I know what you’re thinkin. You’re lookin at me and sayin to yourself; “This guy’s some kinda weirded out crack-head, right? Well hey, you are like so wrong; I don’t do crack, it’s not good for you. I do pure, organic weed and that’s it. I care about my body. So you might be thinkin, “No way, is anything this dude’s gonna tell me anything but crap, but listen up anyway cause even on primo ‘shrooms, I couldn’t have made this story up.
Okay, here’s the deal: I’m chowing down over in the Village at that sweet Chinese place; you know…that one the crazy old Jewish couple own? I eat there a lot cause the food’s pretty good and a guy’s gotta eat but I also kinda feel like it’s my duty as a sensitive kinda dude to eat there and be supportive of the cook. I mean, man…the little guy’s got no arms! They prop him up on this stool and he whips up all these tasty oriental dishes with his feet, which is cool but it’s just so weird cause the guy’s like Eskimo or Irish or something? Don’t be thinkin that you can be feelin sorry for him though, cause he gets real bent if anybody pulls that crap. He says “I may be missing my arms but half the nitwits I cook for in here are missing a soul.” I have no idea what he means by that but it sounds pretty cosmic, right? Anyway, I feel like it’s like good Karma for me to take my business to the little freak. And another reason why I like to hang out there and eat is because he comes up with these really random fortune cookies; which he hand…er rather…foot-writes, so sometimes they’re like really hard to read? But anyway I’ve gotten ones that say stuff like SHIT HAPPENS ~ DEAL WITH IT and PAY THE FREAKIN ELECTRIC BILL which was too weird cause I hadn’t done that bein as how I spent the money on a lid of primo smoke. And so I ended up in the dark for a whole month until I got paid again. Couldn’t figure out how the little dude knew that! One time I got this one that said SHE’S A SKANK~YOU’RE BETTER OFF WITHOUT HER, and I’m like Whoa…that’s cold! Then I get home and my latest old lady’s outa there with all my two-week old leftover Chinese food and my last five bucks. Too freaky!
So anyway, I’m done eating and I open up my fortune cookie, wondering what kinda weird message I’m gonna find in there this time and it says DEAL WITH DUDE. I’m like…what’s up with this? I can’t figure it out, I’m stoned anyway so it flat gives me a headache and I decide the little freak’s been smokin too or something, so I give it up. I go home and watch some t.v., cut my toenails, cut the dog’s toenails and while I’m cleaning up all the scraps, I remember that, hey…The dog’s name is “Dude! I tried to name him other stuff a buncha different times but then I’d get loaded and could never remember what I was calling him so I’d be like “Here Ralph, or “Here Bozo” and he’d be looking at me like “What’s your problem? Call me the right name or forget it!” So I finally started just callin him Dude. He’s used to it now and he only comes when I’m feeding him anyway so whatever…
I’m thinkin, hey man…that cookie was maybe talking about the dog! Weird! Then I get to wondering about what it means and all until I remember…hey, Dude’s gotta get fixed!
See, he’s one of the reasons my last two girlfriends boged out on me; they both said, “Hey man, this dog’s grossin me out!” because he was getting like way too affectionate, if you know what I mean. I kinda feel bad about takin him in for the old chop-job but lately I’m thinkin…man, I’m gettin lonely!
So I take a toke and put the roach down in my Scooby-do ashtray and go lookin for the phone; I buried it in a drawer or something last week because it kept like ringin and stuff. I finally find it and then it takes me another half-hour to find the phone book and look up the vet dude’s phone number. I’m lookin at the dog while I dial and I’m goin, “Man, you are just bummin my day with all this work,” and then the phone’s ringin. Dude’s lookin at me with his big old floppy dog-ears all standin up stiff. The vet folks answer pretty soon and I go, “Hey, I need to bring my dog in to get fixed!” The person I’m talkin to is just starting to ask me my name and the dog’s name and stuff when all of a sudden Dude jumps up on his hairy legs and puts his foot down on the receiver. The phone goes dead. I’m lookin at him kinda surprised when he sits down and says, “What exactly do you mean by ‘fixed’?”
