Archive for the 'Dinosaur Crew' Category

The time where I told a story from my dog’s point of view

My name is Chompy, and this is my story. 

I live in Venice Beach with my new family. I’m the only dog in the house, and it’s a good thing because the apartment is so small. Most of the time, I sleep. My family is out a lot of the time, which is lonely for me. But I would rather be lonely and sleeping than crowded. I like to sleep all day.

I did not always live with my family. I’ve lived with other people before, and other people before that. You could say I moved around a lot, but I really haven’t moved at all. I’ve never left the place I live by the beach. I was born near here, and hopefully I’ll be here forever. 

I have had many many adventures, which is why I sleep all the time. What’s the point of being crazy, anyway? I’m old enough to understand that it’s not my turn to be wild  anymore. I had my fun. So I sleep.

It’s hard for me to remember everything that has happened to me, because I am so old, and because it’s not a dog’s place to remember everything. It’s my job to be a dog, not a rememberer. I sleep all day, remember? 

One of the first things I think I remember is my brothers and sisters. We were all the same color, but I was the prettiest. I was always the prettiest. My brothers and sisters and I weren’t together for that long, but I was the prettiest when we were. Pretty little Chompy, that’s what my first family called me. The prettiest dog in the neighborhood. That’s why I hold my head up high, because my mom was so pretty, and I was a pretty little girl, and I had to live up to my mom. I looked just like her, orange with a big patch of white on my chest, just like my mom.

I went to a new family when I was still very little, and it made me so sad to leave my brothers and sisters. Everyone was having fun one day, and then all the sudden I had to go live with a new family, while everybody else just stayed home and had fun. I had to leave all by myself. It was so terrible, I cried and cried forever. I learned to sing at my second family’s house because I was so sad. I would sing, and my new family would sing with me, and it made me feel better. It made me feel a lot better when I would sing, and my family would sing with me, and I could just relax and let it all go. That’s why I sing, to make myself feel better, and to tell everyone around me how I feel. It’s what I learned to do when I moved out on my own. 

I became very disillusioned with the world when my second family gave me away. I was always a sensitive girl, on account of being the prettiest and wanting to live up to my mom. I just wanted everything to be perfect, for me to be a star in everyone’s universe. That’s what I always wanted, but it really never worked out like that. My second family gave me away to the family across the street. They dropped me off, and I never saw them again. I was so upset again. I loved my second family because they would sing with me, and they were my first “real” family after I left my mom and brothers and sisters. I thought they were going to take care of me forever, but they gave me to a new family, and the new family had dogs.

I can’t stand dogs. I cannot handle being around other dogs. When I was a little girl, it was hard for me to play with my brothers especially, because they were always so rough. They would bite me, and try to hump me, and get in my face and sniff my behind. I couldn’t stand it, and I still can’t stand it. I need my own space, I need it, I need it, I need it. And then that’s when the real trouble began. My new family had two other dogs, a girl and a boy. What was funny was that I got along better with the boy than the girl. When I was a little girl, my brothers would drive me nuts, and my sisters would all be more relaxed. I liked sitting with them, even though they were all jealous of me, better than I liked roughhousing with my brothers. Well, the new dogs I met, the brother and sister at my new family, had been living together for years. I don’t know if they were related, but they looked the same, and acted like they had lived together forever. 

I first realized something weird when I had to eat outside every night. The other two got to eat inside, where it was warm, but I had to eat outside by myself. I would eat my food, and look inside the sliding glass door at the other two, where they would be getting fed from the table. I always wanted food from the table, but my new family would never let me inside to get any. Then, the two dogs would come outside and bother me about my food. I don’t like to eat fast all the time, but when they came out, I would scarf down all my food as fast as I could. I didn’t want them eating my food.

One day, I saw one of the dogs, the girl, eating my food. I bit her and we started fighting. Her brother jumped on me, and I couldn’t stop them. They bit me hard, and I was bleeding from a few different places, most of all on the top of my head. I was bleeding all over my face. It was hard for me to think about stuff for a while after that, because the scar on my head made it impossible to push my forehead up. That’s how I think, I crinkle my forehead. 

