Posts Tagged ‘The Two Bruces’

Previously: He’s discovered a new Czardas channel he’s been dying to listen to but Pooch says it makes her homesick. This has gotten plenty weird, way weird enough for me to last several lifetimes. But, right, it’s about to get even stranger.

And now: So the jewelry was bought. Thousands were spent by Pooch and Ginger on their Bataan-like Death March shopping spree. No prisoners were taken but a hell of a lot of merchandise was. I’m assuming it was paid for, bankrolled by Zoltan’s generosity, but with these two, who knows?

8632644852_d54706acfb                                    It ain’t shopping!

Zoltan gathers us up in his car and takes us someplace he guarantees will shake my very foundations. Well, those weren’t his words exactly, but you get the gist, right? And he is right. We drive to some abandoned Hardee’s Hamburger joint. It’s seen better days, certainly better than their food. It’s barely standing on its own. There is nothing else around it. It looks like it was dropped by some refugee from Area 51, it’s so out of place. The only thing around it is a suspiciously familiar Honda CR-V. This is starting to creep me out big time. I know of only one other person with a CR-V and with specialty plates like these. We pull up and part next to it. Someone in a NY Giants jersey is sitting in it listening to folk music while gorging on Raisinets. This is going downhill fast. It could only be one person.

He gets out, smiling sheepishly, chocolate smudging the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t think I was going to let you get away with this, did you, Fog Calamari? What kind of schmuck name is that, Bruce?”

3949821038_77224c539a                                   The other other Bruce is back, not this one.

“Er, Hi Bruce.” It’s the other Bruce. I thought I had gotten rid of him months ago. He disappeared and left me to do this and now he walks right back in as if nothing had happened. Doesn’t he know how successful “Fog Calamari” has been? He probably does. I’m in negotiations right now for serialization and film. And now he wants back in? The big question in my mind is how did he find me? “Bruce, how did you find me?”

“Really? You don’t know? Zoltan, educate the poor boy.”

Zoltan grins at me. “We knew you were planning to highjack the blog. We watched you. You think it was coincidence that Ginger was on that bus with you? Brucie baby (I hate that name Brucie and so does Bruce, but Zoltan knew it bugged me so he used it.),  you’re smarter than that or at least I thought so. I want in on Fog. We are partners after all.” He was right but damned if I was going to share Fog with him.

“Look Bruce, Fog was cute. Clever a little too. But the blog is sacred and we’ve got to get it back to where it belongs – social commentary nobody cares about. My life hasn’t been the same since The Two Bruces morphed into Fog. That’s just not right. We gotta fix this.”

“And how do you propose that? Fog has been growing.”

Bruce looked at me as if I was a fresh bag of string cheese, hungrily. “Easy, Brucie (him too?) baby. We do both. The Two Bruces will return and you can do your miserable Fog thing. Just keep it away from me. Some of those characters are just creepy. capisce?”

I capisced. But I knew Fog would be back. And soon.

This is the other Bruce and I’m not happy. Not happy at all. Do you hear me? Not happy!

And you wanna know why? Probably not and that’s why I’m unhappy. I’m more than unhappy. But I promised Bruce I would confine that kind of talk to the bar or behind Mrs. Crosby’s more than ample backside.

Bruce has been moping about and there doesn’t seem to be anything any of us can do about it. We’ve offered him his favorite girly drink, Club Soda, Elderberry Wine, nightshade, a slice of lime, and Rose’s Lime juice with an expresso bean thrown in, but even that can’t seem to stir him from that damned funk he’s in.

Just add the nightshade and the coffee bean and Bruce’ll be happy…maybe..

And here’s the dirty little secret behind his crappy attitude. You. That’s right, You. Or really the lack of You’s. Each day he looks at the numbers on this blog and gets more and more pissed. If Bruce is pissed, then you can only imagine how I feel. Spittin’ nails, right!

Look, I don’t want to air our dirty laundry, but I can’t stand it when Bruce is this way. He’s mean to his wife, kicks the dog (and the cat, but she deserves it), and is just generally lousy to be around. Each day he toils on this blog and feels like he’s unappreciated. (Awww, poor little Bruce!) But hey, aren’t we all?

So, Bruce is threatening to leave this endeavor of ours and go to work for Rupert Murdoch. He claims he has had it. He might even run away. Talked about arrested development! Join the circus! See if I care.

He says why should he do most of the writing, as if you couldn’t tell, right?, if no one is going to read it. I keep telling him that the market (of which he thinks of as urbane and sophisticated) isn’t really there or if it is, doesn’t care. Bruce, look, maybe you’re not that funny after all. That was probably not the right thing to say. What do you think?

