need some healing ASAP. [Oh, boo hoo, millions of
right-minded men need some healing. What kind of entitlement crap are you
spouting? I tell you what, let's give everyone a participation trophy, too. Oh,
and we can't stop at just the players who got into the game, oh no, we have to
give participation trophies to the guys who were on the bench,
too.]
Selig shouldn't wait. Even the city of Cleveland would
be with him on this one. [Please don't presume that
the city of Cleveland would be with anyone on anything. They have been shit on
for 46 years. They have had their football team taken away from them by a lying
pig of a man who had no grasp of loyalty after owning the team for thirty years.
Cleveland fans could give a crap.]
He wouldn't be fighting a
powerful and antagonistic players union over the issue of performance-enhancing
drugs, and he wouldn't be flexing his pecs in an attempt to stop or expedite the
sale of a team.
Selig would simply be using his power to call a batter out
at first. If the "best interests of baseball" clause doesn't cover that, what
the hell does it cover? [How about this?: It covers
ensuring the integrity of the umpire's decision. It ensures that whiny bitches
like you don't ruin the outcome of games by filing petitions to overturn calls
every time something goes wrong. Hey, wake up, ESPN guy, bad calls happen in every game. Every damn game. Missed balls and strikes happen every
inning, probably. Do you want to use the best interests of baseball to allow
every game to be petitioned? No, you probably think I'm going overboard. Well,
I'm not. Rules are rules and that's the end of it. You are going overboard with
your whining. Stop it, man up, and get on with it.]
"I just
watched the replay 20 times," Galarraga said, "and there's no way you can call him
safe." [Correct. Except for this: there is a picture
out there that shows that Joyce was not looking at the bag, even though he said
he was. Joyce was looking at the mitt. That is bad technique. Maybe he blinked.
It happens. It happens. It happens. Let's all go down to the bar and cry about
it for awhile. Let's write an article for ESPN calling for MLB to give in to anarchy.
Let the guy have his perfect game. NO!]
Baseball players,
coaches and managers are taught to move on from a moment like this. Get over it.
Prepare for the next day's game. [Exactly. You get
it. So, why are you whining?]
You're supposed to live and
die with the good and bad breaks, and remember that the 162-game season is an
endless narrative that rewards the characters who weather the most plot twists. [Right again.]
But those terms
of engagement just don't cut it here. There's no moving on from the damnation of
the 21st perfect game in history, and the third in a month. [Yes, there is. If this game had happened in 1936, there would be
no argument. But of course, it did not happen in 1936. It happened with the eyes
of the entire country on it because of instant replay and ESPN. Why should the
result of this game be changed just because there is video evidence? The video
evidence makes it harder to swallow, but it is not evidence that can be used to
change a result, because there is no rule that permits results to be changed.
And if you are going to allow an exception for this, you will have to allow an
exception for that and for that and for the other and before you know it, the
game is a joke. No one will know the result of a game, no one will know the
official stats of a game until days later after all of the reviewing has been
done.]
This commissioner has always loved to be loved. In
fact, I've never met a sports executive who cares more about his or her public
standing than Bud Selig. [If he bases all of his
decisions on a need to be loved, he is not a man. He needs to do the right thing
and let the chips fall where they may. The right thing is easy: read the rules,
follow the rules, have a meeting with the umpire and tell him to be more
careful, have a meeting with the pitcher and his manager and the team, if
necessary, and tell them to get over it.]
He wants you to
appreciate him for introducing the wild card, for authorizing the Mitchell
Report, and for giving birth to the World Baseball Classic. He would also prefer
it if you forgot all about that 7-7 score at the 2002 All-Star Game. [It was an All-Star game, for God's sake. Nobody
cares! It happened eight years ago and I had forgotten all about it until you
brought it up again. For the love of God, man, get over it. I repeat: it was and
All-Star game.]
Well, here's your big chance, Bud. The
Tigers are in the books as 3-0 winners either way.
So grab your heaviest
lumber, step into the box, and remember one last thing:
Don't shrug. [Once again, a writer for ESPN leaves me in complete
shock and disbelief that he is being paid for writing an asinine opinion piece.
I know I shouldn't read this crap. I know it is being written for no other
reason than to get hits and sell advertising. I know that the first word in ESPN
is entertainment, but that shouldn't excuse them for writing such
tripe.]

