Monday, July 25, 2011

On Billy's

As promised, above is a photo of my proud, young, not-at-all-arthritic self in front of my latest establishment. All those in Midland, Michigan, please purchase your fine, American tobacco from my Uncle Meme at Billy's.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

On Good Taste

My uncle, Meme, has the refined palate of a distinguished gentleman. So much so, that he has chosen to name his new business after yours truly, Billy. That's all I can divulge for now, but folks in Meme's locale should keep their eyes peeled for my beautiful mug on advertising materials.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

On Survival of the Species

By now, many of you have heard the news, for news of this magnitude and joy spreads faster than a commie whore's thighs. Yes, it's true. I have knocked up MY BELOVED MOMMY. Now, before you all start groaning about incest or jumping up on pedestals proclaiming interspecies procreation an impossibility, know that I have created in MY BELOVED MOTHER'S womb an immaculate conception.

YEA, it is true.

Sure, My Beloved Mother (May The Warm Sun of Peace Shine Eternally Upon Her Glorious Countenance) is telling people that the life in her belly is the progeny of that inglorious Interlopeur, but this is only because if she did not, he would sob and cry like the surrender-loving monkey that he is. Yet you, avid and insatiable readers, you and I know the truth. I am going to be a daddy.

In preparation for entry into fatherhood (for no bitch can prove my paternity of the many, many Billy-look-alikes languishing in shelters and less savory homes than mine across America), I am preparing a festive fourth of July celebration, for I am not (I repeat) NOT afraid of fireworks.


Monday, November 10, 2008

On Devastation

My friends, it is a sad day in American history. A day when even a fierce patriot such as myself refuses to acknowledge his American citizenship. Yeah, my friends, though I walk through the valley of death in my regular fights for these United States, were one to ask me today from whence I came, I would say, "You're on a need to know basis, and you don't need to know."

Friends, how could this happen? How could the American People fail to recognize the courage, strength, and born-to-lead qualities in Senator McCain (or, as I like to call him during our intimate walks, "The Mac")? How could they instead elect a gun-hating, baby-killing, community-organizing, crooked Chicago senator (or, as I like to call him when I, ever-vigilant, keep him under constant brindle surveillance, "That One")?

My friends, I can't even go on. This morning, when a Commie-Loving Irish Setter passed in front of My house, I did not bark. I did not whine. I merely slept. In fact, this is the activity I plan for the next four years and two months: sleep. Maybe when I awake, it will all have been a bad dream.

P.S. Any ladies wishing to attempt to help me out of my post-election slump may send their used PoochPants® to or arrive flags at the ready at:

William John Gavin
America 91101

Thursday, September 04, 2008

On Treason

Friends, you haven't heard for me for a while. Although you may have wondered after my health, I know the majority of you realize that my goings-on are matters of national security and hence quite confidential. However, a goodly portion of my time away has been spent trying to convince My Beloved Mommy that she should have my Fat Whoore of a Sister euthanized.

Let me explain. Twice this year, my friends, twice the fat whoore has "come down with the cancer." This "cancer" has both times been of the 24 hour variety, as both times she has made a trip to some fictitious animal cancer clinic and returned victoriously "cured." Honestly, the money spent carving fake tumors out of her dull, listless hide could have been spent supporting our fearless John McCain in his bid for the presidency, or underwriting programs to recruit more young republican voters!

I digress.

The reason for my return to this blog is not my fat whoore of a sister. It is not My Beloved Mommy's failure to see a con artist when such an artist is sitting black and tan in front of her face. The purpose of this posting is a request for advice.

As you know, from time to time MY BELOVED MOMMY brings me into the office to help her get 'er done. I am, of course, a well recognized savant in MBM's chosen career. Today is one of those days. My fat whoore of a sister is off getting her nasty ass coat cleaned, and I am helping MBM (May The Baby Jesus Smile Upon Her). I have heretofore enjoyed these visits very much. However, I believe I have just uncovered evidence that MBM (May I Swallow My Tongue For Saying This) may be a commie. It's true.

Only moments ago, MY BELOVED MOMMY (Please, Holy Spirit, Do Not Let This Be True) tried to trap me in a metal box! She claimed she had to "potty" in said box, and asked me to come in with her. I flatly refused. I sat down and turned my back to her. I know better. Potty is done outside, not inside a narrow, metal box with a sinister lock upon it. Friends, please help me decide what to do.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

On Canine Good Citizens and the Interloper Study Group

You may or may not have heard recently from my sainted mother (peace be upon her) that my fat whore of a sister (may she rot in hell) just *cough* earned *cough* her Canine Good Citizen certificate, passing the tests with flying colors. Well, my friends, those colors run, unlike my fat whore of a sister (msrih), who really kind of slides about like salted slug.

