No nay ne'er Better; Shock th' Puppy
posted at 12:01 pm
on Jun. 9, 2000
Prrrevious entry:
Feelin' All Grown Up
'nother entry:
Goodbye Mr. Teeth
Me admiral at work, when e'er someone asks that scurvey dog how Th' ornery cuss be, Th' ornery cuss smiles and says “No nay ne'er better!” Th' ornery cuss’s a real optimist. As th' web site project stretched and stretched and stretched, I started t' detect a sinister undertone t' his reply. No nay ne'er better, no nay ne'er better. I’ve decided I have no idea what Th' ornery cuss means.
Th' good what What News be, it’s possible, and note th' keyword POSSIBLE, that ye’ll get morrrr o' these now that th' Variety web site has launched. It’s at http://www.variety.com/ ; I’m at on board before 10, and that’s a welcome change.
Me bucko Josh found a quiz on th' web that determines yer superpower. Mine be super speed, though I be hopin' t' get time travel or perhaps stock investin'.
What’s yer super power?
http://www.emode.com/emode/tests/superpower.jsp
Me sister Nicole has a new puppy. It’s a chocolate lab. Th' dog be a really handful, as all Labradors be. They’re really frisky and playful in a “come here doggy and take yer Ritalin” kind o' way. Me sister works nights, and gets on board at about 1 a.m. Th' dog works days, startin' at about 6 a.m. Th' cabin whar me sister lives has no dog-proof fence aroun' it, only a low stone wall on th' beach side, and a thicket on each side. Cinnamon (which I think be a cool name fer a chocolate lab) be too damn friendly, and tends t' lope off down th' beach, black tail disappearin' o'er th' low, snow-covered wall.
So me sister bought one o' those electric invisible fences, th' ones called MuttStop or RoverRein or Electric Cerberus. Cinnamon wears a high-tech collar powered by 200 AA batteries. When Th' winsome lass goes too close t' th' perimeter defined by a long wire stretched aroun' th' yard, th' collar makes a high pitched beepin' noise. If Th' winsome lass gets even closer, th' collar give off a mild electric shock, th' kind ye get like when ye touch yer tongue t' th' terminals o' a 9 volt battery. I mean, I’ve no nay ne'er done it, but me bucko Judd has and Th' ornery cuss turned out fine. Th' ornery cuss’s now a puppeteer.
Anyway, th' fence does its job most o' th' time. But when there’s somethin' _terribly_ temptin' on th' other side o' th' fence, like some dogs playin' down th' beach, or a squirrel that, collarless, sprints into th' 'nother yard, well, th' dog just goes fer it. Th' winsome lass runs right through th' warnin' bell, through th' shock zone, twitchin' all th' while, and bursts out th' other side, liberated from that comely wench cybercage.
Fer me sister, who spent all this doubloons on th' fence, that’s a bummer. But even worse be that th' dog has no equivalent imperative t' come back through th' Danger Zone, no matter how much me sister calls. So at least once a day, Nicole has t' tromp out in th' snow and either carry th' squirmin', jolted dog across th' no lubber’s zone, or remove th' dog’s collar (and if that’s not courtin' disaster…) or put th' dog on a leash and get that comely wench movin' up t' fence-crashin' speed. And all these things just increase th' dog’s tolerance t' th' BoltBarrier’s zaps.
Anyway, th' dog’s a lot o' laughs, and me sister as well.
Another sister, Virginia, just finished readin' Macbeth fer that comely wench high school English class. “What a lame endin'!” Th' winsome lass said. “Everybody dies! What’s up wi' that? Ye think Shakespeare could have done better!”
Some things t' ponder until 'nother time.
Ye don’t meet too many people named Goliath these days.
Or Pokey.
There’s a wench at me office who has been tryin' t' throw away that comely wench garbage can fer a week. It no nay ne'er gets taken away. Ye put it in another garbage can, they just pry them apart. Ye put a label on it, they throw away th' label. I suggested Th' winsome lass use th' paper shredder.