By the way, if the
commissioner follows this loon's advice, that means that Donald would lose a hit
and his average would go down. The next batter, who made the last out of the
game, would have one less at bat and his batting average would go up. Cabrera
would get an assist and Galarraga putout on the Donald play, and whoever
made the play on the last batter would lose an assist and a putout. And,
everyone who was betting on the game (and all of the people who lost their bets
that this would be a perfect game, and you know that there was such betting
going on by about the sixth inning, would be entitled to their winnings,
wouldn't they?

I said I would say more about the official scorer. If the umpire thought that the ball was being bobbled, why didn't the official scorer rule the play an error? Does the ball have to be completely dropped for it to be an error? I don't think so. And, if it were an error, then Galarraga would at least officially have a no-hitter, even if not perfect. I have heard of official scorer's changing their ruling after a game is over, so I think that this could at least be done.

Donald was safe!

Why was he safe, you may ask? Because the umpire called him safe. That's why. It's unfortunate that the umpire missed the call. Galarraga actually had the ball in his mitt and his foot on the bag before Donald had his foot on the bag. That does not make Donald out. One more thing is required to make Donald out. That is the umpire's call. If the umpire blows the call, it is an unfortunate thing. But it is what it is. I was once in England and visited Wembley. In the museum, there was a display that showed Geoff Hurst scoring a goal in the 1966 World Cup final against Germany. It was the goal that won the game, I think. From the angle shown, it appeared that the ball never completely crossed the goal line (that is the test - the entire ball must cross the line, unlike football in which only the smallest portion of the ball must be over the line). Along with the display, there was a question: "Was it a goal?" It is a poorly worded question, in my opinion. Of course it was a goal. It was so because the referee called it a goal. A better question would have been, "Did the ball cross the goal line?" That was a lot tougher to answer. But, even if you answered no, the ball did not cross the goal line, you would still have had to say that it was a goal. Because the referee said it was a goal. End of rant.

Reagan taking it to Bronwyn

Bronwyn has no chance against the mighty Reagan. While this is not being done with a soccer ball, it is still an athletic event worthy of note. Bronwyn, in the style of a schoolgirl midfielder, has no clue what to do with me as I exhibit flair and panache, racing about the yard. Bronwyn attacks in hack mode, trying to physically dominate a superior athlete. She turns one way, then the next, making feeble attempts to catch up to me, but, like Bayern Munich midfielders against the mighty Inter, simply could not cope. The only thing she is capable of once she catches me is cynical hacking. For this, she should see red.

Here are a few pics to mollify the fans out there.

Well, the big dope says that the aspirin is finally starting to work on his headache. He's been taking it ever since Friday morning. I think it had something to do with the Cavs and a large amount of drinking that started Tuesday night and continued into the wee hours of Friday.

Anyway, here are the pictures and a bonus three second video.

Of couse, I start with me. I was just waking up and knew that I would need to be loose for the chasing of Bronwyn around the yard event which was soon to begin. Remember, ladies, always stretch before exercise!


Here's Bronwyn with St. Francis.



Here's Bronwyn looking a little bored. Remind you of picture taking when you were little, girls?


Nasssty stick. Bronwyn chews 'em.

This was the beginning of a long run around the yard, me chasing Bronwyn. The big dope started cursing right away, we ignored him. I think the batteries in the camera wore out. What at BIG DOPE!

Champions League, here we come!

Well, the big dope was happy enough yesterday, what with Spurs clinching at least 4th place in the Premiership, thus ensuring their presence in at least a qualifying tie for the Champions League this summer. Spurs can still finish 3rd if the Arseholes lose (not likely) and Spurs win (likely). If they finish 3rd, they progress straight to the Champions League and Arsenal would have to qualify.

Here are a few views of the touch that clinched it:

The goal was the immediate result of a shot that was deflected poorly by the keeper (who had played a great game and did well to hold Spurs to only one goal) directly onto the head of Peter Crouch. Crouch made no mistake, having missed wide earlier, and sent the faithful Yiddos into throes of ecstasy with his 83rd minute goal. A demoralized City squad could barely finish the game and Spurs nearly went up two moments later.

Who will Harry buy to shore up the club for an assault on Europe? Time will tell.

