america s favourite dog
Whisky Portraitc est moi
who d have thunk it

Whisky, America's most popular dog

of course
i ve never been to america
i really don t like what they do
to you at immigration
i don t mind taking off my collar
but taking my coat off so it can be x rayed
really wouldn t be very nice
and as for a tsa agent
sticking his hand
up my bottom to steal my pure
well that s totally unacceptable
he should wait until i poo
just like master does

funny thing is
earlier this week i was pooing and
my pure was pure white
master tells me it s because of
the stinky bone i d been eating
it was the biggest bone i ve ever seen
i think it must have been a dinosaur bone

the favourite dog competition was stiff

Favourite dogs

but i hear that that lassie
he s really a bitch

i only learned about my new fame
from watching fox news
the funny thing is
30 minutes of watching
and not a single story about foxes
what a swizz



I sit here in the half gloom. Two green demon eyes stare at me from across the room, unflickering, mocking and taunting me. Over the past 24 hours my emotions have been in turmoil. To start with was the disbelief: how could this be happening to me for, is it, the fourth time this year? Then came the anger: I hope the perpetrators rot for all eternity in the lowest circle of hell. But not the “fun” kind of hell with fire and devils with pointy tridents prodding you. Let them be trapped in a cold, featureless hell – a single, silent white room devoid of any decoration or ornament where nobody will hear their tormented sobs and screams. But before then, let us hope there are infested by a plague of boils, savaged by rabid monitor lizards, and finally succumb to the inevitable in the most hideous of demises – whatever that may be. Tickling to death, probably.

Sinéad O’Connor goes on about how it’s been seven days and fifteen hours, and I sympathise with her, but what does she know about real agony and despair? Me, I know the time down to the minute since I lost what is so important to me – not a rough approximately to the nearest hour.

I feel a sliver of hope as I think about bargaining with the Flying Spaghetti Monster for the world to be put back just the way it was, but I realise he has other things to do. I also think about contacting the local telephone company, but that would be equally futile. Life has become a hopeless, bleak mere existence.

For the umpteenth time I think “oh, I’ll just check that on the computer” or “I can look it up on the Internet” or “I just need to check my email” or “I wonder if it’s finished downloading yet”, but am soon plunged back into the deep pit of despair, and cry “Why, FSM? Why? Why do you allow bad things to happen to good people?” But His Noodliness never answers.

So, now I pace around, tortured by a sense of life’s futility, barely daring to hope that soon the stolen copper telephone cable will be replaced and that once more my modem will smile upon me with four flickering green eyes.