Dear Everyone,

First off, you hafta imagine "Love That Dirty Water" playing in the background as you read on.

So where do I begin?  I guess I should start with another apology for my inexcusable laziness/busy-ness during the month of October.  For all my "wicked hahd coah" fans out there in Red Sox Nation (and beyond) who were waiting with bated breath for the October edition of "My Newsletter," it never came.  Sorry.  (Click here for my explanation.)

However, for those of you who were waiting with bated. . . and bated. . . AND BATED. . . breath for that final out at 11:39PM on October 27th that would end an 86-year losing streak, it. . .  actually HAPPENED.

Or so I've been told.

Apparently, I fell asleep.  I blame the lunar eclipse for throwing off my internal clock.  (Damn, those cosmic forces!)  Plus, Momma Bomma had gone off boozin' at the bar, which left me to my own devices.  Personally (and please don't hate me when I say this, but) I am not a big fan of baseball.  Too much physical pain inflicted on Yours Truly.  The last (and only game) I watched with Momma Bomma and Unkel Wessie was NOT an enjoyable experience.  It alternated between Mom pulling my ears (TOO HARD!) in excitement/fear, and Unkel Wessie scolding me for playing with my new squeaky toy.

So as soon as Momma Bomma left me alone that fateful Wednesday night, I immediately changed the channel to Animal Planet.  Admittedly, I flipped back to the game now and then, but it was only to catch the score.  Well, I must've dozed off somewhere between "Miami Animal Police" and "The Jeff Corwin Experience," because the next thing I knew, Momma Bomma was bursting through the door, yelling and screaming (TOO LOUD!) about the Red Sox winning the World Series.  You see, I WANNA be a fan, I really do, but between the ear-pulling, anti-squeaking-scoldings, and much-too-loud-yelling, I don't think it's my bowl of water.

Maybe if I set some parameters with Momma Bomma and Unkel Wessie, I could see myself getting into the sport.  But, being that the VERY FIRST game next season is the Red Sox vs. the Yankees, I really don't see the ear-tugs, verbal reproaches, or disruptive screams diminishing in my future.  If anyone out there has any suggestions as to how to curb such antics (short of calling in the riot police), please email me.

One more Sox-related matter before I go on to other issues at hand.  Momma Bomma wanted me to include a couple of photos that she took from the Red Sox Parade.  (The Parade.  Another sore spot for me.  Did anyone even think to ask ME if I wanted to go?  So what if I'm not the biggest fan.  That shouldn't mean I can't join in the post-game festivities.  Especially since the celebration was held OUTSIDE, and I LOVE to do ANYTHING that's outside.   But whatever.)  Anyway, after punishing Momma Bomma with never-ending renditions of the "No Parade For Me Blues" (most effectively sung in the key of whine), I decided she had suffered enough.  So, Mom, if you're reading this, here are your photos.  I've forgiven you (I guess).

Oh, and in that last one, Momma Bomma wanted me to point out that Theo is looking RIGHT AT HER, to which I replied, "Get over yourself, Mom.  And take me out to pee."

Okay, okay.  Despite my own personal pain (i.e., ear-pulling) and rejection (i.e., no parade invite), I salute the Sox.  If nothing else, it gives me hope that ANYTHING is possible.  Like, for instance, Momma Bomma finally breaking down and getting me that pot-bellied pig I've been bugging her for!  (But, I digress.  More on the pig in December's edition.)

On other fronts, the election.  Now, I do know (much to my dismay) that I have fans -- relatives, even -- that were waving their "Dubya" banners on November 2nd.  They may want to skip this next part (it's pretty graphic).  But for the rest of you, I have only three words:  Let Dogs Vote.  I guarantee that if us canines were allowed to enter those voting booths, the election would've gone the other way, and here's why:

'Kay?  Human rights, civil rights, the environment, the Supreme Court, health care, welfare, terrorism, and horrorism aside, I could NEVER vote for someone who drops their own dog!  'Nuff said.

Well, it looks like I'm outta space.  And I didn't even get to talk about the new developments in my life.  Guess that'll have to wait 'til next time.  But before I go, there is one thing I must say about my career.  Those of you who did in fact watch the World Series (and didn't flip to Animal Planet during the commercials) probably saw those MasterCard ads with Badger, the lost dog.  Know this:  the producers had narrowed down their nation-wide search for the star of those ads to two dogs -- Me and him.  Obviously, there was no contest.  (Even Bush-supporters and Yankee-lovers know who's the better dog!)  Well, it turned out that Badger's brother was ALSO one of the producers, and his agent, Cathy Harrison, was ALSO the casting director.  And, well, the rest is history.  All I can say is, I was robbed.

Oh, yeah.  I almost forgot to include my standard disclaimer.  If you made the unfortunate mistake of having EVER given my Mom your email address, chances are you're on my mailing list for this newsletter.  If, for some inexplicable reason, you do not want to be graced with these monthly gems, please email me and I'll (reluctantly) take you off the list.  And for those of you wonderful people who would like to read previous newsletters -- or just surf my site -- www.phineasthedog.com is the place you wanna be.

Until next month,

"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we.  They never stop thinking about new ways to
harm our country and our people, and neither do we."
                                                                                   ~George W. Bush
                                                                                     (Click here to watch the clip)