Whoa!!! This is like too totally unusual! I mean, no matter how much weed I’ve ever done, animals have never talked to me before. Not even the time I dropped acid at that Squirrel Nut Zipper concert. So I’m like, what’s up with this? More’n a little freaked. Dude’s just sitting there with a doggy-DeNiro expression on his fur face…“You lookin at me?”
Finally, I go, “Hey Dude! You talked man!” And Dude scratches an ear and goes, “How remarkably observant of you. Apparently you have at least one or two brain cells that are still functioning.”
“Weird, man! How come you never said nuthin before?” I say. And Dude goes, “There has been nothing worth discussing until this moment. Now, enlighten me as to this being ‘fixed’. I am not ‘broken’ in any way that I am aware of”.
Well, I’m like a little confused by all the long words and stuff, but I figure out that Dude is havin a problem with my callin the vet-folks about him.
“It’s no big sweat, man. They’re just going to put you t’sleep and then –“ but before I can finish, Dude’s fur gets all bushed out, he jumps up, shows me how many pointy teeth he’s got behind his lips and says really loud, “YOU’RE HAVING ME PUT TO SLEEP?”
So I’m like, “No way, Dude! They’re just gonna uh…remove some stuff so’s you don’t act like a perv around my girlfriends anymore. That’s all, man.” Dude squinches his eyes real narrow and sits back down, lookin at me like I’m maybe the rudest piece`a work he’s ever seen.
He says, “I see. What we’re talking about here is castration. Is that correct?”
Well hey, I have no idea what that word means so I’m “Huh?” Dude goes,
“It means, neutered.”
Oh. Well yeah. I heard`a that word, so I go, “Yeah! That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Dude goes, real quiet and hard-like. “So when this little surgery takes place, how exactly do I go about having a normal sex-life, pray tell?”
This is getting just way too heavy a conversation for me, I can tell you that. I’m getting a brain freeze headache and I haven’t even had any ice cream. I shrug, hoping he’ll just go back to bein a plain old dog-speakin dog and I can get back to getting stoned and worryin about my own sex life, but Dude’s not finished.
“Would you like to suggest some way that I can explain my new ah…physical condition to my ladies?” Some way in which I can excuse my inability to satisfy their…needs? Hmmmm? Perhaps you feel I might simply refer them to the Rottweiler down the way?”
I go, “Well yeah!…Geez man, I don’t know! Can’t you just, y’know, forget about it?”
And then Dude yells really loud,
“NO, you drugged out little cretin, I can’t just ‘forget about it!’” and all the hair on his back stands straight up like some kinda weird lookin porcupine or somethin. It’s pretty freaky lookin.
The whole thing is just getting way out of control but before I can say “Lighten up, hairball”, Dude’s flying across the room at me like some kinda rocket-launch-dog-bullet, hits me in the chest and I go down with my head getting up-close and personal with the coffee table on the way to the floor. Next thing I know, I’m wakin up, staring at the ceiling, thinkin, Whoa…that was heavy! Who knew Dude could fly, man?
Then, I look down and notice he’s standing over my hips…and he’s got a knife in his mouth…and the pointy-end is like a half a dog-whisker from my family jewels. Too intense! I’m kinda getting the idea that maybe having a girlfriend is something I can live without. I mean, who needs somebody eatin my leftovers anyway?
Dude clears his throat and mumbles something, but I’m like, “What?” Talking with a knife in your mouth makes it kinda hard to communicate. He shifts the knife a little to one side and says, “You might want to rethink this whole neutering idea.” So I do…it doesn’t take more than a nano-second.
I give him a big old peace sign, he puts the knife down on the table and I reach for my roach; but then I decide the situation calls for a whole fresh joint cause man, it has been a really radical day; and then I have a cosmic thought that the little armless cook-dude probably figured out a long time ago…so I say, “Man, life is like weirder than fiction but it all works out cool if you just relax, invest in some good organic smoke, mind your own balls and let it happen. “Right, Dude?”
Dude goes, “Right.”