Skinny Chicklets

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” – that bitch, Kate Moss

Just for the record, I’m skinny. I weigh eighteen pounds (big for my breed but not FAT). I’m a male dog, a Brussels Griffon, to be exact. Me and the Boss (I call ‘em that ‘cause he’s got the charge card, wheels, tells me when to get out of his chair, and mangles Springsteen in the shower) cruise the fashion blogs now and then to see who’s got it and who don’t. Seems the skinny chicks always have a tough time of it.

First, they can wear damn nearly anything and look good. So what’s the problem? That’s a good thing, right? Well, actually, that’s the problem.

You see you got to have taste as well. That’s why I give short squirts on tired, yellow and green fire hydrants, so yesterday and dull. Nothing like the red ones, trimmed out with a little gold here and there. Oh, I give ‘em a good wash down, too. I just feel better doing it. Back atcha, Kate Moss.

Back to skinny. The problem with skinny women is that they’re always complaining about their lack of curves. Flat ass, flat chest, no waist, toothpick calves… seems they got nothin’ the Boss’s guy friends rant and rave about. The Boss secretly likes skinny… and not so skinny and… well, just about any woman that’s got it goin’ on.

Let me get down and roll in it, as I’m proud to say. Pisses the Boss off sumpthin’ terrible, but if you’re gonna tie one on, might was smell all the way to high heaven: All that skinny chicks have is fashion. That’s why so many model. They can’t be strippers. Wrap a scrap a cloth around a beanpole and tease it off: Believe me, it ain’t magic… you still have a bean pole. The fatter the squirrel, the slower he run. Come on, big fella! Give me a chance to snatch your ass.

The second thing me and the Boss have noticed is that the bar is set pretty high for skinny chicklets. We expect them to pull it off and turn us on. The tasty style, that is. If you’re a size 10 or 12, and no offense to some of my favorite women, the bar isn’t so high. You’re the girl next door, the ones the Boss and his guy friends hang with and mostly marry. These girls can put a good thing together, too… they’re just not Twiggy, hating herself because she doesn’t have an ass like these girls.

I don’t know why I went off on this tirade. Most gurl-folk blogin’ ‘bout fashion are fine but not Kate Moss miniscule. A rare few got the imagination to get them noticed in the design world. That's right, you got the magic. You can come over and put fur on my doghouse any day. I’ll get busy collectin’ a couple of squirrels.

So Me and the Boss cracked open a good Argentinean Shiraz tonight and toasted all the thinlets blogin’ out their skinny brains out tonight while he’s cookin’ dinner and waitin’ for his fine, tall and tan size 10 to come home.

Keep at it. And quit worrying about the curves!

“Boss, is that a little pink I see in those fat, little face cheeks?”

Twitter Smitter

Me and the Boss (he’s the one typing) don’t get this Twitter thing. If I want to give a shout out to my buds, I stand in the back yard raise up a good guttural howl. Works every time. Drives the Boss crazy. Frankly, I think he’s just jealous I don’t need all that tech stuff to wrangle up some babes.

Sure, the canines in California can’t hear me (or the next county, for that matter), but frankly they ain’t comin’ to see me any time soon, if ever. Besides, I may have to share the lil’ hottie next door. And who the hell needs 436 friends anyway? And callin’ strangers ‘friends’ is dumb if you can’t exchange a good butt sniff. Technology’s got a long way to go as far as I’m concerned. Most people don’t know themselves well enough to deserve more than a couple of people they call friends anyway. Gotta spend time together, to look into their eyes, windows of their souls, and dance a bit on the carpet of their heart, touching one another. That’s what the Boss would say. Me, I curl up on a sunny spot on the floor with my buds. I got your back, you got mine. Doesn’t get much better than that.

The more I watch the Boss (I call ‘im that ‘cause he tells me when I get to eat and when I get to howl at my ‘friends’ – midnight is out, just so everyone knows) the more I realize he’s getting more like his dad, only his dad wouldn’t go up to a woman and comment on her shoes: “Are those Fendi?” That’s when I jump around from behind his leg and wink at the girl to throw her off his weirdness. (Dude, sometimes you just bark up the wrong tree.)

But I appreciate his John Wayne style. He just wades in, helps her with her coat and smiles a lot. None of that predetermined pretentiousness. All the Boss checks is if his zipper is up when he leaves the house. He doesn’t preen for the web cam. Hell, he’s got no web cam – not since I found a round thing on the floor and thought it was some new fangled ball or something. How was I to know? Didn’t smell like a web cam.

But I guess we need to leave room for those that do the aged old ‘Me, John…You Jane’ thing a new way. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, especially when TROUBLE is already in the house.

I'm in Your Face but Don't Touch My Beard

Let me just start off by sayin’ I’m a bit biased and old school: Like a little black dress, a red fire hydrant is a classic. And it’s always best to start with the tried and true…then go from there.

Well, “going from there” seems to challenge a lot of fashion-forward chicklets, so my purpose here is to throw my two-paws in and take a bite outta ugly. And there’s a shit load of it out there. Damn!


This Beckham broad thinks she’s hot shit…and for good reason. Not some over-the-top ‘costume’ but a nice dress. For all you fashionsitas that havta put too much garlic in the sauce because you think jacked up is juicier, just chill with a good bottle of Merlot and strip off the junk. This girl’s got the ‘tude to go with the look. OK, I concede. She’s probably a size triple zero. Still, give her the props. Bet she’d piss herself if she knew a dog was comparin’ her to a fine-looking fire plug.

Me and the Boss don’t pull no punches, as you can tell. If he sleeps in and doesn’t leave a bowl out for me, I’m on his chest and in his face – no matter the hour. If he catches me snoozin’ in his favorite chair, I know to get the hell out. So I’m throwin’ my eighteen pounds at this shit I see out there on the web, even if I’m just a dog. He’s typin’; I’m cussin’.

First, just because one is pretty, that doesn’t mean he should get a pass on ugly clothes or combos. Surely, the fashion police are comin’… and right quick at that [The Shawshank Redemption]. My beat up doghouse is better looking than some of these bloggin’ wanna-bees the Boss wakes me up to check out.

Secondly, even if it’s edgy, there’s got to be some subtlety – like a breeze on a lazy, August afternoon laced with three-day old roadkill driftin’ in from a couple of miles away. You can’t really tell whether it’s an armadillo or a possum, but it’s fine nonetheless. Instead, some fashion is more like that in-your-face bitch in heat two blocks over. Shoutin’ all about sex and sayin’ nothin’ ‘bout the women wear ‘em. Well, not exactly. Some clothes shout stupid as much as they insist on being pretentious.

Finally, you don’t have to show all your hot fabrics in each and every piece. The Boss and his Singer could do some sweet shit with just about any fabric. Me, I’m still waitin’ for someone to do something with plaids that isn’t trailer-trash pitiful.