Two Salty Paws March 2023 | |
GREAT NEWS!!! THIS IS OUR 100th SALTY PAWS NEWSLETTER!
CLICK ON ALL THE PHOTOS IN THIS NEWSLETTER FOR A COUPON CODE THAT WILL REVEAL A PILE OF BITCOIN GOLD AND OTHER IMAGINARY STUFF THAT WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE SEEM LESS AWFUL. JUST KIDDING. YOUR LIFE WILL ALWAYS BE AWFUL WITH BITCOIN.
 In other news, 8 people unsubscribed from the Salty Paws last month because of my crack about Mumford & Sons. I stand behind my crack. Can we all stand by the Crack of Don? Observe Mumford & Son celebrating the Crack of Dawn.If it seems like you personally have gotten a lot more Newsletters than 100, it's because I send the whole mess out a second time to those who Mailchimp says did not open the first one. That's when I get a lot of unsubscribes with short, nasty notes like, "YOUR STUPID," and "AMINAL HATER!!!" I suspect it's because people are using software that thwarts Malchimp's invasion of privacy and it seems like I'm just spamming them.
I don't count the re-sends or the emails I send out for Mutt Scrub, Early Bird, Men's Night, or the ones when I just feel lonely or need bail. I feel like those are an insult to us both. And most of you don't read those anyway. Or buy anything. Or reply when I'm lonely. And I never got bail from any of you. Especially for the Lascivious Acts Towards a Gastropod charge. Thanks a lot.
 I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's seen every single newsletter. Me and probably the FBI. I'm pretty sure they're monitoring me for un-American activity. Everything is un-American activity these days. Like all the Presque Isle classified documents I have in the glove box of my 1984 Nissan Pulsar. I'm going to blow the lid off that town. And the Pulsar. Just you wait and see.
 And how, exactly, do I know the FBI is monitoring The Salty Paws? Every once in a while I'll see someone sign up with an email like notthefbi2292@FBI.gov. Other times I'll black out for days and find an empty poison dart in my neck and dried BBQ sauce all over my laptop keys. I hate BBQ sauce. My stash of Bushimills will be gone and the ice cube trays will be empty. I consider empty ice cube trays an abomination before God.
Want to see the very first Salty Paws? Click Here if you dare. Please don't make fun of it the way I make fun of you. I'm awfully sensitive, you dummies.
Observe the primitiveness in the newsletter. Although you can see the beginnings of greatness shining through the rough. It's all there -- the long, rambling, incoherent intro, The Coal Shack, Sniffin' Around, and last but not least, Max and Aug's Dog Blog (The Harbor Dogs' Stories).
 And I LOVE the first blog in The Salty Paws -- "Break Away From Being From Away - by Auggie." (Don't bother clicking on it in the old newsletter, the link is broken). It has absolutely no pictures or links, and it was posted at some random time (Oct 16, 2014). It's quite evident that Auggie's blog character was fully developed at that early time judging by his sarcasm and venom
I wonder where he gets it.
--Don (Not a Dog)
WE LOVE HATE MAIL!
THE KAREN WITHIN
Error Message 409 - Don is liquored up and unable to respond to any further angry emails regarding last month's "We Love Hate Mail! -- Going Postal." And he is no longer accepting your recipes for Eggplant Cake.
 When we first opened our tiny shop, Liana was worried I was just going to sit around and insult customers all day. Of course we'd only been married for 13 years and I'd designed or built literally $130 million in heavy civil infrastructure projects over that span of time. Perhaps the better verb was "disabuse" rather than "insult," but neither could be ruled out given my background of construction.
Liana certainly couldn't trust me with all the weirdos and bottom-feeding creatures who would most certainly would inundate the shop upon opening. And Liana still believed all the old stereotypes people hold regarding Civil Engineers.
 We opened our shop and all kinds of weirdos came right through the door. We didn't even have to advertise to that demo for them to cascade in. When it came to the irritating customers, I mostly kept my mouth shut.
