If I Said I Wanted To Abort 2012, Would That Be Weird?

I'm figuring now that I am home it's the obligatory time where I am supposed to describe how it felt to be on the road for two days straight and how The Pilot and I didn't kill each other but that seems sort of boring to me right now so I'm just going to not do it and fuck y'all who desperately needed to know how my time on the road went.

Or maybe I'm not going to tell how my time on the road went because someone in the vehicle who wasn't The Pilot or the dog may or may not have come extremely close to pooping their pants until we luckily came upon a loan safety pullover that had bathrooms that may or may not have been freezing, and may or may not have come close to having my butt frozen to the stinky seat but, that's OK because that person who wasn't The Pilot or the dog didn't crap their pants in the vehicle so I'm going to call that a win.

Instead, I'm going to try and look forward and forget that I almost crapped my pants on a road trip and look at what 2012 has in store for me.

Like, the fact that in April I'm going to Film school and shitting on the teaching as a career path even though I was so close to having that degree but that's OK because I'm going to make movies and apparently at the school I am going to The Pilot and I were told that in the Film studio sometimes nudity gets very casual if they are shooting nude scenes and it's lead me to believe that I may or may not be making a porn by the time my education is done.

Oddly, I'm OK with that.

Or the fact that in a month and a half I'm going to say goodbye to the place I have been working at for the last five years and that I may or may not hand in my resignation by vomiting on every one's desk but that seems sort of rude and cold so I might just vomit on their desk and then write something nice with the vomit all over their desk so before they vomit they can be all "Aw, look, she cares, she's wishing me a happy life BLARRRGGGHHHHHGHGH" and then that message is covered in vomit which is kind of rude, really.

What about the fact that in a month and a half I'm going to be packing up all my belongings and moving somewhere that isn't the Northern Wastelands of Canada and go to a place where underpaid french people are forced to pick fruit for hours on end only so I can buy it on the side of the road for a cheap price because that's how the fruit industry in BC works. Slaves, y'all. French Slaves.

Basically the start of 2012 will be kind of insane and exciting all at once and I think that I can manage to be super successful in this new year because if I haven't shit my pants yet, I don't think it will happen at all in 2012.

But then again, if I do shit my pants in 2012 at least I'll have something to write about.

Is It Considerd A Good Gift If You Wrap The Cancer First?

Because we are going away for Christmas this year and most likely will die on a road trip or divorce each other and go into a custody battle of who doesn't want the dog, I've come to the critical choice that I'm not doing butt-hole-all to decorate this apartment for Christmas because this obviously must mean I'm the worst person in the world and ruined Christmas for a dozen orphans who later got Christmas cancer and Christmas died. Or so The Pilot might claim when he retells how I so cruelly denied him the pleasure of putting up Christmas lights all over the place because for some reason he treats them like mood lighting and if he had his choice they'd be up all the damn time.

Last year I let him go all out and he had Christmas lights over everything and if I hadn't of stopped him the dog would have been strung in lights and wrapped around the tree as a Christmas decoration. And he would have suddenly become a Christmas Tree Nazi that would hold me at gun point if I dared come close to his tree while it was being decorated and lo any who dare not to delightfully fluff the tree so it looks more real-y and less cheap-y.

I'd be a liar if I said it didn't make me laugh cruelly every time we'd walk outside of our apartment and find everyone's door decorated with Christmas stuff or see that ours is basically the only balcony that isn't lighted up like the entrance to a Gay Bar because he'd get a sad, frown-y face and point out all the Christmas cheer while simultaneously calling me the Christmas Devil. It's not my fault that his soul dying is a sweet, sweet nectar I'm shockingly addicted too.

But eventually his sad, Christmas puppy dog eyes got tired of pleading and begging with me for Christmas cheer, and decided that they were going to take matters into their own eyeball-y hands and do something about Christmas. Because that's what his fucking eyeballs do, can make Christmas happen.

And what did those eyeballs do? They stole my fucking Christmas sweater that I totally forgot that I owned and that may or may not have been hiding in a box inside of a box under another box in our avalanche prone closet and he wore it to work.

And he became a fucking celebrity. 

Everyone at the airport found themselves gravitating towards him and complimenting him on my sweater and I, Christmas sweater thief victim, had to read all of his texts about how stupidly awesome he was and that I should suck someones dink because I nearly ruined Christmas but he saved the day and the world from my Christmas Cancer Giving ways.

