Friday, December 5, 2014

Dillon Christmas Letter circa 2007


2007 X-Mas Letter from the Dillon Dogs

Ozzypug, Tazzy, and Quincy

Narrated by: Ozzypug

Typed by:  The Cats

 

JAN:   This was a CRAZY month. The Cats decided to become Scientologists! Every Meow out of their stinkin’ mouths was, “Tom Cruise this…” and “Tom Cruise that...” It was disturbing. One cat puked up a hairball that looked uncannily like Tom F-ing Cruise and worse, began to worship the nasty thing. That really upset Quincy because, as you all know, he’s a re-born again, born again agnostic. Quincy started bellowing about worshiping regurgitated false gods and to the cat’s horror, he chowed down on the Cruise-Ball! Wow! He strutted around the house for DAYS telling the cats that they should pray to his asshole because the second coming of Cruise would be arriving soon. That snapped the cats back into reality. Thank god they’re practicing Jews again. 

 

FEB:   Went to the vet to get our nails trimmed. Dog park my fuzzy ass! I pooped on the floor for that little scam. Mom baby-sat our little human cousin Kapryce for a few minutes one day. She got into a lot of stuff, but it was okay, it wasn’t mine. When she left, Mom said something about throwing herself down the stairs twice this month, whether she needed to or not. I had no idea what she was talking about but it was fun as hell racing her as she rolled down the stairs. It was a tie. Mom landed in poop. Guess who’s?  

 

MAR:    Same crap, different month. Eat, sleep, poop, piss, fart, eat, sleep, poop, piss, fart. What else is there? Quincy tried to poop the length of the living room but didn’t quite make it. Ass cramps. Almost made Guinness Book too.  

 

APR:    Got our photo taken with the Easter Bunny. Bastard will know next time not to run.   (not actual photo)

 






 

MAY:    I had to go to the vet for a diagnosis of my back legs. The vet says it’s nerve damage. Probably from that Agent Orange stuff those “Zipperheads” were spraying while I was in Nam. They can take my legs, those yellow-eyed pricks, but they can’t take my spirit. I read that on a box of HoHos. I smacked Tazzy with my new cane for calling me a gimp. That’s MR. GIMP to you fatty! I wonder who Steve Austin’s doctors were. A bionic tongue would be sweeeeet. 

 

 

JUN:     Mom caught Dad molesting his Action Figures in the bathroom again. You should have seen the look painted on Captain America’s face. Can we say, “Homoooo”?   Mom enrolled the three of us in classes. Who would have guessed Tazzy would be such a graceful pole dancer.

 

JUL:     Okay, I know you all saw our mug shots in Petsmart, Petco and your local news stations, but let me put the rumors straight: we DID NOT have sexual relations with those ferrets. It’s physically impossible and not to mention, EWWWW! Never believe a dirty weasel, especially ones on crack who screwed you out of 40 bucks. Dad found Quincy poop in the computer room with a note that read, “snacks.” Busted.

 

AUG:    Tazzy was sick of the cats, and me, poking fun of his weight. He didn’t appreciate the brotherly jabs of being called, Pug Chop, Pugzilla, or my favorite, Fat Ass.  So, Tazzy decided to start an exercise regiment. Quincy and I decided we wanted to look more buff too, so we all chipped in and bought some sweet headbands, a Bowflex and a crate of illegal Mexican steroids. By the end of the month, we were so ripped, we had muscles in our shit! Quincy got huge and began to resemble a small yak. And Tazzy really built up his peck and sphincter muscle. He was so fit, when he pissed, the stream blew him across the yard. It was amazing. Mom and Dad eventually found out we were “juicing”, so they cut off our Pay Pal account. Quincy pooped all over the dining room table in protest and blamed it on “roid rage.” I don’t think Mom & Dad bought it.