And so, the two dogs attacked me, and I got hurt. That was how I got sent to the Pound. I never even heard of the Pound until I got there, and as we walked in, I started to freak out. The Pound. The Pound. I didn’t even know what the word was, but it was loud inside my brain. They handed me over, and I went to a cage. Every dog in the place was going nuts. The Pound The Pound The Pound, they wouldn’t stop barking and screaming at each other and at the people working there. Barking and screaming, the Pound the Pound. I don’t remember much about my first trip to the Pound. I tried to sleep, but it was hard. I didn’t mind sleeping on concrete so much, but the other dogs bothered me too much so I couldn’t relax.

I honestly don’t remember how long I was in there for. One day, two people walked by my cage, and looked in. They took me home, but not to their home. They sent me to an old lady’s house, who was my new family. The old lady was by far my favorite family I had ever had. She was so nice to me, and so sweet. She was lonely because her family had died, and her own kids had picked me from the Pound to be the old lady’s new family. I was so excited because it was the first time in my entire life that I felt like I belonged in a family, like I was a part of the group. It was just me and the old lady. She knew how pretty I was too, and that made me so happy. She would talk to me and call me the prettiest dog on the block, and she would sing sometimes in the house by herself. One day, she was singing, and I started singing too, to show her that I could too. She loved it so much, and from then on, we were the singing family. Everyday, for at least a little while, we would sit inside and sing about our feelings, and about how we were still living and carrying on despite being hurt. I had just been in the pound, remember. I was always so sensitive, and being with another sensitive old lady made me so happy. I had someone who was my friend. I loved her. 

I lived with the old lady for a while, and I had a great time. It was the happiest part of my life up to that point. Then something terrible happened – the old lady died. She died one night when she was sleeping, and she didn’t get up in the morning. I tried to wake her up, but she was cold and I knew something was wrong. I cried a little bit, and just laid there next to her on the bed.

I don’t remember what happened to me after the old lady died. I honestly don’t remember. I remember crying and singing for a day, just me and her, and that’s about it. The next thing I know, I was literally on the beach. It was cold, and it was wet. I was on the beach, going from trashcan to trashcan picking up food. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that people just throw away, sometimes even right on the ground. Half-sandwiches, bread, bones, all kinds of sauce. It just lays on the ground, and I would eat it. 

I lived on the beach for a while, and even got a new family. It was my weirdest family because we didn’t live in a house, we lived on the beach. There were always new people coming in and out of the family, and dogs too. I lived with an old man, and then a boy. I lived with the boy for a while, until something happened to him, and he was gone. I think some other people attacked him, and kicked him out of the family, because he was gone. And then I had someone else to watch over, and then he was gone too. And then everything was gone, and I was alone again, eating out of the trashcans and on the street. I would just eat all the delicious stuff people didn’t want. It was an easy life, and I enjoyed it.

Then, I had to go back to the pound. 

Then, my new family, the one I live with now, came to get me, and I haven’t left them since we met. I was alone in the cage on my very first day in the pound, when the boy and the girl came to see me. The boy sang to me, and I sang back, and they came to get me a few days later. I was sick, coughing and wheezing, and in a terrible mood, but they still came to pick me up.

I still live with the new family, on the beach. I live in heaven. I get to eat whatever I want all the time, and I get to do whatever I want, which is mostly sleep. I had a sister for a while living here, but then she attacked me, so she left. Her name was Turbo, and I hate her. She tried to eat me. 

Maybe if you come to Venice Beach, I will hang out with you. There is a dog park right next to my house, where I go sometimes. I also like going to the beach to walk around and see the other people and dogs who are out. I also like going for car rides, and putting my head out the window.

My name is Chompy, and that was part of my story.

Pegasus, Dank, L.A. and other reflections.

I feel like it is some time for reflection. I have just returned home with beer in hand from the corner store, just narrowly missing a vicious storm blowing through Richmond. This is the long awaited L.A. post, however I will begin with a few thoughts about the course this blog is going.

