Dear Uppity Bitch at Dog Park,

And by bitch, I do not mean female dog. I mean human who needs to relax and shut the fuck up.

So you decided to take your two dogs to the excellent Parkgrounds for the first time. Fantastic! As you walk Rufus, the 5 year old Boxer, and Ollie, the younger white Havanese, towards the entrance you can see inside. I know you can because I can see you through the chain link fence. You see me, a 50 pound transsexual, and you see other dogs my size all running around in the mud. Mud, may I add, that you knew about because when it rained earlier in the day it did so all over the city. Later, you say out loud, "[Ollie] is very playful. He likes to roll around with big dogs." So please, for the love of Rin Tin Tin, explain to me your behavior upon actually entering the dog run area. This playful Havanese of yours instantly bounds to me and another dog to engage in friendly (but not wink-wink friendly) play. He literally jumps in our face. So what the fuck is with your shocked and appalled face when we play back? At the sight of light wresting you actually got down, cradled a wriggling Ollie, and started calling out to have people remove their dogs from his presence. We were playing, woman! The panic you felt while whisking him to a safe area so you can frantically brush the dirt off his pretty white coat was totally uncalled for. You actually used the word "dramatic" to describe the 30 seconds he spent enjoying himself. You are a bitch.

Then you drag your big boxer into the human area as well and make complete strangers hold Ollie on a leash while you go inside. Why?! What terrible, horrible, no good, very bad danger lies in letting a dog be a dog? At one point when someone comes up to admire your precious, pretty lap dog, you instruct Ollie to tell them, "I'm a bad puppy." I can only assume that's a gay porn reference considering poor, emotionally abused Ollie exhibited no signs of misbehavior. According to you, "We adopted him." We? So that IS a wedding ring on your finger? I thought if you liked it then you should put a ring on it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to put anything around you but a noose you're so fucking obnoxious. This supposed husband can't possibly have the will to live anymore. You hate fun so much that the moment you walked back out carrying your Arden's Garden juice -- that was extremely reminiscent of my shit after I eat too much lettuce -- and wearing your "Peace" tank top you grab the dogs and declare, "This is a disaster." You're right. Your dog getting the opportunity to play and socialize is a disaster. Something tells me that your husband trying to turn you on is a disaster too, you uptight doily. Thank goodness you left the park immediately with hapless Ollie still trying to escape your grasp to sniff some ass otherwise who knows what sort of joy could have been had. Way to avert a catastrophe.

Get over yourself, woman. We're dogs.

Love,
Tranny Dog

P.S. You look like Justine Bateman. And that's not a compliment. She's been playing her share of hookers and drug addicts lately.

And by bitch, I do not mean female dog. I mean human who needs to relax and shut the fuck up.<br /><br />So you decided to take your two dogs to the excellent <a href="http://www.parkgrounds.com/">Parkgrounds</a> for the first time. Fantastic! As you walk Rufus, the 5 year old Boxer, and Ollie, the younger white <a href="http://www.havanese.org/">Havanese</a>, towards the entrance you can see inside. I know you can because I can see you through the chain link fence. You see me, a 50 pound transsexual, and you see other dogs my size all running around in the mud. Mud, may I add, that you knew about because when it rained earlier in the day it did so all over the city. Later, you say out loud, "[Ollie] is very playful. He likes to roll around with big dogs." So please, for the love of Rin Tin Tin, explain to me your behavior upon actually entering the dog run area. This playful Havanese of yours instantly bounds to me and another dog to engage in friendly (but not wink-wink friendly) play. He literally jumps in our face. So what the fuck is with your shocked and appalled face when we play back? At the sight of light wresting you actually got down, cradled a wriggling Ollie, and started calling out to have people remove their dogs from his presence. We were playing, woman! The panic you felt while whisking him to a safe area so you can frantically brush the dirt off his pretty white coat was totally uncalled for. You actually used the word "dramatic" to describe the 30 seconds he spent enjoying himself. You are a bitch.<br /><br />Then you drag your big boxer into the human area as well and make complete strangers hold Ollie on a leash while you go inside. Why?! What terrible, horrible, no good, very bad danger lies in letting a dog be a dog? At one point when someone comes up to admire your precious, pretty lap dog, you instruct Ollie to tell them, "I'm a bad puppy." I can only assume that's a <a href="http://badpuppy.com/">gay porn</a> reference considering poor, emotionally abused Ollie exhibited no signs of misbehavior. According to you, "We adopted him." We? So that IS a wedding ring on your finger? I thought if you <span style="font-style:italic;">liked it</span> then you should put a ring on it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to put anything around you but a noose you're so fucking obnoxious. This supposed husband can't possibly have the will to live anymore. You hate fun so much that the moment you walked back out carrying your Arden's Garden juice -- that was extremely reminiscent of my shit after I eat too much lettuce -- and wearing your "Peace" tank top you grab the dogs and declare, "This is a disaster." You're right. Your dog getting the opportunity to play and socialize is a disaster. Something tells me that your husband trying to turn you on is a disaster too, you uptight doily. Thank goodness you left the park immediately with hapless Ollie still trying to escape your grasp to sniff some ass otherwise who knows what sort of joy could have been had. Way to avert a catastrophe.<br /><br />Get over yourself, woman. We're dogs.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog<br /><br />P.S. You look like Justine Bateman. And that's not a compliment. She's been playing her share of <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/12317/arrested-development-family-ties">hookers</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1002852/">drug addicts</a> lately.<p>