Except for the man who camped out in the corner of the store and told my customers that the current governor's business-friendly policies were responsible for Two Salty Dog's success. I kept reminding him and my customers that my wife and I were the ones who did the business plan and forked over six figures of our own money to get our business off the ground. The governor didn't contribute a cent. In fact, the governor was pretty unreasonable about getting his sales tax every month. Could he ask the governor to lower the sales tax? That's when he left.
 Later in the season "she" came into the shop. Let's call her "Karen" in accordance with the parlance of our times. She looked like she was in her late 60's, but was probably in her early 50's because of bad living and a constant, smoldering irritability just under her surface. Overall, her personality and physicality reminded me of a heavily-damaged tank.
One day, Karen was in my shop and a customer asked me what we had for long-lasting dog treats.
I launched into my spiel: "These are water buffalo horns, they're about 80% protein and they..." and Karen came swooping silently in behind me like some stunted, overweight ninja. She interjected, "MY DOG CHOKED ON ONE OF THOSE 6 MONTHS AGO."
 "That's why you need to watch your dog with any new treat you give them," I said to the customer, ignoring Karen.
"These are moose antlers, they come from Rangely Maine and are harvested by a guy named Jeff and his 8yr old daughter. They have a blog, and....."
"MY DOGS JUST BURY THOSE THINGS," Karen cut in.
I turned to look at her. Goddamn it! She was having fun! It was time to unleash "The Don" to combat "The Karen" within my store.
I turned to Karen. "Your front door doesn't work, or you don't know how to operate it? Because back in olden times, new doors used to come with instruction manuals, but these days everything is on the web. And Dog Forbid you make a mistake typing in the web address because it can take you to some pretty unsavory sites where..."
I picked up a Benebone, and didn't skip a beat. "This is a Benebone. It's a lot like a Nylabone. It's actual nylon with flavor..."
"MY DOG CHIPPED HIS TOOTH ON ONE OF THOSE."
"It sounds like you should have cats," I offered. "Our Kitty Korner is right over there..." I said, pointing.
I continued with the customer. "These are Not Rawhides. They're actually the cheek of the cow and they are completely digestible and don't have the chemicals..."
"I HAD TO GIVE MY VET $2,500 TO GET RAWHIDE OUT OF MY DOG'S STOMACH."
"This is NOT Rawhide."
She gave me a confused look like an artillery shell bounced off her thick armor plating.
 "That's why they named this product NOT Rawhide," I smiled and nodded at her like she was a simple child.
"I GOT THE RAWHIDE FROM HERE," Karen said.
"Not from me. I don't sell rawhide. Never have."
"I'll take the Not Rawhide," said the customer, obviously done with it all more than I was. She brought one up to the counter. Karen continued to stare at the bin and look for any discrepancy or downright lies I might have told her.
She ended up taking one, too.
The next day she came in and said, "MY DOGS JUST FOUGHT OVER THIS." She put a partially-shredded Not Rawhide on the counter like it was a rotten walrus.
"You should have bought two," I said.
"I WANT A REFUND."
Normally in that situation, I would break out the hacksaw and cut the Not Rawhide in half. But you know what? For some reason I didn't feel like it.
"No."
She left then. Her partially-chewed treat and black cloud of festering attitude in tow.
I didn't see her again until several years later when she came into the shop and told me to call the police because someone's car alarm kept going off on our corner. I don't know why she couldn't call the police herself, or why she thought recurring, skull-splitting car alarms were my responsibility. And frankly I didn't care.
I told her I reported the car alarm to NORAD, but no one had called me back because we were in a full-fledged nuclear war with Trinidad.
~ Don (Not a Dog)
SACRÉ BLEU!!!!!!
In line with our 100th issue special, I feel I should remind you that Coal passed in 2016. We only had him for 4 years, but he was such a great dog. His happy face never wavered. Unless you tried to snuggle him. Then he was clueless. He had no idea what to do when you showed him physical affection. I think, in a way, he thought you were trying to kill him. Just look at that photo of Sarah cuddling him.
Coal was handsome, universally friendly to everyone and everydog, good-natured, loving, beloved, kind, gentle, hairy, muddy, and stinky.
We lost Coal to liver cancer. I loved him so much. Everything I have to say about him is here: https://www.twosaltydogs.net/blog/coal-by-don/
We'll always call this segment the Coal Shack. We never want to forget him.
