Big Dogs

I have been JB-less for three days now and I am feeling a little antsy. I got an email, but that was not nearly enough to tide me over. I miss his weak attempts at disguising his critical analysis of my mental stability...and the way he refers to himself as the Big Dog. Everytime he says it I think of those horrible shirts.

You know the ones.

When I was in high school, my mom was dating this wretched mastadon who I will call Morris. Morris was a large, large man with, at best, a lacking personality. Once, at a restaurant, B spilled an entire glass of iced tea on his lap...twice...and he didn't even get off his phone. What a pecker. He was always rubbing my mom's back with his big ol' hamhocks and leering at her like a lunatic. And he had those frilly, ruffley valences over every single window in his house...a house he purchased and decorated on his own. I mean, what man has those? I don't even know women who have them!! Highly suspicious. But, I bring him up because one year, my little brother and I had to get him a Christmas present. I bought something at a department store and threw it on my brother's floor for him to wrap. He picked it up, felt it--paling, and said, "Oh, God. It isn't a Big Dog shirt, is it?"

God, I wished it was...it could have been; they make up to XXXXXL. That's right. Five Xs. Now, here's why that's disgusting:

Yeah. Yeah. Fucking gross. Can you imagine that slogan tarped over the gut of some furry behemouth?

...I don't know why my brother was horrified, it's not like I had ever purchased a Big Dog shirt in the past and given him reason to believe that I would be likely to do so again. But, my brother can be a little, um...effeminate at times. He's totally straight (or so he says...he does have an awful lot of jewelry and shoes) but this is what happens when you're raised by women, I suppose. I couldn't tell if it upset him more that I would buy the shirt or that I would give it to Morris.

In any case, he put his name on the card, so fuck him.