Annoying to the Maxx

This may come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog, but people can really piss me off.

Last week, I was out walking my dog Maxx who is, by the way, the coolest and most educational dog in the world. Don’t believe me? Go read this.


I always know within about 15 minutes when it’s time to go, because Maxx will find me wherever I am and then just sit beside me and stare at me with those soulful, sad brown eyes. It kills me. So, I then go down, grab the coat, gloves and hat, grab the iPod with whatever audio book I happen to be reading at the time (this week it’s John Grisham’s The Racketeer which, unless he pulls a giant rabbit out of the hat in the last fifty pages, is not going to be recommended by yours truly, but you can find that out here). After getting all geared up, I slip the collar on Maxx and we’re out the door.

Now, Maxx is a funny dog at times and truly needs constant vigilance when we’re out. He loves to find wet tissues and carry them in his mouth, which is a supreme gross-out when you consider what’s likely held in those wet folds. He’s a sniffer, constantly zigging this way and zagging that way. Along our regular route, if something is out of the ordinary, such as someone putting out their garbage bags, or a Halloween or Christmas decoration, he’ll slow down, growl, then bark it into submission. Oh, and he loves to pee on election signs, which I take great delight in considering the act as a canine commentary on the choices we Canadians are provided to vote to run our country.

One of the things that I really hate as a twice-daily dog-walker, is other, less intelligent dog-walkers. The ones that move to the sign, a tight rein on their pet? Those are great. I love them.

No, it’s the assholes that strut their animals down the streets unleashed, as though the entire cities walkways are theirs and theirs alone. When I come trotting along with my tightly-leashed dog, and their dog, completely ignoring their so-called master’s commands, comes scampering up to my dog, now I’m in a worse spot. My dog is mostly friendly, but there’s certain species that seem to set him off, and there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Hence the reason for the tight damn leash.

If your damn dog doesn’t listen to you in the presence of other animals, leash the goddamn thing.

The other ones I hate are the walkers who are out to give their dogs a “social experience.” You know the ones. They see you walking your dog. They watch as you tighten your grip and shorten the leash and move off to the side…all very obvious signs that says My dog and I are doing all we can to avoid you. So what do these morons do? Of course they bring their stupid dog over to you and usually after the dogs are nose-to-nose, they ask, “Is your dog friendly?”

Little late now, isn’t it asshole? “Nope,” I’m so tempted to say. “He’s responsible for the deaths of four dogs and the maiming of scores more. He’s wanted in eight provinces and can never set foot in a PetSmart again.”


Anyway, this past week, Maxx and I are out doing our evening constitutional. I manage to avoid all the discarded booger-rags and Maxx is well on his way to getting his fifty-seven pees in. We’re about halfway through the walk and Maxx pulls off to the side and does his hunch-over. I immediately reach for the poop-bag, not taking my eyes off the spot where he’s dropping the deuce. I have to watch because he tends to wander a bit as he does his business, so it’s a bit of a scavenger hunt to get it all. Even more of a challenge at night.

So, there I am, ready to stoop and scoop. Maxx finishes, does his halfhearted scratch and dig at the ground as though he’s doing a brilliant job of covering his mess, and moves off for me to swoop in. As luck would have it, another dog walker has been behind me and, in the time it took for my dog to release the chocolate hostages, they’ve caught up. I rein my dog in while trying not to lose the exact positioning of the tootsie rolls.
And of course, moron heads toward us instead of just walking by. Then he says those three dreaded words, “Is he friendly?”

I say, “It depends on the dog and I’m really just trying to pick up his crap here.” By now, he’s already brought his ugly-ass dog over and Maxx is straining and pulling and, as I said, I never know how he’s going to react, so I’m at DefCon 4, holding him back while still desperately trying keep an eye to the poopsicles. Then the guy, deciding his dog isn’t getting the full social experience, comes in closer.