And then he gave Kayne a Christmas mustache ride. Because that's how you save Christmas. 

 

 

But joke was on him because he later had to wear that into the grocery store and he went from being a Christmas Celebrity to that guy who wears clothes that makes everyone else think he's going to murder them in their sleep and turn their faces into Christmas sweaters to wear into other grocery stores to lure more people into being Christmas Sweater victims.

The Littlest Hobo? More Like The Stupidest Hobo

Oh hai, I'm going to ruin your fucking life.

Now, I’m sure some people would be ecstatic when a stray dog wanders into their town and instead of spreading rabies and shitting on lawns, he goes around and solves mysteries or kidnappings or prevents a murder from happening. Like, that dog would be a fucking hero and every attempt someone makes to adopt that dog sort of goes along the lines of the person begging the dog to stay with them because he just solved a fucking murder but the dog just straight up ignores their request and wonders off to the next town to solve more mysteries.

And then the town is left a better place because this dog totally did some awesome shit and made everyone happy.

But you know what? If that was my town and that dog started to solve my mysterious, I’d straight up lose my shit. Like, those are my mysteries to solve if I ever get around to it and who needs a fucking dog stealing my thunder and preventing me from being a town hero and having people beg me to live with them because I’m so fucking awesome.

Or what about the criminals that actually committed the crimes and made the kidnapping of little Orphan Jane seem all mysterious and unsolvable? How do you think they feel that some fucking dog showed up and ruined their shit by finding the little girl and causing the criminal to go to jail? It doesn’t matter that the criminal kidnapped an Orphan and wouldn’t have ever got some type of ransom because no one cares about Orphans. But it’s the principle of the matter. No one wants to be the dude in prison who has to announce in the showers, “ I’m only in jail today because I was outsmarted by a stray fucking dog. If you decide to shove something up my ass, that’s OK. I deserve it because I got outwitted by a dog.”

Do you know who the real victim is of The Littlest Hobo? The towns dog catcher because whenever he attempts to do his job and catch that stray dog and throw him in the pound where no one will probably adopt him because if he’s trapped in a pound he can’t solve mysteries, he looks like the biggest asshole because he’s trying to jail a dog hero.

I guess the biggest question is why hasn’t that dog been eaten by a bear yet?

That’d be the best episode ever.

Let this be a lesson to all you potential mystery solving dogs out there: You solve my fucking mysterious and I will personally see you eaten by a bear.

Acting If Your Dog Can Write A Blog Post = Legally Insane

Dear Kindly Readers,

Some of you may know me from my first starring role as the little dog that tattoo'd that man that sort of looked like a Greek pornstar but in fact he's just the man that lives with me and sometimes feeds me but mostly let's me get away with murdering little babies. That is, if there was any little babies in my house. They'd be so murdered. And that man, yeah I totally threw up in his mouth once too because he was giving me lip.

Others might know me from the fact that I can't ever let the people who live in my house take a dump in private because them being away from me? Yeah, totally makes me go bat-shit insane with jealousy because they could totally be playing with another dog in that bathroom or just not. loving. me. So I have to burst down the door, preferably with a mouth full of food, just so I can excitedly jump all over them and spray food in their lap because that food was totally sprayed in love and not at all because I'm a giant asshole.

What you might not know about me is that I'm a giant dick. Like, last night for example when that chick who pays my bills couldn't sleep and kept getting up to check the clock because her life sucks and she has to be up early. Each and every time I decided it was going to be the best joke in the world if I sneakily stole her spot on the bed and kick her pillows to the floor because it's funny. And when she has to clean up that mess, yeah I totally do circuits around the room before I jump on her stomach to show her who owns this house. Then maybe I'll jump on the Greek guy who sleeps next to her.

Or maybe I'll leave the room to eat my food and come back with a mouth full just to drop in her face because I'm an asshole who likes to fucking share my food.

And then when she is awake in the morning and ready to go to work, I'll turn the other fucking cheek when she tries to give me a kiss or a pat because she's a bitch that doesn't get a good "Chewed Food In You Face Joke".

But mostly because I'm an asshole.