As Stoney has alluded to many times in the previous weeks, my Pegasus post is kicking ass on searches and page views. It’s cool that people are coming to the site, but Stoney and I have come under fire from the other Stonies for whoring out for page views. This cannot be further from the truth. This blog was started as a venue for Stoney and I to bullshit with, but shortly turned into a way for the four of us to have fun and keep in touch when we cannot see each other everyday like old times.

That is all well and good, but we have abandoned that principle, and somewhere along the line the bickering started, like it did so many times during school. We always got over it before, and I have no doubt we will do it again. Let’s get this straight, WE ARE ALL TO BLAME. I’m tired of the bickering.

Furthermore, we have been ganging up on Dank lately, and I will be the first to extend the olive branch. The Stonies all know of the phone conversation I had with Dank last week, and let’s be honest, Dank needed a kick in the ass. I said it, it’s done. Let’s leave Dank alone. For this to work, Dank, you need to thicken your skin homey and not take everything so personally. You have known us long enough, we’re assholes, we’re sarcastic, it’s time you take that into consideration before getting bent out of shape and making rash decisions.

Damn. Sorry for that diatribe dear readers, but we need to get this wounded ship back on course. We will get over this little hump, we have done it many times before, and I am sure we will do it again.

I have been thinking about what I can say about the Stoney reunion in LA for some time now. However, whenever I envisioned how I would describe the experience of seeing two of my best friends for the first time in two years, it never sounded right. I decided it was time to just sit down and write, no matter the outcome. I love the sound of the rain hitting my windows, I am watching the Mets on my computer as I write (they are up 5-0), the Braves are losing 4-2 on the boob tube, and I just cracked my next beer. If there is a better time to write, I don’t know when that will be.

So, will things be different with us upon the reunion, or will it be boozing and smoking as always…


I have arrived, the Venice Beach sign in the background…


Here are some reflections on my recent LA experience:

Car rental companies WILL fuck you in the ass. Maybe I am being unfair to LA, seeing as this was my first experience renting a car. But fuck Thrifty. Suit and I were expecting to split our car at the quoted price of $289, yet upon receiving the bill, it had inexplicably increased over 100% to a whopping $619. That’s bullshit. Letters to my Congressman and the California Chamber of Commerce are pending.

The Drawing Room will fuck you up. Now this place is a bar. It’s dark, has shitty (literally) bathrooms, has a seedy crowd of people who tell the best stories, and the drinks are tall, stiff, and CHEAP. Enough said.

Forget playing darts in LA. This shit blew my mind. There are no, I repeat, NO dart boards in LA. What is a drunken Irishman supposed to do with his time? I can understand the reasons behind not giving out free, sharp objects to boozed up degenerates, but where does LA get the nerve? Do you guys think you are more dangerous than any other major city in America? Please.

Yeah yeah, you can argue that I can use those plastic electronic dart boards, but fuck that. You can take those darts and shove them right up your ass.

You want to see a fight? Go to the dog park. Don’t go to Compton, or Long Beach if you want to see a fight. All fights start at the Venice Beach dog park. Seriously. No, seriously. I witnessed threats of bashing in illegally parked cars, and the always common, “I’m gonna fucking strangle you if you can’t control that dog” threat.

Dogs also love to fight there…

Oh yeah, and hot, slightly older women with small dogs will hit on you and your camera skills at the dog park. Or maybe that’s just me…

The dog park is a haven for drinking and smoking of all kinds. As you can tell, we spent a lot of time at the dog park with Stoney’s mutts. But you better believe we were never far from our beer, cigarettes, or trees.


Trees will spontaneously sprout out of nowhere when you are chasing a frisbee. We Stonies always loved throwing the frisbee around in Williamsburg, so naturally it was an activity that needed to be addressed while in LA.


However, in my effort to catch an errant toss from Stoney, apparently a tree materialized out of nowhere. I wrecked the shit out of the fence, but never lost my composure, and didn’t even hit the ground after a head on collision.


