- Editor/Writer/Pundit:
- Tom Wilmot
- National Affairs:
- Duke Stockton
18 February 2007
Hump Day Comes Early at Westminster
Editor's Note: Working out the actual chronological structure of Duke's "bulletins" is an arduous task, and we're still not certain if the effort is worth it.
We leave you to judge for yourself.
10:00 is the birth of horrors at the garden. Having done the proper reportorial thing earlier and shown up before any judging commenced, in order to get the feel of impending carnage, it became apparent that the only way to get through this nightmare with some semblance of sanity was to find drink, any drink and numb several thousand brain cells post haste.
Thank Iansa that Manhattan is the City that never sobers up.
Properly anesthetized, I reeled back into the main hall at 10, suddenly drowning in a sea of pop-eyed, long haired rats. And short haired rats. Rats that had been sadistically mutated into strange neurotic hybrids, completely in the thrall of their limbic system. Twitching, yelping, vibrating. I asked a passerby if there had been some sort of ritual crushing of pituitary glands to start the show. Ecstatic as a snake handler, the deranged woman clawed at the sleeve of my shearling jacket, leaving long runnels in the hide from her nails as she foamed, "it's the TOY category... I LOVE the toys!"
Just as well, I thought. Go home and calm down with a vibrator.
This might be a good point to mention that the Vegas line was running odds this year. Just for laughs, mind you... but still, it means that dog shows are venturing dangerously close to being considered a sport. A sport for whom is an open question.
Sober or fried, I cannot wrap my cerebellum around what exactly a dog show is. The dogs walk, run and then stand there. People look at them. Officials run their hands over them and seemingly molest them. These aren't the sorts of dogs that knock around your neighborhood, tipping over trash cans and rolling on dead squirrels. Nobody hides a covey of bobolinks in the stands and has a bluetick flush them out. Shoot a duck from the rafters and see which retriever snatches it first. Give it SOME semblance of sport and competition. This is as pointless as the Miss America Pageant, even less, since I don't want to nail ANY of these bitches.
Tomorrow they judge the working dogs and the hounds. I'll bring my Mossburg.
Nenhuma mercê
D.S.
@ 16:47
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We leave you to judge for yourself.
***********************
10:00 is the birth of horrors at the garden. Having done the proper reportorial thing earlier and shown up before any judging commenced, in order to get the feel of impending carnage, it became apparent that the only way to get through this nightmare with some semblance of sanity was to find drink, any drink and numb several thousand brain cells post haste.Thank Iansa that Manhattan is the City that never sobers up.
Properly anesthetized, I reeled back into the main hall at 10, suddenly drowning in a sea of pop-eyed, long haired rats. And short haired rats. Rats that had been sadistically mutated into strange neurotic hybrids, completely in the thrall of their limbic system. Twitching, yelping, vibrating. I asked a passerby if there had been some sort of ritual crushing of pituitary glands to start the show. Ecstatic as a snake handler, the deranged woman clawed at the sleeve of my shearling jacket, leaving long runnels in the hide from her nails as she foamed, "it's the TOY category... I LOVE the toys!"
Just as well, I thought. Go home and calm down with a vibrator.
This might be a good point to mention that the Vegas line was running odds this year. Just for laughs, mind you... but still, it means that dog shows are venturing dangerously close to being considered a sport. A sport for whom is an open question. Sober or fried, I cannot wrap my cerebellum around what exactly a dog show is. The dogs walk, run and then stand there. People look at them. Officials run their hands over them and seemingly molest them. These aren't the sorts of dogs that knock around your neighborhood, tipping over trash cans and rolling on dead squirrels. Nobody hides a covey of bobolinks in the stands and has a bluetick flush them out. Shoot a duck from the rafters and see which retriever snatches it first. Give it SOME semblance of sport and competition. This is as pointless as the Miss America Pageant, even less, since I don't want to nail ANY of these bitches.
Tomorrow they judge the working dogs and the hounds. I'll bring my Mossburg.
Nenhuma mercê
D.S.