Tour of Homos: Alan Gold's or Hey, Mr. DJ!

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.

Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.

It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same unch-unch-unch beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo.

The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish going plaid. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.

Ever hang out at the bar in the Days Inn in downtown Chattanooga? You haven't? Oh. Yeah, well neither have Edith and I. But if we had then I would know that it was a high class establihment that offered all the trimmings. Cigarette burn holes in the plastic table cloth? They've got multiple... at every table! Stripper pole? It's on the raised stage! They thought of everything except customer service. I wondered why it was taking 30 minutes for our waitress just to take our order. Then I realized it was because we were literally the only occupied table in the place, so clearly she was swamped.<br /><br />Ever hang out at night under an overpass in an unmarked, windowless van with the door open almost as though you are waiting for something, say, a victim? You have? Then that must have been you Edith and I saw in Chattanooga. I hope I'm not embarrassing you when I say that your aura of Holy-Shit-I'm-Going-To-Die is unparalleled. Because, holy shit, I thought I was going to die on our walk from the hotel to Chattanooga's gay bar, Alan Gold's. Little did I know that the danger lied not with the rapist troll under the bridge but inside Alan Gold's. That's where I died. On the inside. From prolonged exposure to obnoxiousness.<span class="fullpost"><br /><br />It's rare, but occasionally Edith and I will come down with boogie fever. When that happens the only prescription is salt. ... and her friend, Pepa. As any good American citizen - nay, any good citizen of the world does, we like to push it. Push it good. Push it real good, in fact. Unfortunately, the DJ did not realize how afflicted we were so we traversed the empty dance floor and explained our predicament. "So you see, Mr. DJ, it's a medical emergency." And that's when we were told that he doesn't take requests unless you tip him. Excuse me?! I suddenly understand why Wild Cherry was so hostile towards the white boy when he didn't play that funky music. This request surcharge seemed outrageous to us considering we had the answer to his Empty Dance Floor Blues, but we were tourists and therefore suckers so we dropped some dollar bills into the jar and waited for our song.<br /><br />And waited. And waited. And waited some more. But we never heard it. All we heard was the same <em>unch-unch-unch</em> beat with lyrics behind it - some recognizable, others unknown. Of the songs we knew, there were a few good ones but all of them were butchered by the thumping club beat. I don't understand the need for the techofication of perfectly good, already danceable songs. Britney Spears' songs, for instance, are genetically engineered to be played at dance clubs. Adding the standard dance beat to Toxic is like taking a seedless orange and removing the seeds. Layering one track over your entire MP3 collection does not a DJ make. All it makes is a tool abusing Garage Band. Good DJs dissect, remix, mash up, and pair songs all in the name of enhancing the music and dance experience. Shitty DJs make all the songs sound the same so as not to confuse and scare the coke-addled brains of the queens that wear Gucci because it's what fancy people wear, not because they understand fashion, quality, or style. One of those queens happened to be on the dance floor that night. And it's quite probable that he got his dance instruction from his As Seen on TV VHS, <em>Darrin's Dance Groves 2: Jazzercise Boogaloo</em>.<br /><br />The clubs that hire these shitty DJs also tend to be the clubs that line every single wall with speakers and turn up the volume to ear bleeding decibles. It's like they're trying to accomplish <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk7VWcuVOf0">going plaid</a>. Keep the music on the dance floor, kids. Maybe this makes me an old fuddy-duddy, but screaming like Al Pacino just to be heard and straining so hard to hear Edith that I poop myself a little everytime she speaks is not enjoyable. Certain areas of the bar need to turn it down to a low airplane engine roar, right? Am I crazy to want to talk to the people I go out with or start conversations with people I may meet? Is this why shallow Abercrombie twinks only seem to go to clubs in homogenous groups? Because the conversation would have been so vapidly boring that not having it because the music is too loud is a better alternative? There is so much I don't understand about club culture. I should look into a continuing education course; something like Technofication 101. But not in Chattanooga. All I wanted to do there was stumble back to the Days Inn then drive the hell home.<br /></span><p></p>

