You seem to have difficulty understanding when I speak in metaphors and analogies, papasmerf.
Do you think many people would go to the police or a movie theater usher to complain that they were denied their right to disturb the peace? Using the movie theater example as a metaphor for the HUBGFE lobby, how many times have the cops arrested me?
You posting at least some drivel in every thread is your form of bullying, papasmerf, but I'm the bad guy, for having the stones to tell you that in public. You force them to read you, whether they want to or not.
By my reckoning, with specific reference to you, You've needed eight slaps so far, including the private ones, not including the rescinded one the other day, with theBobby D photo.
I did ask politely, just the other day. The thread was called "What's it Called? ***NO PORK ZONE***". Did asking politely make any difference?
Here's another metaphor. This one you might understand.
Excerpt from the diary of Bosco, (a golden labrador-german shepherd-husky mix, 1997-2008), translated from dog:
Every Tuesday morning, I awaken at the crack of dawn, because I know that Tuesdays are when bobistheowl will come to get me, for our weekly 40 hour visit. The 35 minute walk over to High Park is brisk for both of us. I can't wait to be off my chain, and running free like I used to, when my master used to live in that cabin in the woods. In hindsight, it was probably a stupid thing to do, to fight with that porcupine, and get a face full of quills. I was, indeed, fortunate thatbobistheowl chose to visit us two days later, not knowing of my condition. I allowed him to pull out each of the 36 quills and parts of quills embedded in and around my face. It hurt a lot, each time he removed a quill, but the permanent throbbing pain caused by that quill disappeared. After he had removed all of the quills, my face was sensitive for a few days, and then it was back to normal.
The other dog, who used to be my friend back then, was not so lucky. One of the quills in his face got under his eye, but no one knew it was there. It gradually worked its way farther in, and caused his death, about six months later. Nobody but me understood the agony he suffered through those last six months, because no one in that house understood dog. When he told them that his eye was hurting, they rubbed his ears, or fed him a milk bone.
I loved hunting racoons on Tuesday nights for that first year and a half, but I understand that it was my own actions that caused bobistheowl to keep me leashed, when we were in the park at night after that. I thought I should be able to do whatever I wanted when I was off leash, and he couldn't see where I was. What I failed to take into account was that it was his choice of where and when we would walk, and whether or not I would have to wear the leash, when that was optional.
I also looked forward to the Wednesday walks around bobistheowl's neighbourhood, When I had the chance to read about some of the dogs that lived near him. Since I wasn't a local, I never met most of those dogs personally, but I had a good idea of what they got to eat, and how healthy they were. I had certain spots where I would urinate each week, to let those other dogs know I had been there. The next week, I'd return to those spots, to catch up on the news.
When another dog pissed on the same spot as I had, I saw that as a sign of respect, and an act of friendship, even though I had never met that dog in real life. In a very few situations, I had the chance to meet a couple of those dogs, who just happened to be walking my route at the same time that I was. We recognized each other by smell, and we were best buds on sight, wagging our tails, and sniffing each others' butts, but in a good way.
From time to time, dogs in that neighbourhood, like in my own, would chose to shit on my piss. Dogs need to shit, but not as often as they need to piss. They can shit almost everywhere, but sometimes they specifically chose a spot on which I have pissed, to send a message to me that they think the neighbourhood belongs to them, and they should be able to shit wherever they want to, including on places where Bosco and his allies chose to piss. They know I only visit that route on Wednesdays, so they shit on my piss on Mondays or Tuesdays, when they know I won't be there, but will soon return.
Sometimes I meet those dogs by chance on a Wednesday night, and it's those occasions when I'm glad to have been held back, by the chain around my neck. I didn't want to have any of my other privileges removed, by showing the full amount of my displeasure at one of the dogs who had shat on my piss.
There were only a small handful of dogs who would do something like that in the first place, because they knew what I ate, and they knew the state of my health, and they could get a pretty good idea of my size, based on the size of my shit stains. There were, however, a few dogs like that in every neighbourhood, rather than all of them living together in one area. Those dogs who shit on other dogs piss tend to like each other, maybe because no one else does, maybe they have a poor sense of smell, or maybe because someone gave them a treat when they didn't shit on the newspapers when they were pups, instead of only giving them a treat, when they did.
I really loved those huge bones with meat and cartilage on them, that came from the European Meat Market, when it was still in Kensington. I rarely got bones at home, and only shitty ones, and I had to chew on them outside, instead of on a rug in a living room, every Tuesday when we got back to bobistheowl's apartment, about two and a half hours after I'd left my own. The cat that lived there didn't like me the first time I visited, for the first little while at least. When he realized that there was enough space for both of us, and that I was more interested in my bone than his plate of tuna, we got along fine. I kind of enjoyed it, when he would lick the inside of my ears, when I was sacked out on the floor. I wouldn't have asked him to do that, but I didn't stop him, when he acted on his own. It was clear to me that, given the choice between the two, he may well have wished he was a dog instead of being a cat, at least some of the time. He liked running up the side of walls a lot, and catching mice and song birds, and a dog can't do those things.
I was very sad when my master moved away from bobistheowl's neighbourhood, during the last months of my life. I was disappointed that my master chose to buy weed instead of taking me to the vet, when I started to have those internal problems that made it difficult for me to pee and shit.
Those last few months were all pain, but I didn't complain. I had had a good life before that, and I had many great memories to remember. Now I sit and wait, and hope that one day bobistheowl will come through the door again, and once again ask if any good dogs want to go to the park
EACE:
