Our Meat Comes From What?!

I'm a real fan of food. Like most progressive, professional, city-dwelling omnivores, I have a pretty good awareness of the food industrial complex, and I therefore attempt to avoid being a part of it, to varying degrees of success.

I've read Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma. I have not seen Food, Inc. but suspect I already know much of its content. I shop at farmers markets, prioritize local meats and veggies, and buy organically if local isn't an option.

All my rules tend to go right out the window when I go out to eat. I don't know where most restaurants source their foods. Although for Valentine's Day last night, the missus and I went to Marlow & Sons, a restaurant that sources its food locally, and our grass-fed sirloins were outstanding.

So yes, in general I believe in conscious eating. Which is why I was rather interested in this article. It's about a teacher at a school with a farm, who decided that it would be good to teach the children at the school about the food cycle by slaughtering one of the school's lambs. She got shit-canned. Which seems pretty fucking stupid to me.

The writer is clearly on the teacher's side. He has, in fact, taken his children to see the pig being butchered for their consumption. And he's been accused by Guardian readers of child abuse. Which also seems pretty fucking stupid to me. Jesus Christ, people. Meat is animals. Being removed from it makes it no less true.

I was sharing this article with a friend, and he sent me this link to Yorkshire Meats, where you "Eat Babe." It's brilliant. Choose a pig, adopt it, name it, visit it, and eat it. The whole process is transparent, and the pig gets a really happy life before it dies. And then you get a whole lot of pork. I seriously love this plan. And if I lived in a home with a freezer, I'd find the equivalent here in the US and do it.

This actually reminded me of what my family did for many years in Kansas. I was a kid and wasn't terribly curious about the whole process, but we split a cow every year with another family. A whole cow was slaughtered for two families. It was a lot of meat. Now, I don't know if the cow was treated kindly (maybe) or was fed grass (doubtful) or what, exactly. But I knew it was literally half a cow. And it lasted us a year.

This is how I want to eat meat now. I want to know that my cow or pig or chicken had a good life while it was alive, and then I want to eat that delicious cow or pig or chicken. I see no reason to separate ourselves from the process. Hell, if meat were more expensive, and if we were somehow more aware of how it's raised and killed, we'd probably eat a lot less of it. And that'd probably be a lot healthier for our nation of fat Americans with our overburdened healthcare system.

Things are Fishy on Staten Island

And I don't just mean the stench of the Fresh Kills Landfill!

Today is Groundhog Day (insert movie reference here). I watched the live coverage of Staten Island Chuck on NY1 this morning. Long-time B&E readers may remember previous mentions of Staten Island Chuck. He's New York's answer to Punxsutawney Phil, the notorious weather-predicting groundhog of Pennsylvania.

NY1 reports that in the past 29 February 2nds, Staten Island Chuck has been right 22 times, giving Chuck a better record than Phil over the same period.

Well, I had some observations of today's live coverage that makes me think the whole thing is rigged somehow.

First of all, on a separate but related matter, Staten Island Chuck might be a real dick. Last year he took a chunk out of Mayor Bloomberg's finger. This year Mayor Mike wore super-thick work gloves that I think were made of dragon hide.

Anyway, they tried to lure Chuck out, and we (the TV audience) waited. We waited quite some time. That groundhog wouldn't fucking come out. Finally, some brave mayoral aide (without gloves) reached into Chuck's little hut and yanked him out, handing him to the mayor, who nearly dropped him.

Chuck got fat.

And I'm sorry, but Mayor Mike didn't confer with Staten Island Chuck at all before announcing that Chuck didn't see his shadow.

Anyone watching could tell you that Chuck didn't want to come out of his hovel because he saw nothing BUT shadow. He was freaked the fuck out. And fat.

Meanwhile, in Punxsutawney, Phil saw his shadow. I didn't watch any live coverage, but Phil looked svelte (possibly starved, if you believe PETA, who would prefer that Phil be a robot), and a dude with a funny hat and Rollie Fingers mustache listened carefully to what Phil had to say.

I think I figured out what's going on. In Punxsutawney, they genuinely listen to what Phil has to say about the weather. He sees his shadow; he doesn't see his shadow. They trust Phil.

Staten Island is the most suspect of the five boroughs of New York City. Even people who live there don't really know what goes on there. I don't know if the whole Staten Island Chuck experience is bankrolled by the mob or what, but I have a feeling that the weather prediction is more about the number-runners and money-changers than the goddamned weather.

And it wouldn't surprise me one bit if somehow Mayor Mike is in on the fix. I don't know if he's consulting Poor Richard's Almanack or what, but I do know that he didn't bother to consult with that fat, angry groundhog.

It's suspect, B&E readers. It's fucking suspect.

Hey, Look Over There!

While you, my six readers, wait for me to update B&E, I offer you a worthy distraction: Hedgehogs!

And if you want a look back at other hedgehogs, enjoy the hedgehogs of B&E old, dear readers.

About the Critters, Part II

It's hard out there for a critter.

Once a day I would trek over to the main house to check my email and connect with the outside world a bit. It was baseball playoffs season, so I limited my media intake to baseball stories.

One day, while I was sitting at the table in the living room, that sweet cat (from the immediately previous post) pounced on my power cord, right near my feet. I looked down to find out what she was up to, but the gray cat I saw down there was tiny. Like a gray paw. That's because it was a gray mouse. And the gray cat was having its way with the little guy. She was playing with it, batting it around. I didn't see the actual kill.

But earlier in my time, I'd seen the same gray cat stalking something in the high grass. When I saw her next, she had a baby snake in her mouth, proud as could be.

One rainy day, as I was returning to the cabin from my weekly shop, I was greeted by the friendly dog (also from the immediately previous post). He didn't generally venture over to the cabin, but I gave him a little pat on the head (he smelled a bit like wet dog, mostly because he was a wet dog). And then he went back to the grass, pointing at something there. He's clearly a hunter.

Then he chomped down. Another gray mouse was lying there, breathing in the grass. He chomped down again. It was no longer breathing. Then he walked up to me, wagging his tail, seeking approval. He was a bit of a licker, and I sure as hell didn't want him licking my hand after chomping down on a mouse, so I gave him a friendly pat on the head, and he ran off.

The farm's winter caretaker later told me another story. He'd seen a raccoon, and raccoons can create some havoc where chickens, ducks, and geese are concerned. He'd just gotten his first gun lesson, so he collected his rifle and went a'stalking. What he came upon was not just the raccoon, but the friendly dog chomping down on the raccoon's neck until it was dead.

The dog is a badass.

Apparently, the dog has also killed a couple of the fowl on the farm, and the caretaker had been told to chase him off if he saw the dog. But after this incident that protected the fowl, the farm is reconsidering its relationship with the dog.

Finally, remember my trouble with that gray bastard of a gander? Well, I learned a technique for dealing with an aggressive goose. Fortunately for that gray bastard of a gander I never had to try it out. But hoo-doggy! it would've been fun to give it a whirl.

First, a reminder. Here are the geese.

I'm pretty sure that the gray bastard of a gander that charged me is the one third from the right, looking off in a different direction than the others.

Shortly after that gray bastard of a gander charged me, I asked the caretaker if he'd had any trouble with the geese yet. He hadn't, but he said he knew how to deal with them if they charged. He shared his knowledge with me.

First of all, stand your ground. If you show a goose weakness, they become emboldened. So by standing my ground and saying, "Hey!" I had garnered the gander's respect.

If that gray bastard of a gander had kept charging, my next move would also be the final move. Go after a goose's most vulnerable area: his neck. Just grab it by the throat and give him a light throttle. He will fuck with you no more.

And if that fails, it's time to send that gray bastard of a gander to the Fowl Killing Fields.

And for your enjoyment, here's a slightly more detailed photo of the Fowl Killing Fields:

That gray bastard of a gander better watch his fucking back.

About the Critters

My October cabin was located on a Wisconsin farm. On warm and sunny days, the ladybugs, box elder bugs, flies, and hornets took over. I was lucky that it was mostly cool and cloudy then. In fact, there were snow flurries on October 10th. That seems early to me.

I often heard other critters at night. Mostly mice, I would guess, although there must've been some squirrels mixed in, too. I'm pretty sure the squirrels never made it inside, but there was obvious evidence that the mice did.

One morning I woke up with two acorns in my left shoe. I had not put them there.

Another morning, a deer outside the kitchen window was staring at the wall between him and the cabin's gas heater. Jumpy bastards, deer. In her defense, it was deer-hunting season.

It's a little blurry because the sun was just rising, and I was shooting out a window.

I've mentioned the geese already, especially that gray bastard of a gander, but there was a lot of other fowl in resident as well. I grew particularly fond of this light brown fella with the blond afro:

And get a load of this gorgeous cock!

There was also a handful of domesticated animals around. This dog sometimes accompanied me on my walk to the mailbox (which was about a third of a mile down a dirt path).

He belonged to a neighbor farm, but he hung around quite a lot. He was a very sweet boy. To humans.

And my gracious hosts also had a number of cats. One was particularly friendly, and one evening while enjoying a sunset, she decided to climb up my pant leg. When I finally paid attention to her, she got all cute.

She was a very sweet girl. To humans.

Some sort of critter tried to make it back to Queens with me. When the missus went to fill our car with some coolant, she found a nest under the hood. How I managed to miss the nest when filling the car with oil I'm not sure. No critters inside, though.

Stay tuned for more about critters, particularly in terms of death and murder!

Thank You for Your Patience

Oh, B&E readers, I do not take you (all seven of you) for granted. I know I have been terribly lax during my time in the wilderness, especially in the past couple of weeks. But I have been thinking of you.

And as I return to the land of the urban, I shall regale you with stories. Oh, yes, I shall.

For example, I now know how to take down a goose. Not that I've had to. But I could. So if, on my way off the farm, that gray bastard of a gander comes my way, I'm fucking ready for him. In or out of my car.

Perhaps the Bunny Will Satisfy Your Needs

Sorry I haven't been writing, B&E readers. I've been too busy writing! So for now, I offer this pleasantry. Enjoy.

I Wear My Orange Fleece Everywhere

Hunting is a big sport in these here parts. And just yesterday, the winter caretaker of the farm warned me that today is the start of deer hunting season in the immediate area.

The missus and I were discussing hunting and my getting shot a few days ago, and she was of the opinion that my fear of wandering into the woods only to get shot by a hunter was ridiculous.

When I reminded her that hunting accidents happen all the time, that indeed our former Vice President once shot a fellow hunter (and friend) in the face, she thought me no less ridiculous. I think she didn't believe that the example I cited was actually an accident.

Either way, there's a lot of hunting happening in rural Wisconsin at the moment. I picked up a little guide to the area at a local Chamber of Commerce (if I take their free stuff, am I supporting their stance against health care reform?), and according to the hunting pages (!), here are the options for hunters and trappers during the month of October:

- Black bear
- Bowwhite quail
- Cottontail rabbit
- Coyote (trapping is OK right now, hunting with a gun is OK all year)
- Crow
- Deer (bow)
- Hungarian partridge (quite far from home in its Hungarian pear tree!)
- Jackrabbit
- Pheasant (how pleasant!)
- Raccoon
- Red and gray fox (so THAT's how Red Foxx died)
- Ruffed grouse
- Squirrel
- Snowshoe hare
- Wild turkey
- Woodcock (heh, heh)
- Writers (wait, what??)

And I shit you not: I actually just heard gunfire echoing through the hills.

Not to worry, B&E readers. I spend the majority of time inside a cabin. And cabin season isn't until February.

That Gander Wants to Fucking Kill Me

At this particular farm on which the cabin resides, there is a lot of fowl. Chicks and ducks and geese, just like the song in Oklahoma!, but of course, this is Wisconsin!, and I don't have a surrey, with or without a fringe on top. I have a Saturn.

Upon arrival, after introducing myself to my generous hosts, I returned to my car to find the largest of the geese, a gray bastard who well might be a gander, pecking the shit out of one of my front tires. I chalked it up to my running over a few grains he didn't want wasted. But now I'm not so sure.

I take a regular walk past the bird coops, and every time I do, this same gray bastard of a gander gives me the stink eye. He stands stock still, and uses the full length of his neck to keep his head pointed right at me. Sometimes he gives a loud honk to warn me away. Or perhaps he's just saying, "Up yours, city boy." I wouldn't know. I don't speak goose. But I was pretty sure he just doesn't like me.

Today cemented it. I was returning from my walk, heading right through the gaggle of geese, the paddle of ducks, and the murder of chickens (well, it's a murder of crows, and I don't know the group name for chickens). I was sort of in my own world, as I will sometimes be during a nice walk.

Suddenly, HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK! And that bastard of a gray gander was actually running at me from some distance. The fowl in general tend to get close but not too close to humans (since they're fed by humans), but I hadn't seen this behavior before.

The bastard of a gray gander was slinked down low like a cat, his neck parallel to the ground, pointing at me like an arrow, his beak heading right for my shins.

It was all too quick - and yet simultaneously in slow motion - for me to be seriously alarmed. When I stopped in my tracks and turned my head toward that gray bastard of a gander, he stopped running, pointed his neck and head upward and let out his loudest HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK! yet.

I was probably six feet from my Carhartts taking a serious pecking from this gray bastard of a gander. But I stood my ground, B&E readers.

To you, gray bastard of a gander, I tell you this: I got my eye on you, and the missus comes from a country in which goose is served for special occasions. Don't make me create a special occasion for you, punk.

Awwww... Mommy's a Brush!

Remember the cute, injured hedgehogs? Oh, I bet you do. Well, let me remind you...


AAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW! Wookie! Da itty-bitty hedgie-wedgie got a boo-boo!

If you recall, that baby hedgehog broke his little legs falling out of the shrubbery because global warming made it impossible for him to hibernate properly. His little brother got hurt, too.


AAAAAWWWWWWWW! Who's da widdle gimpy with da widdle limpy?

See? It works because it's both exceedingly adorable and exceptionally sad.

You ain't seen nothing yet, B&E readers.

Four hedgehogs were orphaned when their mother was "crushed by a council palette truck." It breaks your fucking heart, doesn't it?

Well, just when you want to break down and cry in your beer, the orphaned hedgehogs go and do something so cute that you find yourself breaking down and crying in your beer - but this time from a place of cuteness!


AAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWW! WHO FINKS DA WIDDLE BRUSHIE IS MUM!?

See that, B&E readers? Because the baby hedgehogs don't. They're mostly blind, so the smell and bristly feel of the garden brush were all they needed to adopt a new mother.

And the brush doesn't even seem to mind!

[This is an old story, brought to my attention by BuzzFeed. And just because there's still one more cute hedgehog photo...]


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Puffin Personals - Walter

Lonely single male seeking female. Or anyone, really.

About me
I'm desperately alone.

About you
I really don't care at all, as long as you help me get out from under the weight of this crushing loneliness.

Send messages to Box Walter6431 c/o B&E comments below.

Puffin Personals - Jackie

Spunky, adventurous lover-of-life looking for an extreme sports partner for adrenaline-chasing, natural highs, and high-octane romance.

About me
I'm a cliff diver, skate punk, base jumper, free faller, snowboarder, tree climber, Red Bull drinker, body piercer, storm surfer, wave jumper, ice climber, BMX biker, deep sea diver, storm chaser, short track speed skater, bungee jumper, high flyer, and competitive eater. During mating season, I dig, and I dig deep and hard. And when it's egg-laying time, I fucking lay an egg, muthas.

About you
You just need to keep up, you big nancy.

Send messages to Box Jackie6000 c/o of B&E comments below.

Puffin Personals - Chad

Hello, ladies! Hot, single, hardy bird looking for a good time with the ladies! It's mating season, chickadees! Let's get down! I gots a whole lotta love to give!

About me
I like hot chicks, ugly chicks, skinny chicks, fat chicks, crazy chicks, normal chicks, any chicks, beer, partying, the American Pie series (American Wedding was totally the best!), beer, chillin' with my homies, my Playstation, low riders (cars and jeans!), beer, my Wii, my weed, Rush Week, and beer. I don't like total dorks.

About you
If you're a chick with a colorful beak, I want a piece of that ass! I'll show you a good time, puffin-style!

Send messages to Box Chad6969 c/o B&E comments below.

Puffin Personals - Gladys

Single, black and white female with colored beak for mating season seeks male of same ilk for companionship and possibly more.

About me
Sweet and shy, I enjoy the simple pleasures: flights along the cliff, nesting, and reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond."

About you
You are caring and supportive of my dreams, willing to dive sixty meters for food, and able to set up my finicky Tivo.

Send messages to Box Gladys6553, c/o B&E Comments below.