P.S. And just so you know, the Coal Shack in this newsletter preceded our rental apartment The Coal Shack by about four years.
Happy Shopping
ALL DOG AND CAT TREATS
 While we're being nostalgic on our 100th newsletter, let's remember Reagan, who ditched us to run away from her legal obligations and work in Italy at a spaghetti factory. We were proud of her inasmuch as she was greasing the largest ball joint on the hydraulic spaghetti press.
She soon met Taylor (picture left) who ran The Holy Turret Lathe And Sheet Metal Crimper for the Prelature of the Holy Cross and Opus Dei at The Vatican. By an enormous coincidence, he was from Barter Island, Maine.
They shared interests in numismatics, Hegelian Philosophy, restoring dune buggies, Nutella, vintage military films, and professional foosball.
 And when Reagan produced her masterpiece Master's Degree: "Three-Dimensional Seismic Energy Dissipation in Drilled Shafts with a Primarily Loose and Saturated Overburden," people began to take notice.
She ditched us a while ago. So let me get back to the real purpose of this little ditty, which is to make up rambling, nonsensical narratives and sell stuff from our shop. Not necessarily in that order.
All our treats are on sale this month. Except the ones that are already on sale. And for Dog's Sake, please don't try to double-up on the coupons.
P.S. I shall NOT part with my Don Cornelius. No matter the price.
ALL DOG AND CAT TREATS
NOW 32.5555555559555555% OFF
USE COUPON CODE: CORNELIUS
<< Click HERE >>
 Free Shippin' February was a financial disaster forecast by Liana, the accountant I married. And if there's one thing I absolutely HATE is my accountant being right.
So my relationship with my accountant is on the rocks just like my whiskey right now. Unfortunately, I am beseeching you to set my most important human relationship right by buying a collar or something from this stupid newsletter.
But when you think about it, the whole reason I'm begging you now is because you didn't buy anything last month, so technically this is all your fault.
I expect an apology or a purchase from you slackballs. Send all apologies here: fatmax@twosaltydogs.net
In other news, the Grand Jury is only holding me to the treason charge. Thanks for your support. Please send letters and feces/cigarette butts to:
Little Donny Kingsbury
Supermax Prison
10 Penitentiary Trail
Block 53, Cell 09
c/o Prison Bitch Rory
Florence CO 37479
I'm not putting leashes on sale because you can already rip me off for those by choosing a matching leash with a collar. If you want a Weiss Walkie, I don't know what to tell you. Or just call me up and ask me. I'm that desperate for human contact.
TWO SALTY DOGS HATS AND T-SHIRTS
Free Shipping on ALL Orders Over $75
Sale Ends 2-28-23 unless I get 50 talents of gold or 150 talents of silver and three daughters. The good-looking ones.
Click Here to Forward this Newsletter to someone who just lectured you for 3 hours about carbohydrates.
Sniffin’ Around
The Boothbay Region
|
THE NEWS FROM MARZ
A Special Sixteen Braincell Report
Marz, like every Labrador, gets one brain cell a month until he's seven. Then he'll lose one a month. That's why the vet said Big Dumb Buddy started peeing himself at fifteen. A negative number of brain cells.
Marz has started whining when he wants something. Like when he wants to go to the beach, when he wants to get fed, when he wants to run out to the shop floor and impregnate a vicious 12yr old male dog, when he wants to go play tag with a cement truck, and like when he thinks he has ownership in the pizza I am eating.
"I require pizza or pee-pees, or poopies."
"Pizza...?"
I handle this most eloquently by screaming, "GO LIE DOWN! BAD DOG!" with chunks of partially-chewed pepperoni flying out my mouth like chemical railway tankers in Ohio.
That works for about 7.9 seconds before he's back.
The worst is when we're driving to Hendricks Head Beach because the little hellion really can't stop himself from whining. He's just anticipating the funnest time he's ever had in his life for the 50th time that week.
It's a lot like me when I'm in sluggish Route 1 traffic with nowhere to pass and someone wants to slap on their brakes every 75 feet because they think they just saw THE STELLAR SEA EAGLE, but it's only a seagull. I can't stop myself from screaming at the top of my voice at them and.... wait.
