Rasta Pugs & Peeping Toms

Man, we are crazy overdue for a Dr. Rueben Q&A o' the Day, huh?? Lord knows I haven't felt the ungodly need to grab my genitals in phantom pain in far too long. However, before we get to the good doctor, I need to talk to you about something that has absolutely nothing to do with anything.

Now, if you were to break down the percentage of how I spend an average day, this is what it would look like:

Meg McBlogger's Average Day

- 30%: Sleeping; napping; cat-napping or some combination of all of the above
- 30%: Assing around and general Tom Foolery
- 15%: Blogging
- 7%: Eating
- 5%: Gym
- 3%: Calling my mom and asking her inane questions like, "do you think this yogurt's still good?", "which side of the body is your liver on?" and "where are my keys?"

And the other 10%, you ask? Welp, the remaining 10% of my day is spent googling pugs, pugs in costumes, pugs in clothes and/or general pug accessories. There it is. The truth. Now you know what it is I do all day. Am I proud? No. Could I be doing more productive things with my day? Of course. Am I happy? Ecstatic. Because please look at what I found today:

Hi. That is a rasta track jacket for pugs. I mean...I just...I have no words for how absurdly fucking adorable that is. None. To quote my sister, "If I saw a pug walking down the street in a little rasta track jacket, I think I would have some sort of epileptic seizure it would be so cute." AND HOW!

Also, can we please discuss that upon discovering they're out of the 16" pug appropriate ones, I audibly gasped in disappointment? It's just somewhat startling considering how I don't own a pug, know anybody who does or have any plans to get one in the near future. (Although as MTV can attest, getting one is part of my five year plan...God I hate being me.) I just can't help but to think that if I had the ability to spend 70% of my day strutting around Dupont Circle with a joly little rasta pug, I'd be 99% happier in life. Do I sometimes fantasize about making rasta pug a Twitter account and all of the delightfully inappropriate things it'll say, like "Blazin' with my mom, mon!" or "Crackin' open a Red Stripe and watching de NatGeo"? Yes. Yes, I do. Am I comfortable with that fact? Jesus god, no.

I don't know what's happening to me. I'm out of control. I've already written two verses of a Robert Palmer cover song called Addicted to Pug and I'm weirding myself out harder than I've ever weirded myself out before. Mind you this is coming from the girl who wanted to create a graphic novel about the adventures of her Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. Bold statements. Bold statements all around.

Dr. Reuben! Step into the weirdo spotlight and make me seem normal again!

[Oh and FYI, I picked today's chapter in my normal way of flipping to a random page and pointing blindly to a sentence. Today I landed on:

"Mental rape is no fun if the victim is willing."

Slam and dunk.]

Q: What else does he [a Peeping Tom] want to do?
A: [...] Some peepers are more dedicated. Take Arnold, for example. Arnold is a stockbroker. He is in his early forties and was married for a year or so when was twenty-two.

"It just didn't work out—she was too immature."

Arnold describes his favorite technique.

"On the days when the market is closed, I go to the Public Library. I go back in the stacks and pretend I'm looking for a book. I always poke around on my hands and knees. Begin to get the idea?

"I wait until some girl comes along—she has to be a good-looker—and then I swing into action. I kind of work my way over to her, real slow so she doesn't suspect anything. Then I get out my equipment. I have this little magnifying mirror and I hold it by her feet so I can look up her skirt and get a perfect view of the entire situation."

For some reason, peepers love to refer to the object of their peeping in vague, general terms—entire 'situation' is a good example."

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1.)

You sick son of a bitch...

2.) How old must Arnold's wife have been if even the local library peeper can't handle her immaturity? I mean, what are we talking? 12? 13?

3.) Really Arnold? You won't take a peek unless she's a "good-looker"? You know Arn—may I call you Arn?—Arn, there's an old saying that goes, "beggars can't be choosers." I think when you're the guy who hustles straight from work to the public library and crawls around on all fours like a farm animal to get a five second peek at a pair of Hanes Her Ways, you might officially be classified as a beggar. I know I'm no medical doctor, but let's stop putting on airs here.


Q: What about female exhibitionists?
A: Most of them are professionals. Strippers and topless dancers are good examples. No matter what they say, strippers enjoy their work. They derive sexual satisfaction from displaying their breasts to large groups of men. They don't need much encouragement to display everything else. More than one stripper has obligated an enthusiastic audience by taking it all off, G-string and all, and parading around nude. She gets what she wants and they get what they want. Everybody is happy, no harm is done, except to Public Morals, whatever that means.

Predictably, strippers don't get much other sexual satisfaction. They usually have trouble attaining orgasm and never find much real pleasure in genital sex.

The same holds true for beauty queens. Their activities have more social approval, but the game is the same. They show off their breasts, hips, buttocks, and a discreet outlining of the vulva (through a bathing suit) to admiring men. Miss Artichoke 1966 has a lot in common with Bubbles LaTour and her Magic Balloons.

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I only included that question and answer because I've decided I'm going to start a band called "Dr. Reuben & The Blanket Statements" and we're going to tour the nation's countryside in our mystery van solving wacky, far-out crimes at haunted mansions and amusement parks.

And that is exactly where rasta pug and I will be if you need us. Good day.