Dog Power
For the past ten years or so, I’ve been figuring out a way to comfortably go off the grid. Not in the modern Green Earth sense, but in the bug the fuck out sense. Cut up my credit cards, report myself as deceased, and go live in a lean-to in the woods. My only source of food: Unleashed dogs that accompany joggers.
Their snooty, rich owners will be jogging along some trail (possible lean-to locations are anywhere along the
I’d collect rainwater for drinking and bathing because rainwater comes from heaven and God would want me to have it and Jesus says I should fly a plane into the White House.
I know there’s no way to live without money, so I’d have to wash dishes at some local pub in a small town somewhere. I’ll be back there with my big, lice-ridden beard, and greasy clothes made from dog skins, and wash all the beer glasses. The owner, a right-wing nutjob who runs the local offshoot of some Klan-like organization, will pay me in cash and invite me into his home, because it’s a Christian thing to do. Then his 14 year old daughter would fall in love with me and I’d fuck her silly. But only after I pull down the carved out dog’s head over my face.
Then the owner will walk in on us. This huge, filthy dishwasher in a fluttering cloak of fur made from dozens of tiny lapdogs anally abusing his underaged daughter. He’d make a move but, with the magic dog head encasing my own head, I’d summon the spirits of the dogs I had eaten (I always eat their hearts immediately after I catch them). I’d go:
“YIPPY LAPDOG POWER!”
And the heavens would open and all the yippy dog spirits would fill me so I’d become a roaring, powerful dog man and kill him.
Then I would marry his 14 year old daughter (whose name is Cynthia), assume his identity, take over his bar, and become a charming poet.
Or, at least, that’s how my plan goes.
I’m probably going to start with my neighbor’s new dog.