Now we’re in danger of the two dogs trying to circle each other, hopelessly tangling the two leashes, or worse yet, getting a leash wrapped around a leg. And if that happens to Maxx and he pulls it tight, it’ll hurt. He’ll possibly snap at the other dog, blaming him.


“Dude, seriously, I really just want to pick up his shit here, okay?” I say, still trying to be polite, but letting annoyance creep into my voice.

Nope, he’s not taking the bait, and now my dog’s getting excited and I know he’s going to get circling soon and then it’s just going to be a damn thing. The other guy and I will then have to move in, try and reposition the dogs or do a whole untangle of the leashes. I’m so not in the mood for this. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.

This guy is not taking the hint. I distinctly remember thinking, Fuck polite. He started it.

So I pull back on Maxx, stand up straight, look this douchenozzle in the eye and say, “Will you please get your goddamn dog away from mine so I can pick up his dogshit? Jesus!”

And which point the guy, now acting all hurt, backs his ugly-ass dog up to the sidewalk. “Okay,” he says. “Geez, I thought you said he was friendly.” He walks away all hurt the way only a douchenozzle can.

“No,” I say. “You didn’t give me a chance to say whether he was or not!” Then, as I go back to look for the dogshit, I finish with, “Next time, ask me if I’m friendly!”

I don’t think our dogs are going to continue to see their newfound relationship blossom. Hell, the next time I see him and his ugly-ass dog, I may just lean down to Maxx, point to them and yell, “KILL!”


Searching so long

I’ve been searchin’
So long
To find an answer
Now I know my life has meaning

(I’ve Been) Searching So Long – Chicago

I gotta laugh at some of the search terms that ultimately draw people to this blog.  There’s some interesting coincidences, there’s some oddball ones, and then there’s the ones that really get me worrying about who’s out there and what exactly they’re searching for.

One of those interesting coincidences is first up.  There’s be exactly the same number of searches for Tobin Elliott as there has been for throwing up. For anyone that’s counting, the number is 157 searches.  That could be an unplanned commentary on the quality of my blog posts. Either way, you can learn more about me, and maybe throw up here.

There’s a lot of Whitney Houston search terms that bring people to my most popular, and most controversial blog, in which I ask that we don’t canonize the late singer for an early death due to drugs. But the thing that fascinates me is that 106 searches for whitney addict house we have a problem tobin bring people here.

I like that 35 people have found my little blog by searching plox, the sound a turd makes as it hits the water. That’s kinda fun. 29 more have found me by looking for a turd burgler. Hopefully he doesn’t get the evil turd. Same for the dog eating shit. Wanna read more about plox? Or evil turds? Start here.turd

And that’s just one more than those that have landed her while searching for cat throwing up.

Then there’s those that have looked for something to do with a pee dance, which seems somewhat connected to the slightly less popular how do men urinate. I will admit to writing about the Pee Pee Dance, but I’ve never attempted to explain anything about how dudes pee.

I’m going to stick these next three together, because, well, it just seems fitting. Why? Because those searching shit faced may well have been, because why else would you also search bad out of hell. Not bat. Bad. And you know what that is? The last search term…bullshit. But you can read about my encounter with a…well, something that resembled a bat out of hell here.

I’m not sure why you’d want to search women with no eyeball and I’m also not sure why it would bring you here, but maybe it has something to do with the big tit search term. Notice it’s not tits, plural.  And here I thought they usually came in pairs. Apparently not from the one tit girls searches. Silly me.


Though there’s also those looking for titanic tits. Not sure if they’re looking for large breasts on the ship, or breasts that sank due to a collision with an iceberg.

I find it interesting that people land here looking for both cat throwing up and man throwing up but there’s no searches for dogs or women throwing up. I guess they just want the no-eyeball women.

Yet, in a remarkable coincidence, three terms line up nicely to create an almost hidden message: life is…, all work and no play, nude celebrities. There’s a second one as well… work from home is how a door knob works. How about those funny boy and girl conversationsin your pants. Finally the cat that gets flushed in the toilet is likely going nuts. Perhaps because of the other cat flushing toilet.