It's Not A Road Trip Until Someone Is Hysterically Crying For Hours Pt.2

Remember yesterday when I posted about how my vacation started off so fucking terrible that I spent a majority of it crying in a hotel lobby, our vehicle, a grocery store parking lot that we later had to attempt to sleep in? Yeah, I totally remember it, and I still want to punch it in the face and sleep with it's mother out of revenge. I left off with how I believed we were probably going to freeze to death or be stabbed by marauding homeless people but fortunately all we had to show for those two hours of sleep was the paw prints on our faces from where the dog figured it was the perfect time to perfect his elaborate circus act of balancing on people's faces while they tried to sleep. I don't know why he needs to practise because he's a fucking natural at it.

Let me tell you, it's hard work sleeping in a grocery store parking lot because there are lots of lights and it's a parking lot next to the highway and did I mention that even though I am just a teeny bit taller than a dwarf even I found the vehicle cramped. The Pilot? Yeah, he's easily over six feet and he had to curl up on the back in attempts to stretch out. It also didn't help that while I was sleeping I may or may not have kicked the keys in the ignition and it turned the whole car on with a blaring radio screeching white noise at us as if it was personally offended that we were sleeping in a vehicle like animals and not in a hotel bed like people.

From that point we decided "Fuck it, we might have had only two hours of sleep in the past day so what's our next logical step? CONTINUE THE ROAD TRIP!" and after slapping each other in the face half a dozen times in a game of "Let's see who is awake the most" we started to drive to Jasper. I lost that game, so I was the one who had to drive. And I drove, and drove, and drove and drove until I reached the National Park and decided that it's probably not a good thing to be imagining five extra sets of roads in front of me because it's confusing and one would probably lead me to our death. Or a violent gang of Mountain Sheep. So I did what was only natural and starting slapping The Pilot awake in attempts to switch spots and when he feebly fought me off like a five year old I decided it was probably best to pull into the truck stops along the way and try to sleep again.

That lasted for an hour until we almost got side swiped by a Semi-Truck that had pulled into the truck stop too wide as if he was personally offended that an SUV was sitting in a Semi-Truck stop and figured the only solution was to murder us in our sleep. It was only when I threatened to start hysterically cry again did The Pilot take the drivers seat. I tell you, hysterical crying will get you anything.

You see, if we were just going to my parents place the drive would have been over once we started again in a mere five hours and we could have found a blissful sleep awaiting us but because we were going to Womb Mate's, well...we still had another ten hours to go because God hates us and wants us dead. Like, super dead. As it just so happens we have to drive through my parents town anyways and my loving, spiteful parents thought it was an awesome idea that we should pick up my Little Brother on our way through so we can at least attend some type of school and pretend to learn something that day. Before we got there, we switched driving and while I was behind the wheel I kept trying to get The Pilot to use my phone to text my bother to give him an update of when to ditch school to meet us. Despite my best efforts The Pilot would only send polite, abridged versions of what I wanted texted so my Little Brother would not know what I truly thought of him and the fact that he was probably most likely adopted from homeless street urchins. The Pilot has shitty dictation skills, is all I'm saying.

By the time we grab my Little Brother The Pilot is complaining over the fact that he's literally starving too death right next to me and we probably should get him some food and I turn to my Little Brother and tell him "We are taking you to lunch not because we like you but because you just happen to be here with us. AWESOME TO SEE YOU AGAIN!" and we head off to lunch. And we eat. In a shitty diner. Who's bathroom probably gave everyone AIDS because they were disgusting.

And then we started our drive. And let me tell you, by this point I was getting near delirious because of the lack of sleep but The Pilot was worse off then I was and my Little Brother fails at life because he doesn't have his learners so he couldn't even drive for us.

And you know what makes total sense while driving with very little sleep and having a sixteen year old Little Brother in the back seat that is now forced to listen to you for the next six hours? Imitating banjo music in every conversation.

"How was school *banjo music noise*"
"Oh it was great...*interrupted by banjo music noise*"
"Will you stop...*interrupted by banjo music noise*"
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER MY AWESOME BANJO SKILLS!"

The Pilot, who was trying to sleep, couldn't really sleep because his girlfriend had just finally snapped and was willingly destroying the population of the vehicle with epic banjo renditions.

And then the truck in front of us decided to throw a kink in my whole plan and totally fucked everything up for a short period of time. It kicked up a stick or a dead rabbit body or something that got flung at us and it almost caused me to swerve off the road but my awesomely delayed ninja fast reflexes prevented us from crashing.