 

SEP:     We took a trip to the majestic Redwood Forest. It was AWESOME. It’s every dogs dream to visit the beautiful ancient redwoods and piss on every goddamn one. It’s the dog Olympics. You must train! Tip #1: Water, water, water or you’ll only hit a few trees before your stream runs dry. Tip #2: Don’t shoot your wad on the first few trees. A squirt here and there will get you past some of the big dogs with monster bladders. Tip #3:  Don’t piss on Sasquatch. I don’t care how much he tells you he’s into gay porn and golden showers. You will regret it. He’s a one sick fuck monkey.

 

OCT:    Got really wasted with the cats. They get all the good shit. 

 

NOV:     Watched a lot of TV. I believe that Rachel Ray needs to be rolled in flour, pissed on and eaten with a side of bacon-flavored polenta. Oh my god, I’m starting to sound like Sasquatch (see Sept). On a crappy note, Mom won’t let us watch the dog shows any more. She flipped out when she saw all the used tissues and empty bottles of Jergens Lotion in between the couch cushions. Come on, some of those bitches are HOT!   We tried to pin it on Dad, but since Mom didn’t find any naked action figures strewn about, she kinda knew.  

 

DEC:     Here we are Christmas time again. To all our friends and family: we love you and hope you have a wonderful holiday and a fruitful 2008. To the rest of you, go fuck yourselves. How did you get this letter any way? You know we ain’t friends! I wouldn’t write you a letter if you were smeared with bunny poop and pepperoni. And you know how much I LOVE bunny poop and pepperoni…

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


The Worst Scary Stories Never Written: Yet.....



I know a few things about scary horror stories. So take my word for it, if these stories are ever written; the great horned beast will rise from his trappings of Hell (which is probably a disgusting scripted reality show starring the Kardashians) and from his belly will brew a noxious fart that when unleashed from his pert sphincter, shall envelop the earth, raping your nostrils and clawing through your throat.

Only then will you truly understand the beasts Biblical rage and you will giggle! For the beast cannot properly digest queso dip.

His evilness is lactose intolerant. 

Enjoy the list and feel free to add to it!!

  •          Digging up Mommy
  •           I was Haunted by Chas Bono’s Breast Fat

  •          Children of a Lesser Corn
  •  
  •          The Monster that Wouldn’t Come Out of the Closet
  •          Black Cats- Racist Witches

  •          Eating for Two -You and Your Tapeworm
  •  
  •          I Sold My Soul for a Kia Optima (Better Gas Mileage)

  •          The Sandwich that Wouldn’t Be Eaten
  •          Why Black isn't Always Beautiful (The story of 
    •     Frostbite)
  •  
  •          Why Grilled Cheese will NEVER Talk

  •           Grammy put Pappy in a Home Because He's Going to 
    •     Die... and I Helped!

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Welcome to the Herd


Welcome to the Herd





It was Shepard’s first execution at the Supermax prison.  He hoped he had the stomach for it.  Finally privy to guarded secrets of the Keystone State Prison, he was now one of the elite.  Months of intense physical and mental training was effortless compared to earning the trust of the Warden; a veteran by the name of Gerald Koffee.  Koffee’s reputation throughout the penal system was that of a fabled beast in command of a labyrinth of monsters.  And within the fortified walls of supermax prisons, where the inmates are deemed the worst of the worst, who better to forge the shackles of these monsters than a formidable beast?

Shepard stood shoulder to shoulder with a core group of men hand-selected by Koffee for their strength, grit and ability to follow orders without question or hesitation.  Shepard was the youngest and most recent of the group.  Rumors swirled that once a Keystone State employee, always a Keystone State employee; judging by the grizzled, ancient looks on many of the men the rumor was true.  While in training Koffee had queried if he was willing to accept death as his faithful duty at the prison.  Shepard believed in the cause implicitly and was all too willing to die in his uniform.

The window looking down into the killing room floor was dwarfed by the stature of the beast himself.  Koffee cleared his throat, demanding the attention of his elected. He then launched into what Shepard would come to know as his customary pre-execution lecture.


“Gentleman, this prison was built to hold those with no regard for life, human or otherwise. Because of that critical flaw, we are at war.  A war where we must fight to keep civility from being snuffed out by the unrepentant and the unviable.  Culling the users and the takers of the world rests on our calloused shoulders.  We are here to assist the cleansing of our society.  Do you accept your role as the last line of defense?”