I can’t see this blog going on without him. What would I call it? – The Bruce? Not on your life! Of course, I could go out and find another Bruce, but truthfully, it wouldn’t be the same. We’d have no history, we probably would be too similar and that wouldn’t work. I guess I could use my brother, but he isn’t a Bruce, he’s a Richard and that’s all that needs to said on that count. He’s not even a pale comparison. This is not how I thought I would spend my final days in the nursing home. Disregard that last remark. I am fully capable and functioning and don’t use Depends… often. I’m just really upset over this.

Last night, Bruce went to a gun show of all things. That’s usually the thing I like to do, but hey. He came back with a Kroger 90mm hand cannon complete with mother of pearl grip and elephant ivory sightings. He said it was formerly owned by Cher. At least that gave him some comfort. It’s what he may intend to do with it that has me scared. We need to talk him down off this ledge.

It made him happy for a moment until we took out the firing pin.

Please let Bruce know you love him. Tell your friends to read this too. Maybe even follow. Write him comments. Send him cookies. It will make my life much more bearable and will continue the fine writing that you’ve all come to love. Or like maybe. Tolerate? Please? Otherwise, it could mean the end of the Two Bruces blog. Unless you know of another extremely talented Bruce. It could happen. I’m open to suggestions.

For the longest time. ever since we were in prep school… wait, that’s not entirely true. Bruce went to prep school, the Lucey Loughless School of International Affairs, which accounts for his taste in Ralph Lauren retro-prep style clothing complete with Fair Isle sweaters and club and knit ties, not to mention his xenophobia. All that stuff you hear about old school ties – it’s real. If I never see a button-down shirt again, it’ll be too soon.

Bruce’s inexplicable taste in clothes.

I, on the other hand, am a product, for better or worse, of the illustrious public school system of the great state of New Jersey, grades K through 12 to the third power. (OK, so I had to repeat Senior year a few times.) To say that I was a stellar academic performer is to also to state that Michael Chiklis has a great head of hair. It’s not true, any of it. But during my time in the state’s institution of enforced education, good old RSP, (Rahway State Prison – and it’s because I couldn’t afford a real mouthpiece and had to accept a Public Defender who couldn’t argue a case off of a shelf and had to do time as a result – I was innocent!), I availed myself of all the provided materials and became an expert in diplomacy. Little did I know at the time that Bruce was on a similar track, but while he was inside looking forward I was still inside looking out. I guess being born to the “right” parents do count. But I’m not bitter…much. I’ve really gotten much better and don’t have the need to strike out at someone as often. See, diplomacy works.

So after a dinner with our wives, Bruce and I did the cooking, (we are both quite good – another skill I learned inside) since the inestimable but damnable Mrs. Crosby had the night off again. We sat down with the ladies fair and shared a bottle of an old Port we picked up at our neighborhood purveyor of such fine spirits, Target. That place is amazing! But, as usual I digress. We were quite dismayed at the state of affairs on weary, old Mother Earth. It then dawned on us that we were letting our incredible skills go fallow. Why are we not lending ourselves to the world to make this a better place in which to live? Yes, indeed.

We set about to create a business plan which would provide our services to countries and governments  of every size, shape, and financial ability. We will not do this for free! Nossir. Peace does not come cheap. We also determined that there couldn’t be only one approach to winning the peace. Every nation, each despot, must be handled individually. Some may need a more nurturing approach – that would be Bruce. Others might need something a little more forceful and direct – that would be me. Others might need a hybrid approach with a little bit of both us. I will say this, the hybrid is the most effective but is not for the faint of heart.

Not exactly the UN, but it’s a start.

One of the hybrid approaches is something we like to call “Good Diplomat, Bad Diplomat” or GDBD. Popularized by bad police dramas, this has the advantage of letting the participants decide for themselves how they would like to proceed with our retaining the authority to over-ride it as we see fit. You want peace? Of course, we’d be happy to help. What’s that? You don’t like that country and you want to go nuclear on them? Wham! How’s that for nuclear? Capisce? That’s just one approach.

A singe-minded approach is also quite effective. Some people, attorneys and judges, might say it’s coercion. We like to say it’s just bringing persuasive pressure to bear until we achieve the desired outcome. It’s sort of like Esalen toilet training but for countries. This is called the Torquemada App.