But if The Pilot was to tell you exactly how it happened while he was trying to sleep it would have going a little something like this:

Me: "BANJO MUSIC BANJO MUSIC I TOTALLY WANT A BANJO! BANJO MUSIC BANJO MUSIC----- HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT?" Vehicle swerve, vehicle swerve, vehicle swerve, fast recovery save by awesome girlfriend.

Since I saved our lives, we were able to continue with our normal program and I slowly progressed from imitating banjo music to terrible singing of every single road sign I could find. Until the road signs started creeping me out because they started getting prophetic. If I called my Little Brother awesomely hilarious names such as "Penis Mouth" and "Anus Eyes'' a sign would suddenly turn up that would proclaim "God Judges You By The Words You Say To Others" and since it was already determined that God hates us and wants us to die, that was a little off putting. And when the topic of drugs were brought up a sign came up that said "DRUG DEALERS NOT WELCOME HERE" and it's like rude, drug dealers are people too. Who just happen to deal drugs. And destroy today's youth. But they are people.

And when sign singing got boring? I used my Little Brother as my personal Secretary and had him text things to my little sister that basically went a long the lines of "Little Brother likes dinks in his mouth" or "Little Brother wants to move to Dink Town USA" and when we were asked about our location I had him text "DINK TOWN USA BABY!"

So, basically it what I am saying is that Little Brother has far superior dictating skills then The Pilot ever will have.

It's Not A Road Trip Until Someone Is Hysterically Crying For Hours Pt.1

Now, I’m not sure what a road trip looks like for you but the last road trip I took a week ago it ended up with me hysterically crying in a hotel lobby and you know what? A road trip ain’t a road trip until someone is left hysterically crying, is all I’m saying.

The Pilot and I made the mutual choice that once again, for Thanksgiving, we were going to make the trip to my parents cabin and force my mother to make us a turkey dinner and while she was at it, she might as well do all the laundry that I had stored up that I was supposed to do but she’s my mom so it’s sort of her obligation to do all my laundry. And make me delicious finger foods. But because we are ambitious and suckers for pain, we decided that “Hey, why not have Thanksgiving at Womb Mates’ because she just crapped out a baby and she’s willing to cook the turkey for us!” and despite the fact it would have doubled the length of the time on the road for an already long road trip, we all high-fived over the idea. And by “we” I totally include the dog in that high-five moment but his was more of a “frantic face slaps” then a high-five.

The day of our trip started off great enough. I had taken an extra day off of work because I wanted to have a lot of time to properly pack and prepare for our voyage and by “prepare” I mean sleep in, lounge around in my sleeping clothes and realize that “Holy fuck, I’ve only got four hours left before we go so I better clean the kitchen, and do laundry, and pack.” And I was left scrambling around to get everything done.

Now, if The Pilot was to tell you about how I got us ready for our trip he would give some rant about how I didn’t really pack but just threw everything into a suitcase and closed the zipper but what he doesn’t realize is that when I was packing our clothes I started out packing it nicely and folding the clothes but then I got tired and bored and wanted to do something else so the rest of the clothes I may or may not have just dumped into the suitcase and closed it. Now, it’s not my fault that all the clothes that got folded before I got bored were mine and it was in no way intentional that the clothes that got thrown in once I got bored were his. So it totally wasn’t my fault that my mother may or may not have made fun of The Pilot when he wore his first wrinkled shirt. Or that my dad may or may not have given him a look as if saying “Hey, you lazy ass bum, don’t you know how to fold clothes? Asshole.”

With the packing done, fantastically might I add, we were ready to go but The Pilot didn’t get home on time because he may or may not have forget to leave his corvette keys with his corvette so a friend could put it into storage for him while we were gone so it may or may not have added an extra half hour to his trip home and put us that much farther behind schedule. I may or may not have yelled at him because he broke my schedule that I had so carefully crafted a week before.  I may or may not have kicked a baby kitten angel with cancer afterwards out of frustration.