The men countered, “Yes sir.”

Flooding the killing room floor with light, Gerald Koffee peered down through the shatterproof glass.  There a few dozen inmates stood shielding their eyes, attempting to blink away temporary blindness. Before placing the microphone to his lips, Koffee noted the time.

“June 30, 2030, at 4:45 pm. Let it begin.”

Shepard swallowed hard.  He knew what was coming. The men on the kill floor glared into the large window as General Koffee barked into the mic.

“None of you deserve to live.  You are a disease that feeds on the weak and vulnerable, and therefore must be eradicated.  But today I give you an opportunity.  An opportunity for survival.  The rules are simple.  You will either kill or be killed.  This is the price of gaining your freedom.  Kill or die trying.”

One of the inmates interrupted. A pending confrontation with death left him with little fear of reprisal.

“And what if we refuse to participate in your fucked up little game, Warden?  Then what?”

Koffee declined to answer, instead motioning to the officer standing to the left of Shepard, who rushed to a small opening cut out of the window and promptly shot the affronting inmate between the eyes. 

Shepard kept his own eyes forward, quietly relieved he hadn’t been asked to take the shot.  But he knew his allegiance would be called upon soon. He clung to a hope that he wouldn’t disappoint Koffee or himself.

Without addressing the dispatched inmate, the warden continued into the microphone. He found his audience to be more attentive now.

“Once the room goes red and the sirens sound you may begin.  When the room goes quiet and the lights are returned, the winner or winners will be acknowledged.”

An incensed roar rose from the kill floor, startling Shepard. He tightened his hold on his rifle.  Meanwhile, Koffee bit his lip to keep from grinning.

“Death has brought you here.  Now death is the only way out.”

The siren blared and the kill room was quickly bathed in red.  The melee was slow to start but the possibility of freedom was enough to rouse the monsters’ savagery.  Death was delivered in many gruesome and creative methods, the most common being concealed shanks that many inmates had fashioned from bits of honed plastic and shards of metal.

Shepard was surprised by his constitution as he watched the inmates tear each other to pieces.  Any relationships built at the prison were quickly dissolved in the violent will to survive.  

At 5:20 pm the red light was snuffed out and the kill room was quiet.  Five men remained, kneeling on the blood soaked concrete, each with significant wounds of their own.
 

Koffee took a moment to survey the scene. Then he smiled and congratulated them.

“Well done.  Your ferocity has kept you alive.  You have proved you are survivors at any cost.”


One of the inmates spit out a mouthful of blood and smiled at the realization of pending liberty.

“So we’re free men?”

“Free?  Nothing is ever free.” Koffee smiled, then lowered the window and nodded to his men.  A barrage of bullets ripped through the five remaining combatants.  Their bodies fell among the rest of the dead.   Everyone except Shepard lowered their weapons.


Placing his hand on Shepard’s remarkably steady shoulder, which was still aimed on the kill room floor, Koffee carefully slid his hand down his newest recruit’s arm, guiding him to lower his weapon.  Shepard’s voice cracked.


“I blew a man’s head off.  A man that was promised a way out. You lied, sir. Why?”


“Those men have killed for much less son.  I gave them more than they ever gave the people they murdered.  I gave them a gift.  I gave them hope.  Unfortunately, the herd is always growing and it’s our duty to cull that herd.  Congratulations, you’re now one of us.  Welcome to the herd.”







Thursday, October 9, 2014

Men of Silver


This story is for the uber SUPER Geeks. You know who you are......


Check out Randommization.com   for more cool pix!
Men of Silver 

“Jeez Louise, think you could turn the heat up in here?  It’s freezing," Bruce Wayne grumbled, wrapping his old cape around his shoulders.

Clark Kent yawned. He’d heard this gripe from his former team mate before, “How many times do I have to tell you, you old bat, there isn’t a thermostat in the Fortress.  You always underdress. Put on my slippers. They’ll warm you up.”

Bruce starred at his host, the prior Man of Steel and leaned forward in his own recliner.

