Panic not for I want to assure you that you certainly read it right and the innocent looking printer’s devil has not played cupid or wrought havoc or even for that matter the ubiquitous stealthy net spider or tramp bot has not cannibalized or played the tricks on such an authentic yet so called bizarre header. Further, let me also clarify that I am completely hale and hearty and of late have not taken the stinking dog biscuits probably laced with cannabis or gone crazy after a tiff with my quarrelsome bitchy wife; though some of you might conveniently would like to deduce that you have an inherent right to disagree with me. However, you may do so at your own risk and responsibility. I want to say they do fancy democracy just like the dogs of the farm.
Like you, I am not in doubt about the authenticity of the cliché that proclaims, ‘Dogs are the salt of the earth (including the cosmos) and are the best friends of man” (of course woman also). The canine instinct in them and us definitely contributed much towards the making and unmaking of our civilizations and dens, I do agree, but want to stress that without the doggies (I mean of all possible descriptions and sizes), we would have gone friendless and bereft of the dear enemies- a frightful situation of sort.
Have you noticed that after god, dog is the nearest relative of man; hanging precariously in between the two parts of its evolution and devolution; combining the plus minus qualities of both. It is like admitting that man is created in the image of god and dog is created in the image of man. With a pinch of salt, take it as the transformation or metamorphosis of three alter egos and a foolproof connectedness that simply defies any rational or irrational explanations of the trinity.
I am not sure who invented the yummy hotdogs bit the guy was a sheer genius, better than the geeky coder tribes of today, I am cent percent sure. For ages and ages, those lesser mortals amongst us, who never had or have the required guts to apply their teeth (which incidentally includes the dogtooth) to an extra smart or rascal actual dog, have taken to the symbolic and ritualistic tasty n easy way our recourse to vent their exasperations without much hullabaloo or risk.
Who is not impressed with the sacrosanct spasmodic internecine duels and determining waterloos fought in the lanes and by-lanes routinely and erupting suddenly in the villages, towns, cities, metropolises and megalopolises? It is a painful time filled with anxieties in the neighborhoods that are jolted off to shudder in awe for such shrill filled bolts from the blues, literarily. These unfortunate funny yet horrible dogfights are anything in between friendly matches to an eye for an eye types via bouts of joyous rants, enacted to enthrall the aloof bipeds masters and also a regular bid to proclaim the territorial rights over the neatly demarcated dog republics segregated with the liberal sprinkle of unpalatable urine but invisible to the naked eyes of ours.
As the rain lashes or the winter envelopes the earth, the recalcitrant neo-sentimental sugar-daddies turn passionate lovers and become raptorial to forcibly win the hearts of the bitches, largely unmindful of the dangers of the nasty gang wars, bleeding wounds and instant deprivation, about to unfold soon. These are the times they throw both hot and cold waters on the humanly framed rules of incest to quickly interlock the private parts in full public glare to sire the puppies of the future by the din of the unsuccessful suitors’ howl, bark and whine. We, the moralist passerby pretend to be ignorant of the amorous commotions of the congregating dogs, secretly admiring the dog-tired east and west ward bound lovers, simultaneously pitying the underdogs.
The dogs of the universe, since time immemorial have been bogged down with the philosophical question as to “Who after all owns the bones.?” Till now, though nobody knows it, the riddle persists to add more questions to the central problem. From dusk to dawn and beyond these truth seeking dogs remain busy in search of the bones. These bones that come in various genre are the real bone of contentions that have dogged the dogs and us alike for eons, where a thrown in piece of rotten meat comes to us as a bonus. It is always like, who owns the bone or meat in question that also decides the categorizations of the haves or have-nuts and pure have-nots. While the lefty swear by it publicly and act contrary to it in private. The righty swear by it in privately and act contrary to it in public; sadly before the very dogs who in the first place actually fuelled their political imaginations to bamboozle, plunder and corner power.
As you know, every dog has its day to celebrate. Whether in defeat or win, a day invariably comes in the life and time of a dog that helps it to taste the victory and score brilliantly—though it might be just assort of poetic justice or a heavenly gift shrouded in mystery to prove time and again that a real dog never loses. However, it is not essential to measure and evaluate in the un-relative time frame of man but the doge-years. There is no valid reason to be rabid about the veracity of its truth, for you must have often heard of the occasional and abrupt yuppies of the lolloping sane and loomy dogs, who suddenly go razzmatazz or become gung-ho in ecstasy.
If you keep a tamed ferocious dog, be rest assured that it would tick and lick you so much that it would appear as if out of vogue. But verily, this arrangement would scare the roughs even if you actually is nothing but a scarecrow for real.
Additionally, if you somehow believe that you are not a historical figure or a history-sheeter a paparazzi chasing subject of the gutter or even think that what is the point in living the life of an ordinary dog or an inhabitant frog of a filthy pond or spruce up your sagging image in the fog or want to quickly climb to the top or even plan to catapult to fame by an instant hop or think that it is about time to simply bump, etc., etc. than it is best, as soon as possible, to bite an actual dog. You must do it carefully or else you might land up in a soup.