For those of you checking in for more pictures of me...tough. Maybe later.

Euchre

Well, I learned how to play euchre yesterday with my sisters from Indiana and California. I kept getting confused what with Jacks being Bauers and everything. I thought there was only one Jack Bauer.

Training

Last night, the big dope took me to my first training session. Let's hope he learns his lessons well, because I wasn't paying attention to anything that the trainer said.

The first thing I noticed was some crap on the back of some lady's leg. Her dog had pooed in the car (or somewhere) and some poo had gotten on her pants without her knowing it. Fortunately for her, some nice people there helped her out. Not the big dope, though. He was so busily immersed in his own little life and thoughts that he just sat there and watched the whole thing play out. What a nice, helpful man!

So, the big dope was sitting there, hopefully taking it all in, when suddenly we got up and we had to walk over to stand with our backs to a wall. There were six other dogs there. One of the dogs had its own big dope there. The other five had their sweethearts with them. Don't ask me.

Well, the big dope starts acting all like he's done this before. You know, acting cool like he's heard it all before. Then, when he is asked to do the things that were being talked about...not so much. Not so cool anymore, hey, big dope? A little flustered trying to go through everything in the right order, are we? Well, then. Looks like you have a lot to practice before you go back the next time. Don't want to look like a big dope, do we, you big dope? I didn't think so.

Let's see, what did the big dope learn? He would probably say, "Nothing." (see above) But in reality, he learned a lot. Here goes:

1. Don't be mean to your dog. Be nice. When you are trying to get your dog to do something, figure out a way to trick the dog into thinking it was her idea. Then praise, praise, praise. Sounds a lot like the office. Or coaching soccer. Or raising a child. Or dealing with the sweetheart. Or...you get the idea.

2. There are lots of types of collars for working with the dog. There is the regular collar. There is a thing called a "Gentle Leader." There is something similar to a gentle leader that is really closer to a muzzle. I don't remember the name. There is a choke collar (the trainer said she preferred to call it something else that sounded nicer). And there is another gizmo that has lots of prongs that stick into a dog's neck. She didn't recommend it, but did say that it has its uses and that there might be occasion to use it in certain situations. I don't remember the name of that one, either. The big dope was all proud of himself for having a gentle leader. Then he didn't even use it because (at least for now) he can control me fairly well without it. We will see how that goes.

3. There is a specific way to hold the leash. The trainer wants the big dope to hold the leash using a baseball grip (both hands) over at the left hand side of the body. It looks like it might take the big dope a little time to get used to that, but he was trying. His big problem is self-consciousness. Hey, big dope, get over it and get on with it.

4. There is a position called the "heel position." That is where I am sitting nicely next to the big dope, next to his heel. It's where everything starts.

5. There is a proper way to start walking. You don't automatically say, "Heel." That means something very specific. I can walk nicely next to the big dope without being in heel mode.

6. The big dope can start me walking by saying anything he wants. As long as it is the same thing every time, of course. The big dope has chosen to say, "Let's go." When he says that, he starts walking with his left foot first and I am supposed to follow. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Not everything is easy, you big dope.

7. When the trainer says, "Halt," and whenever the big dope feels like it, probably, the big dope is supposed to stop me by saying, "Sit." And he is supposed to run his left hand down the leash, bend over, place three fingers of his right hand under my collar and finally run his left hand down my back from my shoulder to my butt while saying "Sit." He is supposed to apply slight pressure to my butt, if necessary, but he is not to say "sit" again. Only one command is given and I am supposed to do what he says. Sheesh. I think he's trying to establish who's boss. We'll see how that goes, too. Another thing. If my butt is sticking out too far (that is, if I am not facing forward), the big dope is to touch my side and say, "Over." That is my signal to face forward. And the trainer told him that he is supposed to make me sit before everything. Everything. That's going to get old.

