I hate to disappoint, but sometimes I just gotta

A Sunday or two ago, I posted something that I found somewhere on the internets that I thought was funny. Not har-de-har-de-har- har-oh-sweet-chihuahua-I'm-gonna-piddle- on-the-leather-couch funny. Just hmmm-that's-interesting funny. Apparently, right about that time, Hoss caved in to my relentless commenting on his b**g and gave me a visit. I feel bad, as that post hardly represented my best work (hmmpphh. I'm retired. By definition, I don't work. No wonder you don't get the best of anything here. Though chasing squirrels is harder work and more exercise than you humans might think. And while you're thinking about that, look at how short your dog's fingers are, and imagine those stubby things typing. I take it back. This is work).

But old Hoss didn't escape the Old Farts Home by being anything but pure-D stubborn, and he kept reading into my archives.

This is the part where I have to seriously question his judgement. He said that I am "pretty funny. Possibly VERY FUNNY." Unless he has actually seen me bark at the tree the squirrel went up two days ago even though I just chased that same squirrel along the fence and into the neighbor's yard, he has no reason to accuse me of that sort of thing. I am not funny. I am persistent. I am not consistent, but I am persistent. (That's a couple syllables long of being a Haiku.)

I have very nearly backed myself into a corner here, but I will duck away from its confines and run across the back forty with an idea: Red Skelton was funny. The Three Stooges were funny. Chris Rock IS funny. Gene Maudlin IS funny.

And the rubber-tired bitch in it all is that now that he's wandered over here, I can no longer steal his stuff with impunity.