I’m guessing it’s only idiots who search for idoits. Then again, so is anyone looking for george bush badass. Though the ones looking for bacon strips in underwear and shoulder sniffing worry me a touch. As do the ones looking for a picture of a brain throwing up. I mean, can that even happen? But for a perfect brain, look here.


The person who searched i like when lady gaga smells my underwear deserves a special place with padded walls. Or a special place in hell. I haven’t decided which yet.

Let’s go get shitfaced. Kidding…that’s a search term, not an end goal. Perhaps the end goal should be to not use foul language. Yeah, probably not gonna happen. Not while cock out of underwear and jerking off anime boys somehow gets you here. Could it be when I jerked someone off…my car? Yeah, check it out here.

Ah well, the most heartening search term, and the one that has brought the most hits to my blog–almost 13000, compared to the next highest at 3600–and the name of my second most popular blog, life is beautiful.


It is, isn’t it? I hope you find what you’re searching for.

The Boy…and the toilet: The beginning

I’m going to start this out with an apology.

I apologize if I offend you or your delicate nature with the scatological tale that will follow.  If you’re a sensitive type that doesn’t like to read about poo, do not read further (and don’t read this blog either!).  You have been warned.

Still with me?  Lovely, on with the tale.

There’s two things I know about my son, the Boy, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The first is, the kid needs to eat more fibre.  As the Shat (yes, pun intended) says, he needs to make fibre his friend.

The second is, his sphincter can expand enough to permit the easy and unimpeded ingress and egress of a very large cat.

These things I know.  Through the rest of this sad and sorry tale (numbers one and two…and yes, pun intended again), you will come to know how I managed to learn these particular salient facts about my son’s digestive and waste-elimination systems.

We’re going back a few years now, but there was a time in our house where it seemed that every time my wife or I wanted to use the toilet, we had to first complete a skill-testing task.  That is, we had to plunge the toilet.

The Boy, it seems, would go in, do what he needed to do (which, apparently was to excrete a pipe-blocking plug of poo), flush, ignore the plaintive cries of a toilet in pain, vainly trying to do its one and only function only to fail.  Spectacularly.  In epic fashion.

Which leaves someone to come behind and try and ram the offending mess down the throat of the protesting toilet.  Sometimes that was the Wife, more often me.  The Wife blamed “poor upper body strength” to get her out of it.

Then, after years of this, two things happened in reasonably quick succession.

The first was the time the Wife plunged for an abnormally long time–like, a solid ten minutes–and, running like a symphony that builds upon itself as it goes on, her curses and epithets became louder and more vociferous against the steady ka-POOSH-thok! ka-POOSH-thok! ka-POOSH-thok! of the dome-shaped old-style plunger.  Finally, she tagged me in and I continued the marathon for another fifteen or so minutes, adding a more basso profundo element to this symphony of shit.

Along the way, I really had to exert some serious downward pressure.  The water was a swampy brown mess of shredded toilet paper and remnants (and I know you know what I mean by “remnants”).  And as I exerted my manly will upon the plunger, Newton’s Third Law of Motion was illustrated in all its dripping glory.  That law states that every action is met with an equal and opposite reaction (or words to that effect), which, in terms of downward force applied to a swampy brown mess of shredded toilet paper and remnants means a substantial portion of said swampy mess will be pushed in an equal and opposite upward force.

In layman’s terms, I pushed on the plunger and the shitty water gooshed into my face.  Puts a whole new spin on “shitfaced”, doesn’t it?

So, this first of two significant events did not leave me pleased.  Not in the least.

The second thing that happened occurred when we were visiting the Wife’s brother (heretofore mentioned as The Brother-in-Law).  At some point during our visit, I had need of the facilities and, as much as it pains me to admit this, this time it was me that plugged the damn toilet.