My Late Spring Vacation - Haggis

No, not Paul Haggis, you wacky Crash fans.

The missus and I have been together for something like six-and-a-half years, married for nearly five of them, and we've been to Scotland together four or five times. Maybe six. I was also in Scotland for a week back in '93, during my semester abroad.

And yet, I'd never tried haggis.

Some people avoid it. After all, according to Wikipedia, haggis is made of the sheep's "pluck": heart, liver, and lungs, then mixed with oatmeal, spices, and other mysteries. Oh, and it's usually encased in sheep intestines.

Really, haggis is just like any of those other "leftover" foods - the innards of an animal, in this case a sheep. After all, it makes sense to use the whole animal.

But people run like hell from haggis. Maybe it's the name. Who knows?

Anyway, I never avoided haggis; I just never tried it.

Well, the missus' father took us out to a nice restaurant in his little town located on Loch Ness, and I ordered the haggis appetizer.

Those are oatcakes on the side of it. Oatcakes are Scottish crackers, only better.

I spread that haggis right on those oatcakes and ate the hell out of it.

Good times, indeed.

The missus has a couple of cousins who work in the kitchen at this particular restaurant, and apparently the chef adds some cream to her haggis recipe. That's less typical, but it sure tasted good.

So what does haggis look like before it's cooked up? We got a few items from the local butcher, and I caught a glimpse of raw haggis for sale. We didn't buy any; perhaps an adventure for another time. But here it is behind the counter...

That's black pudding next to the haggis, by the way.

What does it look like before it's haggis in a butcher shop? A little something like this...

Braddock

The Pittsburgh Steelers won the Super Bowl. For the people of Braddock, Pennsylvania, I don't know if it'll do much besides raise their spirits.

It's not as if the New York Times needs particular plugging, but this story on Braddock (along with the multimedia feature, which I also recommend) is fascinating and outstanding.

Braddock is twenty minutes from Pittsburgh. Depressed by the decline of the steel industry, it's mostly abandoned. But it also has a visionary mayor who's looking to turn it around. The mayor is also 6'8" and over 300 pounds. Visionary and noticeable.

The missus and I have been aware of Braddock for a couple of years. The whole thing is a very slow moving urban renewal project.

A friend of ours does some unofficial consulting for the mayor's office around tree planting, community gardens, and urban farming. He's even thinking of moving there (once his research trips in the rain forest are done) to start an urban organic farm that can serve the community. The mayor's right-hand man once called him with an urgent request: they found the means to get their hands on many, many trees for very, very cheap. And our friend told him what he should buy and where and how to plant them.

I've got absolutely no point to this posting except to say that you should check out the story and the video. It's absolutely fascinating.

And the name of the town rhymes with a delicious North Atlantic fish sometimes served breaded and fried with chips.

Lessons from Kansas - Cuteness Always Wins

Long-time B&E readers already know how much I love a good hedgehog story. Well, here's another.

A sixth-grader in Lawrence, Kansas, really wanted a pet hedgehog. His mom said she'd love to give him one, if only it wasn't illegal. If it weren't for that damned threat of foot and mouth disease she'd totally get him one. Totally. Oh, man, that's really too bad. Shucks, son.

So the kid got the law changed and now has a pet hedgehog. His mother is wondering what the hell happened and how it all went so wrong.

But AWWWWWWWW, wookie the wittle hedgehog! WHO'S THE WOODGIE-COODGIE-BOODGIE?!

Actually, I think maybe the design for Baby Benjamin Button was based on this little hedgehog.

Panic

So this morning, as I was doing my regular trolling of the political websites that feed me and my neuroses, I suddenly panicked. Yes, I'm concerned that the Republican Party will figure out a way to steal this election, but no, that's not what caused my panic.

As of November 5th (well, the 6th in practicality), I don't know what I'll write about to entertain the B&E readers. The election will finally be over, and so will the baseball season. Politics and baseball: those are my bread and butter topics.

My well will be dry, dear B&E readers. I sure hope you bear with me. I guess I'll need to do more research into hedgehogs.

September in Queens Can Mean Only One Thing...

Cows!

And just one day shy of the anniversary of the last cow spotted on the loose in Queens.

Apparently, Queens is even more rural than those of us who live there realize.

