A couple days ago, some guy at work asked me if I kept a journal. That struck me funny, because I have this blog, which is like the gold standard for journals. The sheer irony of that blows my mind. Seriously, hold on a second, I'm still reeling.

So what's the secret formula for a good journal, i.e., what makes a journal rule? Well, any journal worth its salt will contain whole paragraphs that no reasonable person should be able to understand. This generates confusion and frustration on the part of the reader, which is better than nothing. In my personal experience, people will just email me outright and say, "What are you trying to pull?" Or in the comments section they'll put, "What are you trying to pull?" Others automatically assume that what I do is a made-up form of hieroglyphics. Which I take as a compliment. Think back to the last episode you saw of "Unsolved Mysteries". Pretty good stuff, right?

Now, only one final question must be answered: Over the last century or so, whose achievements were more impressive, mine or Albert Einstein's? Let's back away and let history decide. Let time and the opinion of thousands of my followers have the final word. I imagine the verdict will be in my favor, but let's pretend like there's some suspense about it.

Not everyone should keep a journal though, or even a blog. That's stupid, and I'll tell you why. What if a shepherd recorded his daily activities? That could get monotonous.

November 17th, 2005: The sheep refuse to exhibit any sort of individuality. I don't know how to explain it, but none of them seem willing to assume anything resembling a leadership position. Sure, they bumped into each other a lot today, as they do every day--and though I would like to think they were jostling for position, the grim truth is that they were probably just acting like sheep. What's more, in reviewing my previous 897 entries, I see that every one is identical. Indeed, this journal is beginning to take on a rather indistinct quality.

November 18, 2005: The sheep refuse to exhibit any sort of individuality. I don't know how to explain it, but alright, friggin' forget this, I hate this journal, I'm done, I'm leaving. Oh there's a surprise, the sheep are following me. Stop it!! Go that way!

Another example of a journal that should never be kept is a homeless person's, because here's all it would say:

November 17th, 2005- I ran out of gas, AGAIN! I just need 40 cents. Or a dollar. Does anyone have a dollar? Hey buddy--yeah, out of gas, just a couple miles back. My wife and kid are right down the road there, in the car. No change? That's cool man, God bless.

Hi, excuse me, sir? Sir, hi...

p.s. Excuse me, ma'am? My car's out of gas right down the road, just need enough money to get to L.A. Wife and kid are in the car, kid's got luekemia. Early stages, no big deal, just trying to get to L.A. No change? Ok, have a good one.

The next journal you'll probably want to skip is the one written by the hot girl at my gym, because it would be even more monotonous than the shepherd's.

November 17th, 2005: I look really good in these pants. That non-fat frappaccino this morning was amazing! I really do look so good in these pants. Justin Timberlake is hot. I wonder if anyone's looking at me yet. No...c'mon, somebody look. Is anybody looking? No...Now? Now? No...yes! No, he's gross, ew gross. That man. is so. gross. I look good in these pants. Frappaccinos are good. I'm extremely attractive. Bye for now journal!

See what I'm saying? It's eloquent, but it's not exactly Anne Frank II.

Another type of journal that would be really boring is one written by a jet pilot shot down over enemy territory, who had to fight his way back to friendly soil. His only weaponry is a small stick and he must eat only acorns, because the arid climate of his environment prohibits the growth of everything but acorns. If he doesn't get back across safely, nuclear war will break out, because the two warring nations are famous for miscommunicating. Actually, that could be quite gripping. You know what, I take that one back altogether. That would be a good read.

I guess the overall point is, unless you're a jet pilot, or me, I would check yourself before spewing reams of indecipherable drivel out onto the internet. Have a point to what you write, you know?

This post is about dogs. Do you have one? If yes, big whoop, I got my first dog when I was about 4. Maybe some of you have a baby. Again, that doesn't impress me. As far as I know, dogs are essentially the same thing as babies, only more agile. Babies will just kind of lie there like human play-doh, unless you poke at their bodies--whereas dogs are more apt to take control and do things on their own. Another way the two organisms differ is that dogs can sense when it's going to rain before babies can. In many cases, a baby won't even know it's raining if you put him outside during a rainstorm. How pathetic is that? He'd probably be more confused than anything. And next comes the crying, something a dog would not do. I can almost guarantee you a dog's not going to cry in that same situation. Anyway, if anyone ever sees a baby sitting out there in the rain, don't worry because a meddlesome neighbor will often call Child Protective Services, who may or may not send a representative to your house. At this point, the whole scenario might get blown out of proportion. However, that's where the superiority of the dog comes to an end.

In fact, dogs have not been high on my list of things that are super-tight for quite some time now, and the reason is very simple: The majority of canines today have no respect for themselves. Used to be, dogs would only be rabid killers, or at the very least, duck hunters. In extreme situations, they would act as companions. But they would be companions to a lumberjack or steel worker only, because they understood basic dog principles. If an effiminate man or a retarded high school girl from Laguna Beach wanted to be a dog owner, the dog would just attack them. And rightly so. Or, if the dog was in a pleasant mood, it might just run away after everybody got home from the pet store. And then come back later and attack. The time frame in which the mauling occurs is irrelevant, the point is, dogs attack if the owner is not up to par. Or should I say, they used to.

Nowadays, many dogs will let anyone own them, and although it pains me to say, it makes logical sense. Imagine for a moment that you're a chihuahua. What have you got going for you? Exactly, nothing. For Halloween, I guess you could be a vampire bat, which would actually be a pretty good costume. But that's really it. Now consider that a blonde girl from Orange County with an IQ in the low-to-mid 60's suddenly wants to take you everywhere in a stupid oversized purse that costs 950 dollars. That's not too bad right there. Plus, she could have hot friends. You'd still only be a chihuahua, but now you're mobbin' in a Louis Vuitton bag. Which could be cool.

Some may argue that the dog is merely a victim of this recent trend, a preposterous fad which dictates that women carry their chitzus around the mall with them as they buy capri pants. However, to pin the blame for this on the woman is simply unfair, because if a fashion magazine says to puree live cockroaches in a plastic bowl, turn it upside down, and wear it as a hat, a woman will do it. So I'd appreciate it if we could dispense with the broad, sweeping generalizations about an entire gender. If someone walking by happened to believe in equal rights for women and they heard you, I don't think they'd be too happy. What would you do if you were a woman and couldn't think of any other ways to make your girlfriends jealous? You'd likely buy a dog and take him to the mall. Point made. At some point chihuahuas must learn to assume some responsibility for their individual actions, and bite themselves to death. No one wants them around anyway, except for bat-lovers and other deviants.

Let me leave you with this thought. White Fang tore out the trachea of more than one savage beast in his time. Ripped them right out, blood spewing this way and that. Yes, There was bloodshed, my friends. Noble and moral bloodshed, the way it should be. Now envision a rat-dog, carried down Rodeo Drive by Nicki Hilton. Presumably in search of some spare collagen or a cockroach hat. Somewhat uninspiring by contrast, is it not? Indeed, we must allow dogs to empower themselves and return to the roots of rustic dogs of yore.

Also, the scientific name for domestic dogs is canis familiaris, I looked it up. If anyone has a rebuttal for that last fact, I'd be interested in hearing it. But I don't think you do.

Next issue?