When The Pilot got home I threw everything at him, I grabbed the dog, and we locked up and drove off into the sun set singing show tunes. Or, got stuck for an extra hour and a half in the drive thru of a popular fast food chain because when it comes to “fast food” in my town it’s more like “Asshole, we going to make you wait soooo long because we can food”. By the time we got out of that line-up I was frothing at the mouth and The Pilot was frantically searching for his emergency stash of holy water. Or gun. Never sure with him.

And then we drove off merrily into the sun set singing show tunes while cartoon birds flit around and feed us golden grapes.

Or, got stuck in fog that was so thick I refused to watch the movies on my Ipad because I had to diligently watch The Pilot to make sure he didn’t kill us in the fog by driving off the road or hitting a skunk or getting hit by other vehicles. It’s extremely stressful, you know, being the protector of our family’s safety by criticizing everything your partner does. They just don’t appreciate your safety conscious attitude and long suffering martyrdom.

And then we drove off into the sun set singing show tunes and having little cartoon woodland creatures braid our hair and adorn it with flowers.

Kidding!

After hours of driving we pulled into our destination for the night and because of all of the delays and the fog and that stupid Asshole Food place, instead of getting in at 11:00pm we ended up reaching our hotel at 3:30am because that schedule I so carefully crafted the week before? Yeah, it totally fucked us in the ass and didn’t even take us out to dinner first.

This hotel I had booked was booked for one reason and that one reason is my dog. You know, the asshole one who spent the whole trip thus far throwing an Emo tantrum in the backseat because “OMG WHY ARE YOU TRAPPING ME IN THIS MOVING HELL? YOU TOLD ME WE WERE GOING TO THE DOG PARK! I HATE YOU! YOU AREN’T EVEN MY REAL PARENTS! I WISH YOU NEVER ADOPTED ME!”? Yeah, we couldn’t leave him in the vehicle so I had to find us a hotel that allowed pets and had a free room that could have pets. I was assured our dog was welcome. So welcome in fact that they were going to charge me an extra twenty dollars for him!

So after checking in and confirming that our room is still there and waiting for us we go outside to grab our things and bring the dog in and the lady at the counter? Yeah, when she saw the dog so was all “SURPRISE! U CAN HAZ NO HOTEL ROOM CUZ WE SCREWED UP UR BOOKING! LOLZ!” and both The Pilot and I shit our pants. I was beyond tired so it took me a few minutes to process what had just happened and when I realized that we had lost our room and had no place to sleep at that moment I did the only thing I could think of. I started hysterically crying much to the dismay and horror of the hotel lady and The Pilot.

And I continued to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

I cried until The Pilot directed us back into the vehicle and started to search the other hotels in town while frantically trying to make me stop crying.

I cried when The Pilot went to all the hotels in town to find out that SURPRISE! This town that normally has hundreds of hotel rooms open all the time is suddenly fully booked because there’s some type of Lumber Mill shut down and thousands of workers have flooded the city.

I cried when The Pilot broke the news to me that we’d have to find a parking lot and sleep in the vehicle because there was no other option.

I cried when The Pilot found a 24hr grocery store and attempted to purchase us blankets and pillows and the old man working the nightshift kept trying to sell him fucking lawn chairs instead of blankets. Fucking lawn chairs.

I did stop crying when we both tried to go to sleep but I did start crying again when our fucking dog decided that “Holy shit, this is the coolest thing in the world, CAMP OUT IN THE VEHICLE!” and figured it was a good time to start jumping everywhere. For two hours.

I figured by that time we were either going to freeze to death in the vehicle or be stabbed by a homeless person.

It could have gone either way, really.

And Then I Made Him Cry & The Universe Thanked Me.

The Pilot, who I should mention off the top of my head is someone that I love dearly and truly wish to have his Guido babies even though he isn't really a Guido but more of a Frenchman so I'm basically saying I want to his have Froglet's, has this thing with his pillow. It's an odd thing, with his pillow, that I'm not sure I fully understand.

You see, his pillow is an old and I would like to call it stinky but I haven't actually found it to be stinky and  I can only assume that it's because when The Pilot sweats he sweats delicious smells but I'm probably just mistaking his sweat for Fabreeze or something and this pillow is flat and gross looking and he demands that he cannot sleep without it because it's his lifeline and his very, very, bestest pillow friend in the world and he'd just die without it. He's also had this pillow since he was a toddler and despite the fact that he asserts a "wizard gave this to me as a gift upon my birth" it's just a ratty pillow long past it's time and I hate the thing with all my heart.

