My empty head

I’ve got nothing. Less than nothing, even. My brain is an empty space full of boxes and spiderwebs. Yes, things can still be empty even though they’re full of boxes and spiderwebs. Those things clearly don’t count.

And I'm grumpy. Kinda like this:

My little alien-sister

As I may or may not have mentioned – probably didn’t – I have a little sister. A little sister who is doing that whole Scandinavian tall thing that I never got the hang of. We’ll call her V.

When we were kids, V developed a somewhat unusual interest: zits. She was fascinated by the whole pimple-popping-process. As soon as one appeared on her face, she’d kill it off and emerge from the bathroom with fresh claw marks on her skin. So far she wasn’t so very much unlike most teens, myself included, but the thing that set her apart, was the fact that once she had squeezed her own zits into oblivion, she started looking around for other people’s.

There was this one summer where her somewhat unusual hobby peaked. And at that particular time, I was lucky enough to have a tiny pimple on my forehead. To regular people like you (possibly) and me, it would be barely noticeable, but to someone like V, it stuck out on my face like a howling, red siren.

After a great deal of begging and pleading, she still hadn’t succeeded in getting her hands on it. V, the zit serial killer was getting desperate for her next casualty.

One rainy day, while I was sitting in the couch watching some mundane teen show, she decided to make her move. Without a sound she slipped down behind the sofa, where she waited quietly for a moment before pouncing.

Have you ever seen Alien? You know that part where the squid-hand-monster-thingy comes out of the egg and latches itself to some screaming victims face? It was like that. I did, however, manage to fight her off before she could lay her eggs inside my chest.

These days she claims to limit the hobby to her husband. Poor bastard.

Why I'm not a superhero

Every once in a while, I can’t for the life of me figure out what to blog about. Most of the time, it’s not something that an internal rant won’t fix –I’m very good at ranting – but, believe it or not, my life isn’t really all that remarkable. As far as lives go, it’s pretty run of the mill. Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly fine with that. I never harboured any dreams of being some spandex-wearing, cape-sporting superhero with my underpants on the outside of my outfit and a secret identity. When I take off my glasses, people still recognise me, and that has its advantages.

Really, it’s just as well that I’m not a superhero. First of all, a superhero has to drive a really cool car or plane, or something. I have a bike. Granted, it’s red and shiny with a handy basket, but it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I can’t quite see myself instilling fear into the heart of evil-doers while pedalling down the street on my trusty bicycle, cape flapping in the wind.

Also, superheroes have some sort of secret hideout. I don’t really have one of those, unless you count Hellhole itself.

Another thing that I don’t have to deal with, since I’m not a superhero, is saving the lives of that moron who always gets himself/herself kidnapped and strapped to a rocket aimed at the moon or slowly lowered into a volcano, or something equally ridiculous. I like to think that most, if maybe not all, of my friends have more sense than that.

Maybe it’s the tight material of their oh so clever disguises cutting off blood circulation to their heads that makes the average super more likely to befriend the dumbest, least observant people on earth. I’m not a psychologist or a tailor, so I have no way of knowing.

No, I would much rather be a supervillain. Sure, their dresscode is pretty preposterous, but the good guy bodycondom doesn’t seem to be mandatory. Also, I kinda like the thought of strapping someone stupid to a rocket.

Besides, I have a really fabulous evil laughter that I developed and at the moment I can’t really share it with people without them staring at me funny. When you’re a villain, these things are appreciated and will only increase people’s respect and fear of you.

Wanna find bliss? Come to Helllhole!

Tom recently suggested to me that I’d write something about why people should move to Hellhole. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that this is a very good idea. As a matter of fact, the house I’m currently renting is being sold in the fall, so if anyone, after reading this article, should begin to feel overwhelmed with the need to spend time in this fascinating town, they’re welcome to buy this humble abode.

First of all, Hellhole isn’t really called Hellhole in real life. As a matter of fact, it has a name which means bent. It lies in a larger geographical area which roughly translates into “place with sheep”. And indeed it is. This is the place to come if you want to knit your own sweaters, people.

But that’s not the only advantages, of course. Our brilliant politicians have come up with inexpensive ways to fill our lives with thrills and excitements. Who needs to go to amusement parks? Not us. Perhaps you want an example? Well, you know those nifty lines that they paint on roads so that you can cross safely without being smeared all over the concrete by passing vehicles? Well, here in Hellhole, those haven’t been repainted since I was a kid. Over the years, they have become more invisible than Britney Spear’s underpants. All of the locals know that they’re there and will gladly step on the breaks if you feel like crossing the street. Should the car racing towards you be from out of town, however, you are about to have a very exciting day, indeed.

Do you harbour a dream of joining a sect? Well, then this is the place for you. We have them all. And if you can’t find one that meets your fancy, you could just start your own. Since pretty much the whole town swims in the same gene pool, they’re not very complicated, and are easily recruited into these sorts of things. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that our family moved in from out of town.

Or perhaps you’re just one of those people who have difficulty keeping track of what you’re meant to be doing in the coming days or perhaps of what you have done in the past? That’s certainly not a problem around here. Just ask anyone and they’ll gladly inform you. Even if it’s someone you’ve never laid eyes on in your life. It’s like being famous without ever having lifted a finger. Fame without the hassle, with other words. For example: only very rarely will someone follow you home.