Yet another way of achieving our/their goals is called the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Decision. (Bruce has such a dark sense of humor.) Simply put, we play the two parties off one another until they’re almost there and then introduce a third player. The third party intimates action along the lines of a scorched earth policy. This of course screws everything up with its Triangulation and threat. All of a sudden, each party is more amenable to meeting demands in hopes of shutting out the interloping third party. It’s brilliant, it works, and no one gets hurt…usually.

So, there it is. We naturally cannot go into more detail here, but should you or your country be in need of seasoned and/or ruthless Diplomats, we’re your guys. Look for our ads in Soldier of Fortune magazine. We’re in the back of the magazine right next to the Male Enhancement ads, you know the one, that’s it with “Why is Bob is smiling?”

Good Diplomat/Bad Diplomat. Not the Two Bruces, really.

It’s no secret the other Bruce has a fondness for orphans, lovable losers, small cars, and stray puppies. So it should come as no surprise when Bruce, unbeknownst to me, brought home yet another stray dog. However, this was not your typical ASPCA, look-at-me-with-the sad-eyes dog to the strains of Sarah McLachlan music mutt. No, this was Frankendog.

After a lengthy argument as to whether or not we would keep it, (we did), the OCD gene kicked in and Bruce had to determine its lineage. This is of course easier said than done. One can’t just go to their local Petco and get a DIY home canine DNA kit. We had to travel 347 miles to the dog equivalent of a genetics lab who specialized in such nonsense. So, we loaded ourselves and said pooch into our trusty Pignasaurus GT and off we went in search of doggy DNA.

Now, before I go any further, let me describe Frankendog, not his real name. That has yet to be decided. The two names in the running currently are Grendel and Petey. Can you guess which one Bruce wants? Petey – aww c’mon! Frankendog is without any doubt the most unusual looking dog I’ve ever seen. I don’t need to see the results of a DNA test to know he is the bastard off-spring of some demented canine version of Dr. Moreau. He just isn’t what nature intended. Anyone who has been around dogs agrees with this description. Frankendog appears to be the result of an unholy mating of a Pomeranian with a Newfoundland dog. If these are unfamiliar to you, let me just say this – the Pom is really, really, little; the Newf is really, really, big.

Pom.

Newfoundland.

Poms yap. Newfs make a sound like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story – deep, soulful, bellows. I don’t even want to imagine the conjugal image of this creation. However, here he is. With such a hybrid, he shares a melded body, personality, and voice. The body defies easy description, but I’ll try to do it with compassion. Frankendog is almost as big as a full size Newf, but blessed/cursed with rather short front legs that give him the appearance of a jacked-up hot rod ready to leap off the starting line. The problem is when he actually tries to do that. Because of the uneven weight distribution, he usually winds up grinding his face with much injury into the pavement. When that occurs, he lets out his unique bark – it’s a keening whine followed by an emphatic cough.

But, he is incredibly smart. He already understands complex math problems. Ex: If you have three bones and you eat one, how many do you have left? He knows the answer! When certain types of music are played, he displays an unerring ear for quality – loves opera, hates rap. Likes classic rock, looks down his misshapen snout at country. And as a watchdog, has the size, sound, and terrifyingly odd look that stop miscreants from proceeding any closer to our humble abode. Lucky for us that stops these wannabe thieves for if they came any closer, they would probably just drown in his slobber.

His personality too is a contradiction. He has the gentle, good natured attitude of the Newf, but it’s punctuated by the gritty, growliness of the Pom. It’s like he’s saying “I really like you” when in reality he’s probably saying “I’d really like to bite you.” Keeping Frankendog is going to be a test of our friendship.

So, we make the trip to the lab and get the tests done. In spite of the wonders of technology, we got the results back in four days. We were told it would only take a few hours, but upon seeing the results they ran the tests over and over again as they felt they must have been wrong. What they found is what I’d already postulated – a Newf and Pom mating. There was $ 1,600.00 out the window! But that was only the start of the “good news”.

We then learned that Frankendog was only 9 months old and would not reach full physical maturity for another 2 years. It was estimated that when fully grown, Frankendog would be about 250 lbs, requiring at least one full side of beef per day to stay fed properly. Walking the Frankendog is a singularly unique experience. Were this the frozen tundra, he on his own could win the Iditarod! Try it on pavement though at your own risk. Because of all the scraped hands and knees received from trying to teach him about walking on leash, we now have a standing order for neosporin at our pharmacy.

Bruce wants so much to keep him. I so much want to ride him. But neither of those are really good options.

This is what riding Frankendog might look like.

We could put him back on the side of the road where Bruce first found him or we could get him a job as a judge on American Idol. I’m opting for the TV gig.