Tour of Homos: Krave OR How I Became Mortally Offended

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.


Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.

Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.

After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?

And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."

"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is one dollar?"

He was.

"Do you have any drink specials?"

He didn't.

"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured precisely one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.

Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.

I rarely go places that charge a cover. There is no room on this planet worth an entrance fee. After all, what's the main feature at a club? The dance floor. What is a dance floor? A big, empty space. Why should I pay good money for an empty space? This same logic was applied later in the trip when Edith and I forewent the Grand Canyon. But I found myself paying the $10 it cost to enter Krave with a k just off the Las Vegas Strip.<br /><span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Earlier, Edith and I were trying to find the so-called Fruit Loop, a group of gay bars all near each other. I'd sort of heard of it from my previous trip four years ago and knew it's general location but not the specific bars. It had been recommended by the front desk girl at our hotel. Perhaps I should have been skeptical. I mean, the hotel only cost $9. How much could the advice possibly be worth? We asked our concierge for directions to the delightfully named Ramrod but she managed to talk us into trying the Fruit Loop. Armed with the vicinity as well as a few bar names, we boarded the bus. It was a surprisingly long trip made worse by the bus driver abusing the PA system and trying out his misogynistic comedy routine on his captive audience. He made such humorous observations as "women can't drive" and "you better get some food at 7Eleven because your wife won't have dinner ready for you." He was clearly a Second City alum.<br /><br />Getting off -- the bus needing a two drink minimum more than ever -- we set out for the fruits. Upon discovering both Hamburger Mary's and Rainbow Bar and Grill to be shut down, we scoured for one of the others. And thus began the ill-advised trudge towards the Strip. Which only got better... oh, I'm sorry, I meant wetter when the rain began. Edith and her hooker heels made me promise to stop in the first place with alcohol. By happenstance, that place was a gay club... with a $10 cover: Krave with a k.<br /><br />After we paid to enter, I was determined to get $10 worth of fun. The male go-go dancer was going to provide it about as much as his hair dye provided the illusion of him being blonde. The female go-go dancer, though oddly out of place, was a smidge better but still not worth $10. The other patrons weren't going to provide it either. The drunk girl trying to get everyone to dance was just annoying. The 4'10" lesbian and her Jew-haired friend stepped off the dance floor way too early and really only gave about $4 worth of entertainment. The old man recovering from knee surgery slowly sliding towards the obviously underage little bottom boy was just sad. And the crazy looking German girl cost me another $10 (Lesson: Never bet against Edith if she declares someone to be German). Our DJ for the evening must have gotten suckered in by a special TV offer and paid $9.99 plus S&H for the DVD instructional video "How to be a Gay DJ Stereotype." Was nobody going to give me a return on my investment?<br /><br />And then on top of it all, Krave with a k offended my delicate sensibilities. Walking up to the shirtless bartender, I ordered gin on the rocks and requested the cheapest they had when asked (since I was essentially mugged at the entrance). He returned holding two bottles, his pecks flexing as he held out a plastic bottle of generic gin that not even I'd heard of and said, "8 dollars." Then some triceps did a little spasm as he held out a bottle of Tanqueray and said, "9 dollars."<br /><br />"Excuse me?! Are you saying the difference between your well drinks and Tanqueray is <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">one</span> dollar?"<br /><br />He was.<br /><br />"Do you have any drink specials?"<br /><br />He didn't.<br /><br />"Well then I guess I'll get the Tanqueray." I was miffed but $9 for a drink in a place like this in a city like Vegas was alright, I supposed. And then... oh, this is the worst... and then! He pulled out a jigger and poured <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">precisely</span> one shot of gin and unceremoniously dumped it over a pile of ice cubes.<br /><br />Really, Krave with a k? Really?! You're measuring your rocks drinks? Wow. What the fuck kind of gay bar is this? Are you expecting us to have sex with each other sober? My god, shirtless man, think of Old Man Gimp back there. Will his underage boy pussy really give it up because of how accurately you pour your overpriced liquor? If you are going to jigger it out then you charge no more than $4 for gin that comes in a plastic bottle. It's like you read the gay bar commandments, scoffed, and smashed the tablets with your Gucci sponsored muscles. You may as well have climbed over the bar and used the jigger to scoop my heart out and charge me $9 for the experience. I hate you, Krave with a k and I want my $10 back.<br /></span>

