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Westminster Dog Show just happen in New York City.
Big deal in canine world.
Westminster is for dogs what Academy Awards is for two-leggers. Everybody hate show and think stupid, but all like to sit around and make fun anyway!
Good times.
These Heidi thoughts on some of dogs at Westminster:
Mearle
Mearle very stupid dog. Tell by eyes and moron flop to ears. Not much upstairs for Mearle. No way could catch squirrel and probably no understand beg. Think Mearle maybe hit by car and that why so dumb. Probably looking at ceiling fan.
Lucy
Lucy big slut. Tongue out like trying to be all seductive while throwing innocent, come hither look. So fake! Slut Lucy just want treat, she no love you!! Lucy not even that good-looking. Heidi think maybe 6 out of 10, and collar she wear show she trying WAY too hard. Heidi hate Lucy. Whore dog who sex with cats.
Gracie
Oh, look at St. Gracie! She so holy her likeness should be on a cushion! What miracle you do today, Gracie? Gracie pee! ? Oh Gracie, surely you agent of God! Ha! Gracie saint of snobbery! She think she better than everybody, but she just a pretentious faker! Hope she get head caught in wall and everybody in world forget about her. Stupid dog, bad dog!!
Selah
Selah look nice, I guess. Friendly, like probably share toy.
Bug
Bug think he all macho and handsome Alpha stud. Heidi agree. Bug have perfect coat, Heidi just lose herself in rich, yet symmetrical tapestry of colour! And Bug eyes?! Dreamy. Such a strong and muscular dog! What Heidi would give to have Bug’s tongue lick her coat! Oh, Bug can be Heidi’s best in show all night long! Bug can pull Heidi’s sleigh any day of week! Golly, Heidi having spell, feel hot and need to run in circle a bit!
Eisous
This is completely retarded dog. Almost feel sorry for it. Very serious mental illness. Heidi don’t even understand name. Eisous? WTF? Heidi stay away from that dog, cross street to avoid it. Might be possessed or addicted to bad drug and Drano. Has self-harmer written all over it, probably bites off own fur. Show business very dangerous, many pitfalls and temptations for celebrities!
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Heidi write this post specifically for disgusting fur-slut that go by the slave name of Grumpy Cat!
Grumpy Cat, you an embarrassment to dignity of all four-leggers and should be devoured by the evil birds and dangerous machines!
You make Heidi throw-up! Heid throw-up so bad she no even want to lick it up after, that how bad you make Heidi feel! You a cat that living a lie, you really, really bad cat! You too stupid to even know how to fetch, but you make $100 million?! You hack, Grumpy Cat, you hack that evidence of all that wrong in world of two-legger, proof that they weird fetish cult that worship cat! Heidi have more talent in one tail wag than you have in entire repertoire!
Can you play fetch?
Can you save Timmy if Timmy fall in well?
Can you scare off intruder with ferocious bark?
Thought not Grumpy Cat.
Heidi can do all three, and Heidi pretty!
Heidi triple threat! All you can do is be homely! Very, very plain cat. You one note wonder, Grumpy Cat, you flash in the pan, and soon be ugly hustler on street licking disease fur of other animals for crack and milk!
You loser.
Should call you Homely Cat, not Grumpy Cat!
Remember, Heidi real talent, not you! Heidi should be in movie! Can’t believe you have movie, Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever!
Heidi say you worse Christmas ever! Stupid movie supposed to be cross between Home Alone and Die Hard, only starring ugly, stupid cat who not know how to play fetch or kill badger. Sure hope there scene in which ugly stupid cat have to run over broken glass like in original Die Hard!
You no fucking Bruce Willis, Homely Cat, that for sure.
You should know Heidi writing screenplay. Working title:
Fetch This: The Reckoning.
David Fincher interested in directing, he think Heidi good dog, very cute dog with great charisma and action star potential. Thinks with all trouble Jennifer Lawrence have with naked sex pics that Heidi could be America’s Next Sweetheart!
You probably have some hack direct your movie-of-the-week shit fest!
You suck, Homely Cat, and Heidi know that your real name is Tardar Sauce! Ha! More like Retarded Sauce! That you! Retarded Sauce! Heidi also know that even though cats makes big deal about killing mice, killing mice is easy! Mice are tiny!! Try killing Badger, Homely Cat, that hard work!!
You nothing but a bitch, Homely Cat. Heidi cut you if Heidi see you.
Heidi hate you.
Heidi
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Thin and trembling, he had a big, bushy grey beard and a pitiless look that suggested a hard, unforgiving life. Anti-social and hostile, he shot me a dismissive look when I was first wheeled into the room. “Goddamn it, “ he rasped at the nurse, turning his body away from me as if disgusted, “ what have you done with Carole? I want Carole, not this guy!” In spite of his fulminating, it was clear that he was not used to getting his way, and without further event he carried his disappointment back behind the separating curtain to his small bed.