The awkward silence and eventual one word answered that followed said it all, “Who?”

Agitated, Clark stripped off his identity suppressing bi-focals and rubbed his less than super-eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘who’?  I didn’t say anything that required a ‘who’ for an answer. What are you now, a damned owl? ”

Confused, Bruce pointed a finger at himself.

“No Clark. I’m Batman. Remember?” he sucked his dentures, “It’s okay. I forget who I am sometimes too. Luckily, someone stitched my name in my underwear,” he said, still pointing to his chest.

Clark patted his addled friend’s hand and sighed.

“Yes, Bruce. I know you all too well. We’ve fought many battles together. Remember the epic war with Darkseid? You were magnificent in that encounter. By the way, I ran into Darkseid at the Justice League Retirement Community. He’s still a prick but with the glaucoma and osteoarthritis, his once forbidding Omega Beams are only good for warming his cocoa.  Plus, it’s hard to get around in a nano-second when you’re riding a hover-round.”

Bruce laughed. Clark missed listening to his old comrade’s laugh. He enjoyed reminiscing about the good old days where the good guys always vanquished the bad guys.

Bruce eagerly chimed in.

“Oh and you know who else is still hot?” he solicited with a bony elbow to Clark’s weakening arm- apparently not hearing any of the conversation.

Lois Lane. I would have had a shot with her if it wasn’t for Superman,” he leaned in and whispered, “I did touch her boob once.”  

Clark balled up his fist, but resisted to follow through with a strike. Instead, he snatched up Bruce by the arm in a less-than-powerful grip.

“I think it’s time for you to go home, Batboy.”

Bruce slowly rose from his chair.

“Wow, time sure flies. Tell Alfred to bring the Batmobile around.”

“Alfred’s dead, Bruce. He’s been dead for over 20 years,” Clark snipped, no longer in the mood to circle the planet known as memory lane.

“I think he’s stealing my silverware,” Bruce hissed, shaking a gloved finger in Clark’s face, “I know he’s been hiding my things. Yesterday, I found my codpiece in the breadbox. I should fire him.”

Ushering Bruce out the fortress door, Clark rolled his eyes which accidently set fire to couch. After a wicked coughing spell brought on by emphysema, the Man of Steel finally managed to blow out the flames with his icy breath.

“Damn cataracts,” Clark griped.

Knowing his old friend would need assistance traveling home he enlisted a fellow superhero to be his traveling companion. Clark pulled Bruce close and practically screamed in his ear.

“Bruce, Alan is going to take you home. You remember Alan Scott? A.K.A Green Lantern?”

Alan offered an outstretched hand, “Good to see you Bruce. It’s been too long.”

“Oh Alan, Alan Scott. Rumor has it you’re now one of those queers, right?”

Clark hung his head. But Bruce persisted.

“I had to have this discussion with Robin so I’m going to have it with you too. I just need to get one thing straight…ME. Got it?”

Alan bit his lip. The likes of the Joker and Penguin had been his arch nemesis in the past but now the villains resided within him disguised as years of concussions and the ravages of dementia. He was then and now the Dark Knight. He forced an awkward smile.

“Good, now take me home. I’m freezing my bat balls off. Clark, why don’t you turn on the heat? Your Fortress is as cold as the White Witches tit,” he snickered. 

Alan shot Superman a befuddled look. Clark waved and shuffled back inside. Patting Green Lantern’s shoulder, Bruce grinned and shouted, “Up, up and away!”

And with a single invocation to the Earth and a lick of green flame both Batman and Green Lantern were gone.

Clark dropped in his recliner and closed his eyes.

“That was my line…I think.”