Suit’s new arch nemesis is the LA rooftop. Poor, poor Suit. He had no idea what he was getting himself into on the first big night of boozing and blunting. Let’s view a progression of Suit’s night shall we?


It was not looking good after a day of getting fucked up and eating cheesebugers.


BAM! Sorry, Suit. You knew this little golden nugget was going up, you were warned. This is classic not only because it is a perfect picture of the incident, (notice the culprits here- Budweiser and cigarette) but because Suit NEVER gets fucked up to the point of selling Buicks like this; or he never let us see it before.


Suit, you are toast.

Apparently, 411 is not a taxi service. We had just gotten blazed at the Sonic Youth concert at the Greek Theater in North Hollywood. Walking the mile back to the car at the Drawing Room was not an option. Stoney then proceeds to take my phone, call 411, and yell, “Yo, we’re at the Greek Theater…pick us up!” You can only imagine his surprise when the operator hung up on him. See also: Stoney spouting expletives at the operator as he was dumbfounded to why she hung up on him.

The “Macho Burrito” will end your night. We dines at Campos Taco many times, as it was around the corner, and the prices were right. But after a day in the day, drinking and stinking, the Macho Burrito put this humble Irishman out of commision; along with Stoney’s toilet.


Breakfast beers are essential to the start of any day. This has nothing to do with LA, this is essential whereever you are. But I have a picture of the first breakfast beer of the vacation.


Skaterboarding/riding bikes down Venice Beach to get to bars in Santa Monica is a lot more fun that you can imagine. Being in LA, even though I hate the sun, it would be a waste of time to stay indoors. It was fun to get out and check the local freakshow, and get a little bit of exercise.

However, I got more exercise than I bargained for. First of all, because Stoney…


…got too fat. And I…



…smoke too much. Stoney had the great idea to skitch a ride on the back of my bike while he was riding his skateboard. For those of you who don’t know, that is me doing all the work as Stoney grabs the back of my bike seat and coasts down Venice. Tough work over the course of almost 2 miles.

I would much rather ride my…


…than have to go through the torture of pulling Stoney’s fat ass again.

Stoney’s dogs love me MUCH more than him. It’s true Stoney, don’t deny it. Those bitches curled up with me every night, and would fight over who gets the best spot in bed with me. Niiiiice.




Ralph’s will make all your dreams come true. For those Lebowski fans out there, you will remember The Dude’s, Ralph’s card as his only form of ID. This is where Suit and I picked up all our groceries, and are now full fledged members.

Lady T is a master photographer. Most of these pictures were taken by Lady T. I generally don’t like taking pictures, or carrying around my camera for photo ops. It just seems fake and coerced to me. Lady T is the opposite, so I let her have free reign over my camera.



Now THAT is a scowl readers. So god damn sexy Lady T.

We suck at skateboarding, but at least we try. There was a lot of skateboarding in Stoney’s alley. Stoney has a better feel for the board, and more balance with it. Yet, while standing still, I can get off the ground, and even flip the board from time to time. I chewed pavement pretty hard one night, and my legs was sore for the next two weeks because I cannot skateboard drunk (or sober apparently).



Two female dogs WILL hump each other. It was comical on the first day, then it just got a little ridiculous with the amount of lesbian canine humping going on.


Dodgers Stadium WILL fuck you up. Holy dogshit, Batman. It was viciously hot at the Mets game. We were in Row A on the second tier on the first baseline, just sitting, and baking. The combination of beer, greasy Dodger food, being stoned, and hiking a mile up the stairs almost made Stoney pass out at the game. And of course, the only game we go to in the four game series, the Mets lose. Worst.

Stoney and I are still dead sexy.


Here are a few more random pictures of our reunion.








See that light? That’s Stoney’s apartment from the dog park. Just one block from the Pacific Ocean readers.



Well there it is. The long awaited tour of our reunion. Great times had by all, and we can’t wait for Stoney and Lady T to make it to the east coast, slackers.

Michael Vick = Toast

Fuck Michael Vick. What a bitch.