An Open Letter to the Homeless of Portland

Dear Homeless Man Interrupting My Conversation:

You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.

Love,
Tranny Dog

Dear Homeless Man Interrupting My Conversation:<br /><br />You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog<br /><p>

Dear Missouri,

If they were to bottle and sell your essence, it would be called Eau d'Snooze and the commercial would be a bunch of white people sitting in silence eating corn. You make me want to drink but I can't because I'm driving. Then again, a fiery auto crash may just be the thing I need to be shaken from this coma-like stupor you've put me in. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of Nebraska beyond your borders. Nebraska!! A state I, frankly, am still not convinced exists. This, Missouri, is how much you blow.

Love,
Tranny Dog
If they were to bottle and sell your essence, it would be called Eau d'Snooze and the commercial would be a bunch of white people sitting in silence eating corn. You make me want to drink but I can't because I'm driving. Then again, a fiery auto crash may just be the thing I need to be shaken from this coma-like stupor you've put me in. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of Nebraska beyond your borders. <span style="font-style: italic;">Nebraska</span>!! A state I, frankly, am still not convinced exists. This, Missouri, is how much you blow.<br /><br />Love,<br />Tranny Dog

Get Vaccinated In My Love

Taking a reluctlant lover is sometimes a necessary evil. Does the fact that Gomer doesn't know what is good for him mean that he should be denied it? Just because a puppy doesn't understand that a parvo shot will save his life doesn't mean you don't drag his stubborn ass into that examination room for a prick in the bum. When your love is as amazing as mine, it can be a bit overwhelming at first, like the vet with her needle. This is both my blessing and my curse.

I've been accused of bullying Gomer into a relationship. I don't think that is true at all! Everyone has a choice. You can't make anyone do anything, all you can do is guide them in the right direction. I only offer myself as an option. It is not my fault that some of them need a bit more reminding than others. You have to be vigilant when you're dealing with a forgetful dog. Make him remember you're there and that you're his for the taking.

Sometimes it's not so much forgetfulness as it is fright. Frankly, a bit of forcefulness is needed when he's just scared of how much he wants it. I remind myself that is a lot of loving being thrown his way but he'll adjust, it simply takes time. The key is to never let up. Going easy on him just gives him a chance to escape. There will always be the one that listens to his flight instinct and will run with his tail between his legs if given the chance.

So take your reluctant lover, friends, and don't let go. After all, you know it could save his life -- even if he's to dumb to see that.