I Always Liked That Rose of Sharon

Some of you have probably heard about these baby white tigers abandoned by their mother only to be adopted by a golden retriever. It's a very popular story in the world of Yahoo! News today.

Those of you who haven't yet read the article can do so here, but the short of it is that these baby white tigers were abandoned by their mother only to be adopted by a golden retriever. You could also read the first paragraph above for my initial summary, which will read a lot like the summary in this paragraph.

Anyway, I liked this story because it happened in Kansas. The dogs there are more accepting than dogs in the rest of the country.

Also, it sort of reminded me of Rose of Sharon (or "Rosasharn" as the Joads call her) in Grapes of Wrath. Except, of course, instead of a sick, old man suckling on the teat of a mother with a stillborn during the Great Depression, it's a few white tigers suckling on the teats of a golden retriever who'd just weened her puppies during right now.

I wonder why that scene didn't make it into the classic John Ford film adaptation of The Grapes of Wrath, starring Henry Fonda. I mean the sick, old guy and Rosh of Sharon, not the tigers and dog. After all, the tigers and dog scenario not only doesn't appear in the book, but it also didn't happen until right now.

It's Always the Chinese Crested

Some of you may recall Elwood, last year's winner of the Ugliest Dog in the World Competition. Elwood was a Chinese Crested. A really fucked up looking Chinese Crested.

This year's winner was another Chinese Crested, an ugly bugger called Gus (pictured here for your reference and enjoyment). Unfortunately, what this particular photo does is show Gus from his best angle. You can only just see his missing eye and leg.

Yes, it's fair to say that Gus is ugly. Even with the missing parts, though, I don't think he can hold a candle to Elwood.

Still, that Chinese Crested is one ugly breed.

You Don't Call, You Don't Write

An Antarctica seal was caught on film attempting to copulate with a king penguin.

"Oh, baby, you know just what papa likes... I'm tired..."

Scientists witnessing the event hypothesize that a) the seal was an inexperienced adolescent male who didn't really know what he was doing; b) it was a playful act that turned unexpectedly amorous; or c) it was a predatory act that turned unexpectedly amorous. Seals are apparently known to hunt the penguins.

Whatever the seal's intent, the BBC writes this gem:

After 45 minutes the seal... swam into the water and then completely ignored the bird it had just assaulted, the scientists report.

Well, that seal certainly behaves like an adolescent male.

The BBC also reports that the penguin was not harmed physically. There's a surprising lack of mention at the emotional fallout.

The Little Hedgehog Got Hurt

Aw, the widdy piddy baby hedgehog got himself widdle boo boo. Aawwww, two widdle boo boos.

Yeah, so it turns out this baby hedgehog is sick because of warm weather. All these abandoned baby hedgehogs can't freakin' hibernate because the fall has been too mild in the UK.

So they're all tired and they're falling out of trees or holes or hedges or wherever the hell hedgehogs fall out of, and...


AWWWWWW... Wooky the biddy hedgy-hedgy wit da witty cast as he wimps awound da woom.

Seriously, the whole thing is totally fucked up, and the lawyer who sent me this should totally be ashamed of herself.

But hey, if you want to read more you can check this out. I should warn you that I've already posted the cute pictures, though.

Queenie the Cow

Apparently, there was a cow loose in Queens last night.

Look, I know I grew up in Kansas and all, but she's not mine, so stop asking.

That Other B&E

Two words for you today, B&E readers: Bald Eagles.

Some say bald eagles represent America. But it's so much more. Bald eagles are the symbol of all things bald. They represent total liberty from hair. Freedom from follicles spread across their wings like peanut butter across a slice of Wonder Bread.

And good news! Now, bald eagles off the endangered species list.

It's grand that bald eagles are making a comeback. But the truly good news is that I can have one of these fellas in my home. I just have to go out and shoot the shit out of one, get it stuffed, and staple it to the wall.

As a bald man, I've earned a bald eagle. Hell, I've earned as many bald eagles as I can kill. They represent me. I am a bald American.

You Should See the Other One

So this dog won the World's Ugliest Dog competition held (where else?) in Petaluma, California.

The most remarkable thing about this story is not that Elwood won the competition or that he was rescued from being put to death by his breeder (who believed he was too ugly to sell).