I never liked Vick, not once. He came out all hot shit, and I didn’t like him. Fuck the Falcons. Vick is from one of the weakest areas of the country, that I have mentioned before…”Newport News.” Fuck the news, that place is worthless.

I don’t know how many people got into the details, but let me share a few.

Hanging dogs.

Drowning dogs.

Shooting dogs.

Hosing a dog down and electrocuting it to death.

Body slamming a dog to death.

Fuck Michael Vick. Talk about issues, this dude should have plenty of free time in jail to think about what’s up with this.

“Rape stands” for aggressive females who don’t want to get mounted.

Verdict for Michael “The Fag” Vick…Guilty as a fucking bitch.

I don’t have any witticisms to dress up the truth. Body slamming and electrocution speak for themselves.

Unlike the recent Duke rape case, the 54 dogs rescued from Vick’s house will probably not change their story. The DNA from the dead dogs on his property probably will not clear the way for a pardon call from the governor.

Maybe it’s all a setup, white man coming down on the black man. Vick’s the 2nd highest paid player in the NFL…Bob Marley used to be on the CIA list….why not Vick?

Please. Vick, you are toast. I publicly embrace your demise, and wish nothing but the worst upon you and your allies. I pray for long, sleepless nights, the desertion of your fans, friends and family, and the inability to overcome any obstacle in your path.

I wish you would get to play one more game and lose, and then be given to your master for your own summary judgement. Like electrocution, a shot to the head, a hanging, or maybe a good old fashioned bodyslam.

One of the dogs:


Similarity to Vick’s fighting pits to my pit, Turbo Dinosaur (pre-Rescue), in appearance, genetics and overall life situation:



Tales from Venice

It is Sunday, around 1 PM, and the beach is crowded outside. On Sundays in Venice, it is very unwise to move your car, or to generally go outside, because of the high ratio of fuckheaded idiots to normal people. The beach is the prime location in any fine city, and Venice is no different, attracting thousands of people on the weekends, clogging the streets, taking my parking spots, and being generally fucking annoying as shit. Having only been here for about 9 months, I am already a tourist-sickened local, although some old heads might want to dispute my authenticity.

I prefer the locals, because the locals keep it real.

Check out my homie Bear. Bear is a savage bum of Venice Beach. He has a family and kids somewhere, or remnants of them in different places, but he prefers the balmy clime of the outdoors and the sanctuary of the public restrooms to any self help manual or regular jobby job.

Bear, post 5-0 interview

Bear sometimes drinks a little too much. One day, I saw some cops talking to him, because he was so fucking drunk, right outside my apartment. His pants were down, but the cops just let him go, because he is a known Gentle Savage bum, not a threat to normal tax-paying citizens.

Bear, on the move down the alley behind the house, about 10 minutes after the first picture was taken

He is not a grubby panhandler, begging outside the liquor store or the ATM for some $$…. but Bear would never turn down the delights of a 40 oz malt beverage, which I have provided him on a number of occasions.

Chompy Tripping Acid

A couple hours before this picture was taken, I gave Chompy 3 hits of acid, and a double-stack E-roll. She came up pretty fast, on account of the extra acid, but I think once she peaked and started to chill, that her inner mellowness helped to calm her down, and let her experience her trip in a calm state of mind. The E-roll helped to put her in an open, understanding mood, and she made a lot of progress in accepting Turbo Dinosaur. Eventually, Turbo was giving Chompy a full-body rub, and Chompy was straight digging it. I would be too if I was tripping balls and rolling my face off. I would too.

Chompy View of Turbo, straight tripping balls

At the end of the day, Chompy and Turbo create one of the most dynamic tag-team dog squads that have walked the earth. First, their names, both extreme and in the Dinosaur family, create an unreal symphony of universal, metaphysical proportions. Chompy Dino and Turbo Dino on the attack squad? Please bitches, prepare to die.

Chompy used to be a bum dog. She loves bums, and it is very obvious that the dumpster used to be her main source of income and sustenance. Once, after Thanksgiving, we were walking down the alley behind my house, when she tried to swallow the breast of a turkey that was under a newspaper, which was about the size of her face. When I got it away from her, after she took a huge bit and had swallowed it, the turkey was blue and had excessive mold on it. She might have thrown up on the bed that night, but one thing is clear: Chompy does not give a fuck.