Taking a reluctlant lover is sometimes a necessary evil. Does the fact that Gomer doesn't know what is good for him mean that he should be denied it? Just because a puppy doesn't understand that a parvo shot will save his life doesn't mean you don't drag his stubborn ass into that examination room for a prick in the bum. When your love is as amazing as mine, it can be a bit overwhelming at first, like the vet with her needle. This is both my blessing and my curse.<br /><br />I've been accused of bullying Gomer into a relationship. I don't think that is true at all! Everyone has a choice. You can't make anyone do anything, all you can do is guide them in the right direction. I only offer myself as an option. It is not my fault that some of them need a bit more reminding than others. You have to be vigilant when you're dealing with a forgetful dog. Make him remember you're there and that you're his for the taking.<br /><br />Sometimes it's not so much forgetfulness as it is fright. Frankly, a bit of forcefulness is needed when he's just scared of how much he wants it. I remind myself that is a lot of loving being thrown his way but he'll adjust, it simply takes time. The key is to never let up. Going easy on him just gives him a chance to escape. There will always be the one that listens to his flight instinct and will run with his tail between his legs if given the chance.<br /><br />So take your reluctant lover, friends, and don't let go. After all, <em>you</em> know it could save his life -- even if he's to dumb to see that.<br /><br /><br /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354425851694057074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3AJ9JEv3-Fs4h4MnnlHx6KaJb_aS3PuQify57w34o44vXa0MuUS3k2GS5hW2bSRFcAu6T0EhM_V-Gpu1rhVL4nLxdcfmJIzRBIOreKQl7ER2HF9U8G41P8uIt8jz7a8ohuGQF8XE-sM/s320/MiaOnGomer.jpg" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" />

Dear Restaurant Owner,

I have come to your restaurant to enjoy one thing: the buy one/get one coupon I found in the Savvy Shopper. I am not at your establishment to hear a live band. And I am certainly not at your establishment to hear a live band whose speakers are turned up so loud that I need to yell just to be heard by the person I'm sharing a side of fries with. Surprising as it may be, there are actually interesting people willing to dine with me; and, crazy as this sounds, I would like to engage in conversation with them. Hate to say it, but it seems your hip marketing idea is hindering that process.

Live bands do not belong in restaurants, especially bands with caterwauling singer/songwriter front men (with bad hair). If you would like for there to be live background music for your diners then please note the keyword, "background." Oxford defines background as "a position that is not prominent or conspicuous." Nowhere in that definition does the phrase, "blaring so loudly that you'd slap Mother Teresa to make it all stop" appear. Besides, when I want to listen to a band, I'll go to a club or music venue where they belong and won't interrupt my otherwise tasty and thrifty meal.

So please, if you want to run a low-rent CBGB then by all means do. But if you want to run a restaurant then a little consideration for your patron's eardrums will go a long way.

Sincerely,
Tranny Dog


Note to the band member in the back: You're about to be kicked out. You played the mini-guitar and the trumpet. I know this because I saw you, not because I heard you. If your bandmates are able to make sure no one can hear your trumpet then they must really hate you. Yikes.
I have come to your restaurant to enjoy one thing: the buy one/get one coupon I found in the <a href="http://couponclipper.com/Search">Savvy Shopper</a>. I am not at your establishment to hear a live band. And I am certainly not at your establishment to hear a live band whose speakers are turned up so loud that I need to yell just to be heard by the person I'm sharing a side of fries with. Surprising as it may be, there are actually interesting people willing to dine with me; and, crazy as this sounds, I would like to engage in conversation with them. Hate to say it, but it seems your hip marketing idea is hindering that process.<br /><br />Live bands do not belong in restaurants, especially bands with caterwauling singer/songwriter front men (with bad hair). If you would like for there to be live background music for your diners then please note the keyword, "background." Oxford defines background as "a position that is not prominent or conspicuous." Nowhere in that definition does the phrase, "blaring so loudly that you'd slap Mother Teresa to make it all stop" appear. Besides, when I want to listen to a band, I'll go to a club or music venue where they belong and won't interrupt my otherwise tasty and thrifty meal.<br /><br />So please, if you want to run a low-rent CBGB then by all means do. But if you want to run a restaurant then a little consideration for your patron's eardrums will go a long way.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Tranny Dog<br /><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Note to the band member in the back:</span> You're about to be kicked out. You played the mini-guitar and the trumpet. I know this because I saw you, not because I heard you. If your bandmates are able to make sure no one can hear your trumpet then they must really hate you. Yikes.</span>