8. The big dope also learned a command that is supposed to give me freedom. It's like "At ease" in the Army. The trainer calls that a "break." She said that she sometimes uses the command, "Okay" for this, but that she didn't really recommend it. She told all the people there to think of what command they would use for break, and then they had to do it. My big dope said, "Come." What a dope. Not only is that a command for something else entirely, the trainer had earlier said that every time anyone used the command "come" for the first three sessions, they would owe her fifteen dollars. And that everyone had one free pass. Well, the big dope used up his free pass in the most stupid way imaginable. I am still looking forward to hearing the command he will use for break. I get the feeling that he is trying to think of something really clever that will make him think that everybody thinks he is cool and hip. God only knows what he'll come up with. He'll probably think it's cool while everyone else realizes that he has exposed himself as a useless idiot. Worse, he won't even know. And then, of course, I am supposed to magically know what he wants. He'll probably end up saying something really imaginative. Like, "Break." And then feel all dumb about it. (He has a right to feel dumb, in my opinion.)

9. Praise. The big dope is supposed to praise me a lot every time I do something right. And maybe even give me a treat. I can get used to that, I bet.

10. He is supposed to touch me all over and tell me what my body parts are. So, he did a bunch of that and embarrassed the crap out of me by touching my ears and nose and mouth and teeth and back and paws and eyes and stomach and giving me the English word for all of those things. What a dope. What if I speak French? And let me say that I am a little upset that the big dope was too dignified, or something, to touch my butt or any of my private parts. Doesn't he think I need to know the word for those? He doesn't have any problem going outside with me and saying, for all the world to hear, "Poop." And the sweetheart next to us wasn't embarrassed at all to reach down, touch something on the dog next to us and say, "Penis." Hey, I never said this was going to be a family friendly post. Anyway, it's anatomy.

I was, of course, the star of the training session. I was the youngest and cutest dog there by far. But, boy, there were some pretty big dogs. There was one that was the size of a year old bear cub that was only six months old. I have a long way to go to catch up to that dog. But, and I say this in all honesty, that dog did not scare me one bit. I went right up to it and sniffed its nose and didn't flinch. There was another dog there that was twice my size that didn't stop shaking. Sissy.

Well, that's about it for my first training session. I will, if you are lucky, let you hear more about my progress as the days go by. I know how you all crave to read about my wonderfulness.

Cleeeeeeeeeevelaaaaaaaand

Are. You. Ready?




Here is your First Round Cavalier Schedule:

Saturday at 3:00 pm on ABC in Cleveland.
Monday at 8:00 pm on TNT in Cleveland.
Thursday at 7:00 pm on TNT in Chicago.
Sunday at 3:30 pm on ABC in Chicago.
That should just about do it for the first round.

Come on you Cavs.

On to the Playoffs

Leave it to ESPN to mention that the last time a team lost four games entering the playoffs and still won the NBA championship was 1969-1970 when the Knicks did it. I don't have time right now to check to see how many teams have been in the playoffs since then who ended the season on four game losing streaks, nor do I have time to look at a smaller pool to see how many 60-win teams have been in the playoffs who ended the season on four game losing streaks. Maybe tonight.

Why not mention that the last time the Cavs played the Bulls in the playoffs the Bulls won (1994 Eastern Conference First Round)? Wouldn't that be even more poignant? Or that the Cavs have never beaten the Bulls in a playoff series, going 0 for 5 against the Bulls (1988 first round, 1989 first round, 1992 conference finals, 1993 conference semifinals, 1994 first round). How's that for futility?

Want more? How about the 1989 Eastern Conference first round final game. In Cleveland. Chicago has the ball. Down one with 19 seconds to go. They take the ball in under their own basket and get the ball down the floor to Jordan, who makes a ten footer from the elbow with 6 seconds left. Chicago 99 Cleveland 98. Cleveland calls a time out. Ehlo passes the ball in to Nance, who sets a screen and gives it back to Ehlo. Ehlo drives for a layup. Cleveland 100 Chicago 99 with 3 seconds left. Chicago time out. The rest is history and I won't describe the painful events that happen next. You've seen it a million times. They've made commercials out of it. It made Jordan an instant hero in Chicago and created millions of frontrunning Bulls fans. It was the virtual beginning of Jordan's superstar run. Known as "The Shot" in Cleveland and elsewhere, it made the entire city of Cleveland into Jordan-haters. To this day. Here is the whole painful episode, with its highs and very low lows:




So, let's play this out. The Cavs are by far the better team with or without LeBron. But the game must be played. The Cavs were better than the Bulls in 1989, too, even though the Bulls had Jordan. This was the breakout season for the Bulls and it was at Cleveland's expense. All those of you in the Q for the next two games...let's not forget this!