Suffering a very serious respiratory disease, each breath was a battle for him, his life reduced to a war that he struggled angrily through everyday. His middle-aged children, bearing Tim Horton’s coffee, appeared every morning when visiting hours began and left much later at night. They talked quietly but without tenderness, as if jockeying for position as their father neared death, and when the nurses walked out of the room they whispered racist jokes to one another. It seemed a display of solidarity rather than love, and embedded within was the unspoken and unsentimental hope for reward.
It’s spooky at night in the hospital. The directionless sound of heavy equipment rolling down the hallway echoes off the walls, and suddenly, startling you from sleep, nurses wordlessly appear, their flashlight beams passing over unfamiliar walls like spectres. The rooms here, they’re not haunted by the past, but by the present.
And in this nocturnal climate, the man changed. He refused to sleep, choosing instead to sit in a chair at the end of his bed, breathing heavily and staring hard. Frightened of dying, of the darkness of night, he talked to himself until dawn, his unknowable interiors made briefly audible, cryptic fragments shaken loose from his speeding mind:
That dirty slut is going to end up in jail.
I’ll be back in the mud again.
There are only four directions in this world.
The meadows will never get greener.
And sometimes he’d move about. Bent like a terrifying hieroglyph or a primitive cave painting, he’d tilt into view, looming prophetically, and existing between worlds he’d stare furiously through me, holding fast to the small things that remained to him before eternity swallowed him whole.
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Me: Rachelle! Rachelle! Are you there?
Rachelle: ( Moves hand as if swatting fly)
Me: What is your favourite crop?
Rachelle: Crop?
Me: Yes, like corn, wheat, tobacco or peanuts.
Rachelle: Mmmm. Peanut butter cups.
Me: Okay, next question. Who is the sluttiest person that you know?
Rachelle: Slutty sluts. They’re all sluts. You know that.
Me: Good answer.
Rachelle: Thirsty.
Me: I will ask the nurse if you can have an ice cube. What is your favourite natural disaster?
Rachelle: Twister. So. Very. Windy. Hide in the basement when the twister comes! Very serious. Lives ruined.
Me: And crops, twisters ruin crops too.
Rachelle: Twisters are ruiners.
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Me: Kind of scared.
Me: Kind of very scared.
Me: What if there’s a rope?
Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.
Me: Swaying ominously.
Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.
Me: There might be a rope!!
Me: I’m not overreacting.
Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.
Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.
Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.
Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.
Me: Not anymore.
Me: Fartmares.
Me: Very funny.
Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”
Me: Because there is no gas problem.
Me: My trainer?
Me: Her name is Laetitia.
Me: She’s French, France French.
Me: She thinks I’m really funny.
Me: No, funny ha-ha.
Me: Cute accent.
Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.
Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.
Me: My hands don’t look old.
Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.
Me: She’s going to test my grip.
Me: No, not my grip on reality.
Me: Man alive!
Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!
Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!
Me: Oh, you know the French.
Me: They’re like that.
Me: Yes, whorish.
Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.
Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?
Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.
Me: Alejandro.
Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.
Me: I just don’t.
Me: I don’t want to talk about it.
Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.
Me: All right.
Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.
Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????
Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.
Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.
Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!
Me: The next test?
Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.
Me: Yes.
Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?
Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.
Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.
Me: Oh.
Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.
Me: No.
Me: I don’t see any equipment.
Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.
Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.
Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.
Me: As if.
Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.
Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.
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What follows is a partial transcript of our final interview:
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: Cressida, that’s a beautiful blouse you’re wearing!
Pale woman with small teeth: I love it, too! It brings out that beautiful auburn in your hair, Cressie!
Cressida: Oh, thank you both, that’s so sweet, but I have to say I can’t take any credit for it. It was a gift from Roger Federer for that feature I wrote on him that won the National Magazine Award!
Me: I didn’t know that Roger Federer shopped at Winners.
Cressida: I think you have a toothpaste stain on your shirt, Michael, and your right shoe.
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: So, Cressida, let’s start with you. Although I think we all have a pretty good idea, would you tell us what would you bring to the position of Fiction Editor of the New Yorker?
Cressida: Blahblahblahblahblahblah.
Pointy Headed men wearing a bowtie: Wow. Just wow.
Man wearing a cape: I have to say Michael, that’s a tough act to follow. What about you, how would you respond to the question?
Me: I feel like I’m on the Apprentice.
Pale woman with small teeth: You mean the novel by Ferenc Herczeg? Interesting, please elaborate.
Me: May I excuse myself to get a drink of water please?
Cressida: I think he meant the TV show with Donald Trump and not the great work of Ferenc Herczeg, whom I met and edited in Hungry.
Me: Slut.
Woman who was going for a sexy librarian look but failed big time: Mister Murray?
Me: Please, call me Michael, I’m not all stuck up and pretentious like some people here that might be named Cressida.
Cressida: Excuse me, but I do not take kindly to being called a slut. Even though we’re competing for the same job, it doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. And I was only slutty for that first year at Oxford.
(Much laughter amongst stupid inquisition clique and slut Cressida, followed by long, exclusionary digression about all the universities they attended and all of the common people and dogs that they know.)