Ahh, the wonderful and ubiquitous internet. It has taken away the mortar from the bricks, replaced relationships with tweets, and taken porn out of seedy back room stores and put it smack dab (sorry, poor choice of words) into the home. It has also provided an outlet for all sorts of people whose work, thoughts, music, art, whatever, should never be on display. Anywhere! Anytime! But noooooo,  democratically (small D) it’s for everyone.

We have scoured (again, poor choice of words; the internet can never be cleaned) the internet for art. And truthfully, we were surprised. It was much worse than we thought. A candidate with an etch-a-sketch can do better. Don’t read anything into that as a political statement. We think it’s just as funny as a President slow-jamming the news. That’s the problem with media. Everything is immediate. In earlier times, if Ben Franklin farted, it wasn’t news for 3-4 weeks. By then the air had certainly cleared – both literally and figuratively. But we digress.

Here are some of the examples we found. We have some that we feel we can explain, others defy explanation. Perhaps you can help us.

Truer words were never spoken. We wish we came up with this first. It explains Thomas Kinkade, may he rest in peace.

The Mona Astronaut? Move on, this is not the art you’re looking for.

This is not a portrait of the Two Bruces. Rather it’s a photoshop representation of our two collective sets of parents. It’s a wonder they didn’t drown us at birth!

This hangs on the refrigerator door at Bruce’s house. He is so proud!

Finally, someone had the guts to start censoring this crap. The rumor is that it’s the same “art” that’s on Bruce’s fridge door.

We’re not certain. If it was a different vegetable, we’d be inclined to say it’s our new turn(ip) table for playing the Wiggles.

Anyone?

And finally…

Nobody doesn’t like Jello! Right? Right?

See? Anything can be “art.” Like in politics, say it loud enough, long enough, and with a enough of conviction and you too will have followers willing to drink your “kool-aid.” It’s worked before, it’ll work again.

We are bloggers. There…we’ve said it and admitted it. It’s been known that the first step to recovery is to admit you are not well, or addicted, or some such malady from which you never knew you suffered. Sounds like self-flagellation for which we would much rather have a willing partner.

The Patron Saint of Blogging/Pin-up Queen/Blogger’s Centerfold.

One must learn the underlying factors that contribute to blogging. Until they are discerned, one must face that a life filled with half thoughts, incomplete sentences, bad grammar, crappy art, excess time, poor spelling, gratuitous foul language (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and the realization that the usual self-aggrandizement that comes with publicizing one’s own persona is a life bereft of any true meaning. And your diet will consist  of anything salty/sweet, caffeinated beverages, take-out food that comes in boxes both cardboard and styrofoam….because nothing else will matter!

The Blogger’s Aspirational Goal.

Yes, that’s right; it is a meaningless life. However, you can be helped. But again as we stated earlier, you must admit your failings. It starts now. This is an intervention! STEP AWAY FROM THE KEYBOARD. NOW! NO, WE MEAN IT!

The world does not want to see the “cute” pictures of your children, pets, vacations, cars, boy/girl friends, whatever. The world wants even less to read what you feel you have to say, really. Why did you even think you have something meaningful to say? Truthfully, we don’t either, but since we are attempting to explain everything, this is as good a place as any to start. CLEAR ALL YOUR BOOKMARKS. THEY WILL BE DEAD TO YOU AND MEAN NOTHING TO YOU FROM NOW ON!

Now, of course you’re thinking to yourself that who are they (The Two Bruces) to tell us what and how to do it when they obviously are so guilty of what they portray as evil. Oh, yes. We know. We’ve been down that sordid road, barely surviving the clutches of this horrendous affliction. But we are Bruces. We know these things. And you should listen to us.

YOU, THERE. YES, YOU! TAKE YOUR HAND AWAY FROM THE MOUSE! YOU DON’T GET OFF SO EASY!

As we were saying, it’s an affliction but curable. And since you’ve admitted it, you are now on the long road to recovery. It won’t be easy; it won’t be brief. (This ain’t no party, no CBGB’s, this ain’t no messing around!) We hope you like herb tea because caffeine is now out of the question. No more Starbucks for you! Think Celestial Seasonings offerings. No more junk food either. This is the bed you created for yourself and we aim to help you get into a new, psychic Tempurpedic. It will be difficult, but ultimately worth it. AND FOR GOD SAKES,  NO MORE ONLINE SHOPPING! DO YOU REALLY NEED ANOTHER PAIR OF INFLATABLE TOOTHBRUSHES?

Going forward,we just have thi6te–=s – damn mouse! Bruce, can you fix this #&^%(*@ thing!?