No, dear B&E readers. The most remarkable thing is that, in last year's World's Ugliest Dog competition, Elwood came in second.

Dachshunds, Dachshunds Everywhere!

A few months ago, I mentioned the semi-annual Parade of the Dachshunds. Well, in celebration of yesterday's gorgeous spring day in New York City, the dachshunds came out to play once again in Washington Square Park.

This is the second time I've made a point of attending the Dachshund Parade, but my fifth attendance overall. It seems I've got a sixth sense for weenie dogs, perhaps acquired during my formative years while we had our own dachshund in the house.

Overall, I'd say this was a slightly less exciting Parade. Costumes were fewer and tamer, and the organizers were a little slow to gather the people together to sing the Dachs Song.

Still, it was well worth the time and trip, as the following photos will attest. Dachshunds, by the way, are not easy to photograph. They have a bit of a hard time standing still, particularly when there are so many asses-at-nose-level to sniff.

Some dogs don't seem to amused to be the subject of such humiliation:



Others are perfectly happy:



Some dachshunds make political statements:



Note that this little sailor's on a hot dog leash, which is making him salivate:


Then there are the dachshunds that are just being dachshunds:

Your Cell Phone Is Killing Bees

As many of you may know, it is my goal to be the last New York City resident without a cell phone. I've been accused of being stupid, Luddite, contrary, and (perhaps most frustrating to some) unreachable. The only reason I don't want a cell phone is that I don't like them.

I have myriad reasons for not liking cell phones: I don't like talking on the phone in general, I want to be truly unreachable sometimes, I believe in making plans, the worst pedestrians are usually on the phone, there's no goddamn peace anywhere a phone is allowed, cell phones kill bees, and more.

That's right: there's now some hard evidence linking radiation from cell phones to Colony Collapse Disorder, which has wiped out between 60% and 70% of apiaries on both US coasts. Watch the price of honey explode first. Then sit back in wonder as the pollination process declines. As the article points out, Albert Einstein said that once the bees disappear, humankind has four years of life left. Good times.

And as if I needed more reasons to stay away from cell phones, the bottom of the linked article also proposes still-unproven theories (only because long-term effects can't be known yet) of health problems caused by handsets, including brain tumors, low sperm counts, the death of brain cells resulting in early senility, and "text thumb."

Text thumb? Text thumb?!

It's only a matter of time before cell phones are proven to cause homosexuality, premarital sex, and abortion.

Enjoy your cell phones, everybody! You can reach me at home on my goddamn land line. Although I probably won't pick up. So email me instead.

Aw, crap. I bet my wireless internet is killing bees, too. I'm going back to bed.

I Thought Seals Were Lazy

Long-time readers (first-time commenters?) might remember a little post from September 2005 about Hurricane Katrina allegedly letting loose counter-terrorism-trained dolphins into the Gulf of Mexico. The US military would neither confirm nor deny the reports.

We still may not know what happened to those dolphins, but this week, the US Navy unveiled 75 dolphins and 25 sea lions at a military base in San Diego that have been trained to detect terrorists and underwater mines.

The crazy part? They work together. The article states:

Working in unison, the dolphins can drop a flashing light near a mine or a swimmer. The sea lions carry in their mouths a cable and a handcuff-like device that clamps onto a terrorist's leg.

Now those are some fucking Navy Seals.

Look Out! That Kitty Has a Knife!

CIAcat
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Some of you may recall the killer dolphins let loose by Hurricane Katrina. Well, rest assured, this debacle was barely a hiccup in the Pentagon's animal warfare plans.

They're working on so many multi-legged, many-finned armies that a few missing Flippers is like dropping a couple pennies down a sewer drain -- no point in even going after them.

Be sure to check out the Animals in Warfare sidebar. Man, working for Darpa sounds like fun.

Harumph for Humphrey

Humphrey
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Humphrey the Cat first came to Number 10 Downing Street under the reign of Margaret Thatcher.

Rumored to be a flea-ridden serial bird killer, Humphrey was apparently not appreciated by the current inhabitants of Number 10, as can be seen by the forced smile on Cherie Blair.

Read this for a full obituary in today's Guardian UK.

Humphrey is dead! Long live Humphrey!

Acid Fish

Alright, so the picture isn't as scary as the snakehead or the two-mouthed fella, but check it out: the world's smallest fish, and it lives in acid! Sweet.