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Using Big Ben Rothlisberger to Get My Cookbook Published


The Steelers win to the Superbowl (over 3 years ago) has helped me decide just how my cookbook is going to be published. Im going to accuse Big Ben of touching me inappropriately in the frozen pizza isle of Giant Eagle. Here is my direct quote to Star Magazine…

In my best Pitssburgh ackscent,

“I was in da Giahant Igle, jus mahdin mah own bizness. Ah was Bahin some Jumbo and made mah way over to da frozen pizza section and Ben Rothlisberger came over and asked if ah liked pepperoni or sawsage. He wasnt tawkin abaht on mah pizza, datswhat he calls a ladies 'special parts'. Ah tole Ben he shud be shamed ah hisself, disgracing me in the Giahant Igle like dat. Ah kin never watch the Stillers again. I am traumatized to go into another Giahant Igle for fear of Ben ogling mah pizza.  He tainted my feelins towards Jumbo too. “  

Without Accent
“I was in the Giant Eagle, just minding my own business.  I was buying some Jumbo and made my way over to the frozen pizza section and Ben Rothlisberger came over and asked if I liked pepperoni or sausage.  He wasnt talking about toppings on my pizza. Thats what he calls a ladies special parts.  I told Ben he should be ashamed ah himself, disgracing me in the Giant Eagle like that. I can never watch the Steelers again. I am traumatized to go into another Giant Eagle for fear of Ben ogling my pizza. He tainted my feelings towards Jumbo too." 

Yinz think dis will work?

My Top 15 Children’s Books by Functioning Addicts


TOP 15 Children’s Books by Functioning Addicts

1.        My Daddy’s in Jail Because he Touched Me

2.       What to do When Your Imaginary Friend Goes into Rehab

3.       So You Want to Join A Gang?

4.       The Little Penis that Couldn’t

5.       My First Prostitute

6.       When Good Beer Goes Bad

7.       Dr. Seuss Shit in My Hat

8.       The Jungle Juice Book

9.       Superfudge, Highway of Love

10.   Clifford, the Big Engorged Liver

11.   Dick in Jane’s Sphincter

12.    Earning Your Red Wings: A Dot to Dot Coloring Book

13.   “A” is for Anus

14.   Kleo the Chlamydia Ridden Koala

15.   Poop Schutes and Ladders  (Okay, it’s a game.  So what?)

I deleted this accidentally.....ooops.

This is what I look like. Taken before there was color film. Yep, I'm ancient. My house didn't have a bathroom or WALLS so I had to squat where ever I could squat. Thank you Johnny Hargnett for waiting till I pulled up my pants to take the pix.  Always the gentleman.



Wednesday, October 1, 2014

To blog or not to blog....who really gives a damn?

Today, my imaginary friend John Monaco suggested that I start a blog. Now, I don't always listen to my imaginary friend because I've been burned by his "suggestions" many times before. Petco did NOT think blasting R Kelly on my ipod and spraying vanilla pudding all over the animals tanks and cages on Valentine's Day while screaming 'Critter Orgy' was funny. I will be allowed back in Petco April-ish of 2019....maybe.
 
That debacle aside, I've decided to start this BLOG. I'm thinking of writing about sports, politics and a little Malaysian kid named Sven. Nevermind, Sven doesn't dig sports. He had a rock that he used as a soccer ball but the family ended up eating it. Hard times for Sven.
 
I have named my blog, Ruschelle Dillon's- Puppets Don't Wear Pants.  Because...well....they don't.  No self respecting puppet would ever don a pair of dungarees. And if they do, they're a Commy. Did I spell that correctly?  Ehh...I don't care. You smell my meaning.
 
This is where you kids come in.  I need stroked. In other words, I need people to read what spews from my herpies riddled lips. Don't worry, I'm not contagious....anymore. I can't promise class but I can promise entertainment. If you are easily offended this is not the place for you. Just thought I'd put that out there because there's ALWAYS someone who is offended. Yeah probably, YOU. Go watch some Holly Hobby videos or something...but leave this deliciously devious blog alone...or I'll tell my mommy!
 
What to expect here?  Well, humor, videos, stories, events, reviews etc.  Whatever I want to post- cause this is my blog bitches! And when I say "bitches" I mean that in the sweetest way possible.
 
Any readers out there other than Batman?
 
 

Fake News from a Friend

Bigfoot self portrait The President’s dead. That’s what the media proclaims. But there isn’t a body. Rumor has it- he was as...