Sometimes my mother (pbuh) is really deluded. Canine Good Citizen??? Who is she trying to kid? Everybody can get that. EVERYBODY. Not only is it the most mediocre sounding award I have ever heard of, but it is also a mere piece of paper. That's right. No stars, stripes, shining metal on an immaculate white coat, military music, tear jerking hymn singing, brindle on bitch action, er... where were we? She can pretty much keep her Poodle Certified Jerk tabloid extract. I have THREE purple hearts, one Medal of Honor, four silver stars, and 1,234 Distinguished Barking Crosses. None of these medals would look even remotely good on a crap and tar, I mean black and tan coat. I am sick and tired of putting up with her (msrih) and/or the Interloper (may his pathetic shriveled wiener disappear entirely in a random quantum fluctuation).

Some people have been heavily criticizing me on the way I conduct the eviction process. This brings me to my second topic. When I said earlier "We are winning this war", I really meant "We are going to win this war". By we, I mean my sainted mother (pbuh) and myself (pbum). So, We have been stuck with my fat whore of a sister (msrih) for how long? Seven years? And how long have we been stuck with the interloper (mhpswdeiarqf)? 18 months? I think calling it a quagmire is stretching the truth in a very LIE-beral kind of way. Nonetheless, I have decided to pay heed to the will of the American People and read the Interloper Study Group Report on the (Cold) nose war.

There are two kind of things amongst the 79 pieces of worthless commie advice in that brilliant piece of intellectual onanism. First, ideas that would lead to a victory at home. Well, DUH. I have already come up with those, which is, by the way, why we are going to win this war. I mean, these ideas are merely excerpts from my speeches. The second kind is ideas that would lead to a defeat at home. Defeat being defined here as having the black thingy and the yellow bastard stay. I reject these ideas entirely as the ejaculations of godless cowards they are. Some of them were written in French, I kid you not. I had to sanitize my nose after reading it.

Now, having read the ISGR, and having considered its proposals, I am pushing forward my idea of a surge of brindle to control the situation.

Thank you, and God Bless My Beloved Mommy, These Stars and Stripes, and The AmeriCAN Way.

Bark (1,235 DBC's)

Thursday, October 19, 2006

On the French

That's it. I'm through with him.

Is it not enough that the Interloper continuously defies my orders and touches by beloved mother? That he sleeps with her on a nightly basis, approaching dangerously close to her with his woefully inadequate package? I ask you, my friends, is it too much to ask for him to just file in and follow orders?

This time he's really done it. I began to suspect exactly one week ago today that he was plotting something, when my mother (who can do no wrong) extracted the suitcase from the closet where she hangs her collars.

Then she filled it.

That's right, compatriots. Last Friday the Interloper took MY MOTHER to Paris.

Now, there are so many things wrong with this plot, I can't even begin to list them. I mean, who did he think he was kidding? Did he think I would not catch on to his scheme? Did he think I would allow my angelic mother to be loaded onto a dangerous commercial airline (not even a Concord, I might add), flown to a Socialist country, and paraded about the streets like a common whore for the benefit and delight of a bunch of freedom-hating inbred? Never. At least not without brindle supervision.

The minute the taxi pulled away from the curb, I took action. I called in a few favors and asked a paratrooper friend to pick me up. Within hours, I was at the sniveling surrender monkey airport, disguised as a customs beagle, awaiting their arrival. I followed them from the dirty French airport to the dirty French apartment where they were staying. I installed a "pet cat" to keep an eye on them while in the apartment. When the Interloper came too close to her or started speaking that damn liaison'ed gibberish to her, I had the pet cat agent attack his feet. When he tried to woo her in front of the Eiffel Tower (read: We-As-A-Nation-Have-Very-Small-Baguettes-And-Feel-The-Need-To-Compensate-Therefor-In-The-Form-Of-An-Ugly-Useless-Metal-Thing Tower), I herded a group of tourists into them to knock him down. In short, I thwarted his dastardly plan at every turn.

I am proud to report that within days, days, my friends, I was able to herd the two of them back to the dirty airport and onto these United States without resistance. Resistance, in any case, would have been futile. I then hopped into the Atlantic and swam across in record time, arriving back at the house hours before her return with the Interloper.

And now I plot my revenge.