Take your time and consider carefully the age-old adage and proverb that says, “ If you have not bitten a dog (especially the rabid ones) than you are not a man for sure.” As far as I am concerned, I very much like the dogs but also bitten few of them for duty, pleasure and also to settle scores.
Like you, I am not in doubt about the authenticity of the cliché that proclaims, ‘Dogs are the salt of the earth (including the cosmos) and are the best friends of man” (of course woman also). The canine instinct in them and us definitely contributed much towards the making and unmaking of our civilizations and dens, I do agree, but want to stress that without the doggies (I mean of all possible descriptions and sizes), we would have gone friendless and bereft of the dear enemies- a frightful situation of sort.
Have you noticed that after god, dog is the nearest relative of man; hanging precariously in between the two parts of its evolution and devolution; combining the plus minus qualities of both. It is like admitting that man is created in the image of god and dog is created in the image of man. With a pinch of salt, take it as the transformation or metamorphosis of three alter egos and a foolproof connectedness that simply defies any rational or irrational explanations of the trinity.
I am not sure who invented the yummy hotdogs bit the guy was a sheer genius, better than the geeky coder tribes of today, I am cent percent sure. For ages and ages, those lesser mortals amongst us, who never had or have the required guts to apply their teeth (which incidentally includes the dogtooth) to an extra smart or rascal actual dog, have taken to the symbolic and ritualistic tasty n easy way our recourse to vent their exasperations without much hullabaloo or risk.
Who is not impressed with the sacrosanct spasmodic internecine duels and determining waterloos fought in the lanes and by-lanes routinely and erupting suddenly in the villages, towns, cities, metropolises and megalopolises? It is a painful time filled with anxieties in the neighborhoods that are jolted off to shudder in awe for such shrill filled bolts from the blues, literarily. These unfortunate funny yet horrible dogfights are anything in between friendly matches to an eye for an eye types via bouts of joyous rants, enacted to enthrall the aloof bipeds masters and also a regular bid to proclaim the territorial rights over the neatly demarcated dog republics segregated with the liberal sprinkle of unpalatable urine but invisible to the naked eyes of ours.
As the rain lashes or the winter envelopes the earth, the recalcitrant neo-sentimental sugar-daddies turn passionate lovers and become raptorial to forcibly win the hearts of the bitches, largely unmindful of the dangers of the nasty gang wars, bleeding wounds and instant deprivation, about to unfold soon. These are the times they throw both hot and cold waters on the humanly framed rules of incest to quickly interlock the private parts in full public glare to sire the puppies of the future by the din of the unsuccessful suitors’ howl, bark and whine. We, the moralist passerby pretend to be ignorant of the amorous commotions of the congregating dogs, secretly admiring the dog-tired east and west ward bound lovers, simultaneously pitying the underdogs.
The dogs of the universe, since time immemorial have been bogged down with the philosophical question as to “Who after all owns the bones.?” Till now, though nobody knows it, the riddle persists to add more questions to the central problem. From dusk to dawn and beyond these truth seeking dogs remain busy in search of the bones. These bones that come in various genre are the real bone of contentions that have dogged the dogs and us alike for eons, where a thrown in piece of rotten meat comes to us as a bonus. It is always like, who owns the bone or meat in question that also decides the categorizations of the haves or have-nuts and pure have-nots. While the lefty swear by it publicly and act contrary to it in private. The righty swear by it in privately and act contrary to it in public; sadly before the very dogs who in the first place actually fuelled their political imaginations to bamboozle, plunder and corner power.
As you know, every dog has its day to celebrate. Whether in defeat or win, a day invariably comes in the life and time of a dog that helps it to taste the victory and score brilliantly—though it might be just assort of poetic justice or a heavenly gift shrouded in mystery to prove time and again that a real dog never loses. However, it is not essential to measure and evaluate in the un-relative time frame of man but the doge-years. There is no valid reason to be rabid about the veracity of its truth, for you must have often heard of the occasional and abrupt yuppies of the lolloping sane and loomy dogs, who suddenly go razzmatazz or become gung-ho in ecstasy.
If you keep a tamed ferocious dog, be rest assured that it would tick and lick you so much that it would appear as if out of vogue. But verily, this arrangement would scare the roughs even if you actually is nothing but a scarecrow for real.
Additionally, if you somehow believe that you are not a historical figure or a history-sheeter a paparazzi chasing subject of the gutter or even think that what is the point in living the life of an ordinary dog or an inhabitant frog of a filthy pond or spruce up your sagging image in the fog or want to quickly climb to the top or even plan to catapult to fame by an instant hop or think that it is about time to simply bump, etc., etc. than it is best, as soon as possible, to bite an actual dog. You must do it carefully or else you might land up in a soup.
Take your time and consider carefully the age-old adage and proverb that says, “ If you have not bitten a dog (especially the rabid ones) than you are not a man for sure.” As far as I am concerned, I very much like the dogs but also bitten few of them for duty, pleasure and also to settle scores.