Perhaps the problem here is that I scream at things too much.
Nah.
Merry Christmas!!!
NEXT MONTH-
FUDGIE GETS A KICK-FETCH
|
THAT STUPID RUSSIAN EAGLE IS BACK
WE NEED TO BLAST THIS RUSSIAN SPY-BOT OUT OF THE SKY BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!!!
Look. I work hard in the spring, summer and fall. I don't need a bunch of birdwatchers taking up all the bar stools in this deserted burg in winter. It is my RIGHT to have a bar devoid of people from away for at least a couple months a year, right?
With that being said, one of our duly deputized admirals should hatch a plan to crank up the 6th Fleet and launch a squadron of F-22 Raptors from the flight deck of the U.S.S Flummoxed and blast this Russian spy-bot out of the sky!
What's at stake? Remember when Pennsylvania used a war of disinformation and brute Quaker State strength to convince the world that the Whoopie Pie was in fact a Pennsylvanian treat?
A shooting war between our states was narrowly averted when a bunch of quick-thinking politicians put an end to the whole controversy by ignoring the issue and forgetting it completely.
But we can't rely on our elected officials to ignore everything forever. Russia has already invaded a peaceful, independent country because they thought Nazis were still hiding in Ukraine. Maine can't afford to let its guard down and be invaded by these Neo-Soviets!
We can afford to be invaded in the summer by a lot of people from Massachusetts and New York with lots of money. But the Russians have NO money!
We'd have to change Pumpkinfest to Borschtfest. The Boothbay Region mascot would be changed from the Sea Hawks to the Stellar Sea Eagles. You'd be prohibited from having precious little drinks like "Key Lime Pie Martinis" and forced to drink warm vodka from dirty, cracked water tumblers. Red's Eats would finally show it's Neo-Soviet leanings and serve only communist indoctrination and pathetic "lobster rolls" made with monkfish. On Fridays there would still be blueberry pie, but it would be made from Siberian blueberries and sadness.
And all the New Yorkers and Massholes would just take their fat wallets and go to The Hamptons and Cape Cod where they share a much more common history with the locals.
ANGUS KING
SUSAN COLLINS --
BLAST THIS RUSSIAN SPY-EAGLE OUT OF THE SKY NOW!
-The People of Maine
|
|
|
The Harbor Dogs' Stories
(Formerly Max & Aug's Dog Blog)
|
EIGHT BEASTS BEHAVING BADLY
 Just like Jack Torrance of The Shining, I always aspired to be a writer stranded in a desolate arctic wasteland who turns against my loved ones in a violent psychotic episode induced by not having any booze.
Fortunately, the arctic wasteland of Boothbay Harbor has been a well-stocked fountain of Bushmills Irish Whiskey for over twelve years.
Thank you.
Speaking of horror, we usually view ourselves as good people. And we usually view our doted-upon mutts as lovable and with huge hearts.
But we all have our moments where we're under stress or preoccupied with pressing matters, or we didn't get a restful sleep the previous night, or gained 10lbs after gorging ourselves on Tater Tots and milkshakes for the last 3 days. I'm told Mother Theresa's tipping point was having to confront used car salesmen.
 Thankfully, the miracle of cell phones and the internet preserves your aberrant and fleeting moments forever. Isn't it comforting to know that the time you lost your temper with a convenience store clerk will be preserved forever on Youtube, but all the time you volunteer at the shelter, and all the money you give to the food bank will be lost? Do you now see why I drink to excess?
With that in mind, I offer you eight different tales of eight different beasts  whose integrity and rectitude were found temporarily failing.
Yes. Six of them are my dogs Max, Auggie, Coal, Buddy, Teddy and Marz. One of them is me.
Did you know that even Liana has acted badly once in her lifetime? There's no evidence, but it's true.
So get yourself a cup of hot chocolate or a cracked and dirty tumbler full of warm, bottom-shelf vodka and click on "EIGHT BEASTS BEHAVING BADLY" by Jack Torrance, err.... Me.
-Don (Not a Dog)
See You Next Month!
|
|
|