Turbo used to be a kennel dog, used solely for breeding. I think she bred pit bull fighting dogs, because she is a small dog, which the fighters are, and she was mistreated very much so, which makes me think the people were raising fighting dogs. In LA, if you have a backyard, you can never really leave your dogs out in your yard, because people will come steal your dog to use as a practice kill for young fighting pits. I shit you not. When she got out of surgery, clean from a bath, I looked at her pads, and they were totally see-through, with no calluses or anything, which makes me think she never ever got to go outside, just had to sit in her kennel and wait for the next dog to come fuck her so she would pop out kids of her then-normal V, so her fuckhead owners would make 200$ a pop on her puppies.

In the end, the grace of God and universe protect my domain, and I proclaim unwise any person who would cross these dogs, or be so foolish as to come into my house unannounced and uninvited. To all crackheads in need of a TV, or fuckheads who are out to fuck people up, I dare you to come inside. I dare you.

Sitting for a portrait

Me taking a shit, while tripping on acid



Animal Holocaust – You Can Help

First off, in a previous post about my new dog’s large V, I prematurely called her “BooBoo,” because that was her name at that point. However, BooBoo was just too generic, and didn’t bring out the things we wanted it too. 

My new dog’s name is Turbo Dinosaur. Chompy Dinosaur is her older sister, and because they are sisters, they should have the same last name. Turbo just worked as a name too, for some reason, so there you have it. Turbo Dinosaur, bitches.

Turbo is not a perfect girl. Her main problem right now is that she takes a piss in the house about every 15 minutes if we don’t take her out. If we go to the store or get something to eat for an hour, she doesn’t piss, but if we are both here, she has to go to the bathroom about every 15 minutes. Last night was rough for me, I was literally about to lose my shit because I had a headache and was exhausted, and Turbo kept taking a piss in the house. After the millionth time, I quit cleaning it up, and just laid down in bed in total defeat. It was a sad sight, no doubt, that I lost my cool over an abused dog’s ability to hold her own piss, when she’s been abused and neglected for her whole life.

I made up for it today by taking her out the second I thought she was ready. I also cleaned the fuck out of my house, trying to build a framework for keeping our shit together with 2 pretty big dogs in the tiniest apartment I have ever lived in. Tiny. Possibly less than 400 square feet when it’s all said and done, definitely under 500. 

What’s the moral of the story? Nothing really, I was just bored and wanted to talk about my new dog. Last night I was ready to take her back to the pound, but this morning, after having a good time with her all morning, and taking her to the dog park, and watching how much fun she is having, I feel a lot better about the whole thing. 

Chompy and Turbo scrap in the house, mostly because Turbo tries to hump on Chompy’s business, and tries to dig a hole in her back when Chomp is sleeping.

Going back to the whole pissing in the house thing, I think progress will be made for a couple of reasons. First of all, I can’t live with a dog that is pissing in the house that much, just because I would have a freak out and kill it. So there is an inevitability factor. Second, she doesn’t take shits in the house, so it’s not like the dog is an uncontrollable force of nature, that just wants to defecate all over the fucking place with no regard. I believe she does have some regard, if you want to go there, so it makes me feel positively about her future. Thirdly, she’s a smart girl, and we are already making progress. She is learning how to tell me when she needs to go out, and I am learning how to respond. 

To sum up, I now have 2 dogs I got from the dog shelter in Santa Monica. I highly recommend to anyone who likes animals, that if you are even remotely considering getting a new dog or cat, to go to the shelter. Once you are there, those inklings that you felt will turn into something different, and you should be able to find a dog or cat that you connect with, and you will have the chance to SAVE a living animal’s life, to bring it out of a hole of nothingness. There is no reason for the Animal Holocaust which is occurring every day in thousands of shelters across the country. This is the U.S.A., bitches, and we should take care of our comrades, even if they aren’t the same species.