Ever since his genetic tests came back, my dog General Sherman has been practicing his moves in the hopes that he might be asked to join Australia’s “Thunder Down Under.” Unfortunately, he missed out on the Doodle Mafia thing, but the tests did show some Aussie Shepherd blood mixed into his American mongrel, opening the doors for a dancing dingo dynamo.

I will admit that I held higher aspirations for The General than just shaking his money-maker for a room full of screaming women. I have been diligent in his training, he has never had anything but the very best single malt scotches, and Cuban cigars. I was willing to pay his way into any obedience school that would have him, but I finally came to grips with his choice when I realized that there really is no higher aspiration than shaking your money-maker for a room full of screaming women.

And so, to Pookey-Bear’s dismay and laughing disbelief, I have decided to quit my job and join General Sherman at the Thunder Down Under tryouts. I don’t have any Australian blood that I am aware of, but I do enjoy oiling up my motor with a can of Foster’s now and then, and that should be sufficient.

So, look out Vegas, and lock up your daughters, because here comes the testosterone teeming tag-team of General Shazam, and Hunkleberry_Hootie!

(Honey, where did you put those little blue pills, anyway?)

It sounds foreign,

mysterious maybe,

but you get what you pay for.

quality lineup,

is at the other joint,

the booze are watered down,

the floor is a sticky mess.

no one begs me,

to take off the dust mask.

I have a black cashmere coat I wore to a Starbucks once.

My drink of choice? A skinny vanilla latte. Outside, a homeless man stopped me to ask for money. I declined, and he spat: rich white girl.

So let's go with a rich white girl name. Apple? Blue?

Skinny Vanilla?

I haven't worn that black cashmere coat since.

This was a very hard decision.

But I have decided.

Chicken Strip.

I'll be sponsored by KFC.

Yes, I have a sense of humor.