There’s nothing with quite the same depth of feeling as coming into a room packed with family and asking where their plunger is.

Regardless, I wasn’t going to leave a swampy parting gift for the Brother-in-Law.  Maybe if he was a dick or something, but he’s actually a super nice guy.  He pointed me to the plunger…

…and the man changed my world.

His plunger was not the nasty dome-shaped unit I’d grown to despise to my very soul.  No, this was a newer, space-aged design that incorporated an accordion-style business end.

And when I applied it to the job at hand, my GOD!  Two pushes and it cut through the plug like a hot knife through butter.  This thing was brilliant!  I knew, in that moment, how Thor felt when wielding his mighty hammer Mjolnir.  Now I was playing with power!

I came back into the room a happy man and sung the plunger’s praises to the Wife.   The Brother-in-Law, as per his custom, smirked in his bemused fashion and, with understated enthusiasm, stated, “Oh yeah.  Works great.”

I immediately set upon a plan to track down the nearest Wal-Mart and buy one of these babies.  And, before we got home that day, I had the power of the space-age plunger in hand.  In fact, I almost welcomed the next plugged toilet.

Tomorrow…the continuation of The Boy…and the toilet.


Just a little short one today.

I’ve been party to some really interesting conversations lately.  I have a strange family.  Let me give you some examples of what happens when the family and the strange intermix.

The Girl and the Wife on the daughter being home from university:

The Wife: “Are you happy to be home, honey?”

The Girl: “Are you talking to me?”

The Wife: “Are you just play-ignoring me, or are you ignoring me?”

The Girl: “Seriously, are you talking to me?”

The Wife and I, on her amazing memory loss lately, part one:

The Wife: “I’m glad you didn’t catch me this morning.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

The Wife: “You know how I’ve been starting to say stuff then I forget halfway through.”

Me: “Oh, like, ‘oh, by the way…shit!’?”

The Wife: “Yeah, so this morning, I came down from the bedroom to get something from the kitchen and…”

Me: “Yeah, and?”

The Wife: “Shit!”

Me: “You’re kidding right?”

The Wife: “No dammit!  I forgot what I was talking about.”

Me: “Seriously?  You forgot what you forgot?”

The Wife: “Shut up.”

The Girl and the Wife, on insults:

The Girl (after complaining she couldn’t find her earphones): “Oh, thank God!  I found them!”

The Wife: “Oh, after us having to listen to you whine all this time?”

The Girl: “Calm down.  I only complained twice.”

The Wife: “Did you just tell me to calm down?  Like my son does?”

The Girl: “Yeah, get over it.”

The Wife: “Hmph! Ack! Fuh! Hrmm!”

The Girl: “Mom, you have to use real words to insult me.”

The Wife and I, on her amazing memory loss lately, part two:

The Wife: “If I got Alzheimer’s, would you put me in a home?”

Me: “Probably.”

The Wife: “Seriously?  You would?”

Me: “Sure.  You wouldn’t remember it was me who did it anyway.”

The Wife and the Boy and I, on the possibility of going south on March Break:

The Boy: “I don’t wanna go to Florida again.”

The Wife: “Why not?”

The Boy: “We’ve been there, done that.  I don’t wanna go anyplace hot.”

Me: “What about the Dominican again?”

The Boy: “No.”

The Wife: “Why?”

The Boy: “Cuz it’s hot.”

Me: “But you’re five years older now.”

The Boy: “So?”

Me: “So you’re fifteen.  I’m guessing you’ll appreciate the topless beaches a lot more than when you were ten.”

The Boy: “Yeah, but most of those women were old.”

The Wife: “Not all of them.  You didn’t seem to mind some of them last time.”

The Boy: “Yeah, but I don’t wanna look at all the Tit-anics.”

The Wife: “What the hell’s a ‘tit-anic’?”

The Boy (cupping his hands in front of his chest, then dropping them quickly): “Yeah, tit-anics.  They start out big, but then they sink.”