Oh, the Cleveland Cavaliers are great. They're number 1!

St. Totteringham's Day delayed

One team in London, There's only one team in London, One team in London, There's only one team in London.

Shame about the Arsenal

St. Totteringham's Day was delayed today when Spurs rose up and humbled the lowly Arseholes at White Hart Lane, 2-1 on a goal from debutante Danny Rose and a second from Gareth Bale off a brilliant hold and pass by Jermain Defoe, who had a bad day otherwise.



The scum were down 1-0 in the tenth minute and the second goal came just after halftime. They held the two goal lead until five minutes from time when Bendtner scored on a weak effort that barely beat Spurs keeper Gomez* and, rather remarkably, was offside to boot. Never mind, though, Super Spurs were ecstatic at the close of the match, which ended on a Spurs corner with the ball being held in the corner and the helpless Gooners flailing about trying to get the ball back.

Sol Campbell made an appearance for the visitors but was magnificently ineffective and Spurs supporters, who booed him mercilessly early on, were left laughing at his efforts as the game wore on until he became a caricature of poor play late in the game.

I have always known that Arseholes suck (sorry about the language, I learned that from the sweetheart the other day when she said something about our President ... can't remember exactly what it was, but suckitude was involved.

*I think this is the wrong Gomez, sorry.

We are Tottenham, we are Tottenham Super Tottenham, from the Lane We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, We are Tottenham, from the Lane, We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham from the Lane, We are Tottenham, We are Tottenham from the Lane.

Who is Danny Rose?

You may well ask, "Who is Danny Rose?" And you may not have any inclination whatsoever to care who Danny Rose might be. However, Danny Rose just happens to be the scorer of a brilliant goal in today's Tottenham v Arsenal league fixture. The goal put Spurs up 1-0, a lead they never relinquished. It was a day of great joy for Rose, since the goal was his first ever in the Premiership and came just ten minutes into his debut. What a way to start, Danny! Here's to a long and fruitful career with Spurs. And may you be the talisman that leads Spurs on a long, long winning streak against the reviled and despicable Gooners.



COYS.

Tiger's Language Problem

The Big Dope had a question for me this morning that I couldn't answer. Is there anyone out there who can enlighten him on this? I will pass your thoughts along if they have any merit whatsoever. Here is what he asked me, with a little background (he was grousing around a lot over this, as only he can do when he gets worked up over stuff like this):

Tiger Woods has a language problem and he always has when in the thick of battle against a golf course. When things go wrong, Tiger's mouth goes haywire. Now, don't get me wrong, he is not the only one who spews sin out of his mouth. I dare say we all sin that way from time to time. It is sad to say, but I, too, manage a good curse on occasion when the mood strikes. But my question goes a little deeper than just that. I have a question about Tiger's choice of curses.

At the Masters last weekend, after having told the world on Monday that he was going to be better behaved on the course, Tiger had juuuust a few miscues. In fact, at one point, he said, "Tiger, you suck!" which was followed shortly with, and please excuse me, "God damn it!" Later, he spit out "God, Tiiiigerrrr! ... Jesus Christ!"

Now, much of the media out there is hitting Tiger hard over the hypocrisy of saying one thing (that he was going to avoid bad language and temper tantrums) and doing another. I don't have a problem with that. We all struggle with our free will and often fall, most of us more often than we would like to admit. So, the media is being a little unfair with this because even those in the media fight that fight with themselves on a daily basis, as do we all.

Now, the "Tiger, you suck!", if said on air by any news or opinion person, would have resulted in the firing of anyone, including CBS icon Jim Nantz and probably even Bill O'Reilly (Maybe Keith Olberman could get away with saying something like "George Bush, you suck!" and he probably has said that at least once, though maybe not, but that would be on MSNBC and almost no one would see it, so no one would really care.) But that is not what is troubling me.

I am a little puzzled over the use of Jesus' name in vain. According to Tiger Woods, he is a Buddhist. Why is it then, that Tiger feels it necessary to take the name of God in vain? If he doesn't believe in the Christian God, why invoke His Name? It is offensive to all Christians, and it means nothing to him. Why doesn't he say, "Buddha!" or some similar Buddhist curse? I am sure that would be just as bad to Buddhists as saying "Jesus Christ" is to Christians. So, Tiger's sin would be more religion specific, more poignant for him.