Because it's gross.

And it touches my pillows. All five of them. That I sleep with. Because I like making a Captains Chair out of them so I can feel as if a space ship flies me away in my sleep.

This pillow happens to be one of the only problems that plagues my golden relationship because I'm in the position where that pillow is almost 30 years old and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have fluff in it anymore but just ten pounds of human skin dandruff that attracts bed mites that then have sex on his face while he sleeps and I can't kiss someone who's face has been sexed up by bed mites. He's in the position that this pillow his is only reason for living and that without it he'd be a broken husk of a man and if I ever did anything to it he'd probably break up with me and take the dog with him. Or something like that, I usually tune out when he goes into his pillow hysterics.

Naturally, because of his attachment I've taken a stance that I'll go above and beyond the call of duty to hide this pillow and attempt that he'd never find it and be forced to buy a new one. So far it hasn't worked and as he'd claim he's spent several hundred nights of being tortured because his pillow has gone missing.

Last night, I came close to throwing it off the Balcony of our apartment and if it wasn't for the fact that The Pilot threatened to break-up with me, take the dog and never tickle my back before bedtime I would have thrown it. I can't do without those back tickles, you see.

So I had to consent to give him back his pillow and enjoyed it while he begrudgingly gave me back tickles and he made me promise never, ever, to do this again and I could only promise "I wont touch your pillow for another six months" because, honestly, we are moving in six months and it wont be my fault if that pillow doesn't make the move with us.

Or, maybe it totally will be my fault.

Because, honestly, I can handle it if those bed mites are having more sex than I. On my bed. Where I sleep.

I Am Sort Of Hoping He Melts To The Side Walk

Right now, I am sort of wondering if the weather has decided to turn around and fuck us all over again because at the start of the Summer it was mildly hot and riddled with forest fires and then it started to rain and give us floods and now it's all "I haven't broke your spirit yet? Well, here's some more terrible times to fuck you up and by the time Fall comes, I hope you are dead." and that's exactly what it's been doing.

It's been so hot the last few days that I am kind of hoping that when I take the dog out for a walk he melts to the sidewalk because I am tired of him sitting around and hiding under the bed because he thinks it will make it colder for him.

And he always gets stuck.

Because he's special.

And I don't want to save him because I am already held up by the heat that I just want to lounge on my couch with an over sized fan, a mint julep and talk with a Southern drawl while asking for the help of handsome strangers to do menial work for me. Shirtless.

It's Like Paying For A Hooker & Not Getting A Blow Job In Return

I've never been one to point a finger at other people in the Internet and voice my opinion about this and that on my blog because I like to keep it lighthearted and it's hard to fit in a good dink joke while you are Internet abusing other bloggers because what they may or may have not done but really, I could throw in a few good dink jokes but then I wouldn't want them all wasted on a situation that probably didn't need them.

Floating around the blog sphere is a dude who is in college and has a blog that is basically about getting other people to pay for his fancy vehicle that he wants to purchase because, well, if he owned a fancy vehicle he would be able to get a job close to campus. Which, you know, you can't do if you only have two feet.

I just find it  repulsive that he's asking for handouts from virtual strangers so they can buy him a car that will only benefit him. I didn't see him write on his blog that he's going to be driving amputated Orphans around to clown parties or legless kitten babies to dentist appointments or anything. It's just all about how awesome his life is going to be with that car and call me selfish but I want my life to be awesome with a car. Or a Unicorn tank, but that's besides the point.

Another section of his blog talks about how he wants to get on a famous talk so in another attempt to get other people to do the work for him and buy him that dang car. I know everyone is able to blog about what they want and do what they want with their own blog but I just felt...dirty reading his. It just felt so self-centered and greedy that it repulsed me. And made me want to write this blog post instead throwing out a cornucopia of dick jokes that would have kept everyone entertained and thinking about Wang.

Maybe it's because I come from a background where I was taught to work for what I wanted no matter the fact that I could have easily got it just by asking. My parents purposefully set out to teach me that the best things in life that you own come from the fact that you worked hard for it. It doesn't come from someone just deciding they are special and everyone else just do the work for them. Maybe that's why it baffles me as to why he has this blog.

But, really, what I wanted to say was....

What does the dink say when it walks into a bar? Nothing, because it's a dink.