(And if my reference to Brokeback President wasn't enough to get me wiretapped, linking to Al-Jazeera should just about do the trick. "Really, I'm just reading about the fish! It's blondandeffective's fault! She turned me on to the fish! Seriously!")

OK, just as an aside, I should probably say something about Al-Jazeera. In this country, it's assumed to be a friend of terrorists, since they get the bin Laden tapes and all. But the Taliban has called for the bombing and banning of the network. As has Bush (only to be called off by Tony Blair). To complete the cycle of bombing and banning, we need to find right-wing Jewish, Hindu, and Buddhist leaders who have also called for its bombing and banning. Has Netanyahu? Did Gandhi? Gandhi was a right-wing leader, wasn't he? What about the Dalai Lama? What's the deal with that guy, anyway? And why is he always hanging out with Richard Gere? Has Richard Gere called for the bombing and banning of Al-Jazeera?

A Rival to the Mighty Snakehead?

fishmouths
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Facing snakeheads, fish are being forced to evolve into something, well, different.

This fucker was pulled from a Nebraska lake, and blondandeffective was here to tell me about it. Is she not effective? Is she not??

Turkeys in the White House

turkey
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Anyone who watches "The West Wing" or pays attention to the pomp and circumstance at the real White House knows that our fair president will make the fifth pardon of his illustrious political career this Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, all five of his pardons have applied to turkeys only.

To add more fun to this year's pardon celebration, the White House is showing its wacky side, offering an online Name-the-National-Thanksgiving-Turkey vote.

Of course, even in this trivial endeavor, our current administration misses the mark. First of all, it distinctly says, "Name The National Thanksgiving Turkey." Sounds like one turkey, right? So then why do all of our options have two names? Democracy and Freedom. Blessing and Bounty. Wattle and Snood. You get the idea. Are there two turkeys here, or does the name represent the two distinct facets of the turkey's personality? We need some goddamned clarification here. Someone get that Dickhead Scott McClellan on the horn!

Even more disappointing, though, is that there's no write-in option. I was hoping to get the Commander-in-Chief to pardon a turkey named I. Lewis Libby.

They're Everywhere!

snakehead
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Remember the snakehead?

While the eastern seaboard was getting its forty days and forty nights of rain earlier in the month (that's right: 40 days earlier in the month), flooded dams were revealing migrating snakeheads in the DC area.

And I don't mean Republicans running from indictments. I'm talking about fish of pure evil. Snakeheads attack toddlers and, after they've had them for tea, they regurgitate said toddlers and attack again!

At least that will be the story soon. In the meantime, there's just a shitload of predatory fish in the Potomac River, fish that want nothing more than to take over our ecosystem.

I'd like to highlight one detail from the Washington Post article, if I may. The fishermen report that while snakeheads may not be able to walk very well, they do remain upright when not in water. And as one of the fishermen said, "We would throw one in the cooler, two others would jump out and we'd have to chase them through the woods."

Dude, if you're chasing fish through the woods, they're walking just fine.

This story was brought to my attention by blondandeffective, who is moving to Egypt in a few months. She claims it's because of a boy, but I suspect that, really, she just wants to get away from the snakeheads.

Doubly Bald, Doubly Effective

twoheads
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

This little fella (or fellas, depending on how you look at it) was found in Cuba. Boy, the Cubans think of everything.

Thanks to blondandeffective (or who I currently think is blondandeffective anyway) for emailing the picture.

Surfers Beware

dolphin
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

The US Military can neither confirm nor deny that Hurricane Katrina let loose trained, armed, and dangerous dolphins.

The intelligent, social mammals have been used by the US Navy since the 1950s. At first, dolphins were studied by engineers bent on improving the shapes of submarines and torpedoes. Soon, however, it became clear that dolphins, and even sea lions, could be trained to perform deep dives and track underwater devices. And unlike girly human divers, dolphins don't get the bends!

Recently, it seems, dolphins have been joining the US in The War On Terror. Armed with tranqs and trained to shoot terrorists attacking military vessels, Katrina may have unleashed a pod of killer dolphins upon the Gulf of Mexico. Now anyone in a wetsuit might be targeted by Navy Not-Exactly-Seals.

Nice work, everybody. That's a wrap.