I am not saying, of course, that only Christians can take the name of Jesus in vain. Of course, they can't. It is a sin spelled out in the Ten Commandments. (Bonus points for which commandment.) But what could it possibly mean to Tiger, a Buddhist, to utter such language?

Anyone?

Perhaps now would be a good time to pause and say the Litany of the Holy Name of Jesus in reparation for sins committed against Jesus' name. It will only take a few minutes, and it can't hurt. Consider it a well-spent work break.

Pic of the Day

Which way did he go?

Rolling around

I don't know if these are exactly sequential, but I was sure having fun.

Here are some pictures from the weekend

This is my new "wiener dog" look.

Here I am kicking Bronwyn's ass.


Happy dog, all snotted up and ready to give the sweetheart a big kiss.


Bronwyn thinks she's leading, but I'm actually chasing.

Soccer Sunday

Thought I'd play a little footie today. Reagan can't handle it.

Sorry about the audio.

Happy Easter from me too

Here are the weekly pics of me with St.Francis. Either the statue is shrinking, or I am getting bigger. I'll let you figure that out for yourselves. But here's a hint: I weigh 16 pounds as of Thursday.

Happy Easter!

Here is the sweetheart's latest. Rhubarb pie right out of the oven. Now, in the old days (Pre-Bronwyn, which I will abbreviate PB from now on), I would have been right there in the kitchen with the sweetheart helping her make that pie. Of course, by helping, I mean eating the scraps. Hey, it is a big help to her not to have to put all of the scraps into the garbage. I perform a valuable service.



I was going to post a picture of me and Bronwyn sleeping together from last night, but it looks like Bronwyn beat me to it. Isn't she something? I won't let just anyone sleep next to me like that. It is interesting to read what she imagines about me. It couldn't be further from the truth. I love Bronwyn very much. Anyone could have seen that yesterday when the big dope, Bronwyn and I were running around the house. (She is getting a little faster, by the way, but still not fast enough to beat the big dope.) I was way out front, and a little bored. So I changed course and swooped in for a quick attack. I did this about ten times and Bronwyn couldn't handle it. She had no idea where I was coming from or what I was going to bite next. So, anyone who thinks that Bronwyn's notions about being queen of the house have any basis in reality is no more than a sucker for cuteness.

I am now full time on Orijen fish food. It is awesome! I could eat the whole bag in about ten minutes. I am so glad I am getting to eat that stuff. But the big dope told the sweetheart today that I smell like fish. I don't care what I smell like if I get to keep eating it.

Update

Here is a picture of me and Reagan sleeping together last night. We were on the couch. The sweetheart is a softie and the big dope answers to the sweetheart, so, we're good. Note the slightly dominant position I am in. It won't be long now. I will be the queen doggie around this house and Reagan is just going to have to live with it.





Here I am just starting to wake up. Reagan is absolutely out like a light. I could take a chunk out of her hide right now and she would probably not feel it for a few minutes, at least. Here is a secret about Reagan: she talks in her sleep. The big dope and the sweetheart think she is just making weird noises. But I know better. Since I have been here, her dreams have been nightmares and all she can talk about when she is sleeping is how she can't stand me and wants me to go away. Of course, when I am awake, she doesn't have the guts to say that to my face. Typical. Queen Bronwyn. Hey, I like the sound of that. It makes me sound like an old Irish queen.

Rush job - big dope heading for the Q

Okay, I don't have much time but I want to give you some more eye candy. I may be the cutest dog ever and I know you can't get enough of me. I may even throw a few pics of Reagan into the mix. You'll just have to scroll down and see for yourself.

Here's the promised St. Francis pic. Am I getting bigger?

Cat-like behavior. I'm a little embarrassed about this one.

Reagan seems to like me okay here.

Reagan just showing me who's boss. (I let her do this, it makes her feel better.)

Seconds later, she rolled right over me.

Here I am with Seestah! Putting a little yecky lick on her.

I own this couch! (Well, not yet, but I will.)

That's all I have time for now. Sorry about the lack of artwork. I just wanted to throw these up here so you could all get a little more of me.