Hi readers. If you own dogs and live inside the United States it’s time to train your dog not to screw anyone’s pantsleg. Today there’s an excellent chance cops will be kicking down your door. If you don’t want them to kill your dog, train him not to sexually harrass police:
“We don’t have to put up with this sort of treatment from dogs,” declared Bracey Goodman, Police Chief of Anal Springs, KY. “During carefully timed and planned raids setting up citizens for drug busts our officers cannot risk being distracted by sex. One dog causing an officer to pause waiting for it to finish could cost the lives of other officers.”
Goodman further explained that police go to a great deal of trouble taking confiscated drugs out of evidence lockers for planting on targeted households. If not intercepted in a timely manner they might be destroyed by suspects, or stolen by officers during the confusion of the bust.
“Anyone who owns a dog is responsible for seeing the animal will not use the leg of a police officer to urinate, or simulate sex. If we kill your dog it’s your own fault.”
Posted in 2014, America, Police, War on Drugs
Tagged animals, canines, culture, dogs, drugs, Human Behavior, humor, law enforement, Life, lifestyle, pets, Police, society, sociology, war on drugs
I wrote this after a weekend spent with a once-lady-friend who spent her career as a high school librarian on the Navajo and Zuni Reservations.
A schoolmarmish lady in Zuni
Had canines subversive and loony;
Her Communist felines
Made neighborhood beelines
With doctrines both outworn and puny.
The KGB cat was a lean
And speckled-nosed beauty serene
In appearance alone
For her countenance shown
Multi-faceted plots as she preened.
Her Weathercat history was tops:
She sprayed on dozens of cops
With a Commie aroma
But joined Sertoma
Cavorting with phonies and fops.
The ringleader hound was a red
And curly haired rascal it’s said
Whose Trotskyish leanings
And Maoish gleanings
Were pondered curled up on the bed.
Princess Redfeather, they tells
Of this curly red bitch of the cells,
Forsook her fine lineage
To sip of the vintage
of Lenin, and Gulags and hells.
The worst of the felines, Bearboy:
Striped and cross-eyed and coy;
Had claws that could tweak
Bourgeois carpet, and bedspread, with joy.
The Uncle-Tom dog of the hut
Was Ernie, the gray-bearded mutt;
Dog-tired, and dogmatic,
dog-eared dialectic and glut.”
The Uncle-Tom dog she called Ernie
Began as a dog-pound attorney
Commuted from gassing
He pondered in passing
Discretion’s demand for a journey.
A calico hound lying dormant,
Most likely a police informant:
A capitalist clown
Took his food lying down
Resisting the commie allurement.
The Stalinish kittenish spies
Spread foment and torment and lies
To Indian curs
And mutts that were hers
And War-Gods high up on the rise.
Princess and Ernie and, Spot,
And Chester, the narc-dog; the lot:
For half a piaster
Would bring a disaster
To Zuni, once called Camelot
Posted in 2000's, Native American, Native Americans, New Mexico, NM, Poetry, Politics
Tagged animals, canines, cats, Communism, doggerel, dogs, felines, humor, native american, poems, poetry, politics, Zuni