And where else would you get the golden opportunity to step outside your door in the morning, perhaps in search of a newspaper, only to step on some inhabitant of the surrounding woods with sharp teeth. Yes, folks, we have things living in the woods with teeth. Most of them are badgers. But there are also bunnies and deer. You don’t think those last two sound very exciting? Well, think again. The deer bring ticks with them, and that always makes life more interesting, especially if you have pets of your own. The bunnies tend to sneak into your house, hide beneath furniture and then jump out really fast, which can be quite a thrill. Just make sure your pacemaker is on, folks.
Speaking of mail – the mailmen enjoy spicing up our lives by placing your mail in other people’s mailboxes all around town. Every day is a treasure hunt and what could possible be more fun? Not much, I say.

With other words – come to Hellhole! It’s a wonderful place to settle down and your kids’ll love it.

Pic by Billypalooza for www.flickr.com

Yawn!

Hello, my name is Choochoo and I’m an insomniac. (You go: Hi Choochoo!)

These past few days it’s been particularly bad. I go to bed early and spend the next few hours trying spinning like a top, swearing and taking my growing frustration out on my pillow. It’s a good thing pillows don’t bruise, or I’d have been put away for abusing the poor thing. I would have forever been known as a pillowbeater. In a small town like this, word gets around quickly. All the while, the pooch stares at me and no doubt wishes that I would just shut up, already.

A few years ago, I went to see a sleep specialist who gave me a long list of what not to do and a tiny little list of what I ought to do. That’s what it’s always like, ain’t it?

One such advice was to leave my bed once I’d been awake for about twenty minutes or so, to read a boring book or go to the bathroom. I wasn't allowed to look at my watch, though, to see how long I'd been trying to sleep, so I had to guess. And since five minutes feels like an hour when you're basically just staring at the ceiling in the dark, well... Let's just say I got plenty of exercise. Who the hell needs a stairmaster when you have a sleeping-disorder? Not me.

After one quick look at my bookshelf, I decided that my boring books were much to boring, and I would rather knock myself unconscious with a mallet, thank you very much. So off to the bathroom I went. Again and again and again. By morning I had been to the little insomniac’s room so many times, I was starting to feel dehydrated. I was also exhausted from running up and down the stairs. However, I was wide awake.

Better luck again tonight, I suppose. Maybe…

Moon pic by Nadar for www.flickr.com

A use for an angry wolverine

Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that about 95% of everyone I meet are either completely uninteresting or just plain dumb. Come to think of it, the phrase “dumb” isn’t really accurate. Being stupid is a character trade. And idiot simply can’t help it, and therefore he or she can’t really be held responsible for their idiocy. I suppose you’d have to blame the parents, or something. Ignorant is a much better word.

I count the people wise enough to read this blog among the upper 5%, of course.

With those who are just uninteresting, there’s no major problem. All I have to do is ignore them until they go away. The ones that are dumb/ignorant, however, aren’t that simple. They don’t have the intellectual insight to go away. Not only that, they insist on giving you their shockingly uninformed opinions on every little thing, regardless of whether you want them or not. Most of these belief they probably just invented themselves, most likely just after waking from a nap before their brains were fully conscious of what was going on. But the issue of whether or not such a person’s brain is ever fully conscious, is another matter.

Sometimes I come up with ways to hurt them. I have previously fantasized about probing them with sharp sticks. Then I advanced to burning sharp sticks.

My resent idea, however, is my all time favourite: live wolverines.
How cool wouldn’t it be if you could find a way to smack such a person with one of those? The only problem is, that picking a wolverine up by its tail and flinging it at people, might be somewhat tricky. There’s the whole issue of getting your head bitten off.

The seemingly best solution would then be to throw it at them from somewhere above. However, I don’t want to be too high up so that I’ll miss the sights and sounds of my little experiment. Perhaps a small crane or a fire truck would be best.

I’ll give it some more thought and get back to you.

The Pooch's great adventure

I had big plans for my Easter vacation this year. I was going to do absolutely nothing that had anything to do with work or school or anything like that. I figured I’d read scary books, watch the idiot box and definitely eat my chocolate bunny that I’ve been saving in the fridge for the past two weeks.

It’s a rather large bunny, wrapped in shiny bunny-paper. I’ve picked it up a few times, studied it intently – I even weighed it once on the kitchen scale, just because I wanted to do something with it and the time wasn’t right to eat it just yet.

But in stead I got to take the pooch to the emergency room. On Friday she clearly didn’t feel well and on Saturday morning a friend of mine drove us to the veterinarian, who stuck thermometers up her ass (the dog’s ass, not my friends), x-rayed her (still the dog), said something about a stomach/intestine infection and trapped gas and proceeded to pump her full of medication before sending us home with enough drugs to turn my kitchen table into a full-blown pharmacy. Or at the very least a small drug lab, like the ones you see on NYPD Blue.

That day, my head was full of philosophical questions. Should I change the water in the doggie bowl again? Was the bowl close enough to the pooch’s bed? Did the pooch need to go out? If the pooch didn’t want to go out, should I worry about that? What should I do if she didn’t want to poop? What if she did poop, and had horrible diarrhoea? What if she started throwing up? Etc, etc.

Then the pooch farted. I immediately picked up my cell to inform everyone of the good news. Everyone was thrilled, of course. For the rest of the day, and then through the night, the pooch did her very best to gas me to death. That didn’t matter, though, as I stayed awake most of the night, anyways, to ponder my philosophical questions and see if she needed to poop.

She’s feeling a bit better today, and all of a sudden I remembered that not only do I have a blog in need of updating, but I also have a chocolate bunny which must be getting mighty cold and lonely by now.

Thermometer pic by http://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=User:Ali%40gwc.org.uk&action=edit for www.Flickr.com

The cookie ambush

You know what? I almost forgot to post anything today. I was distracted by a bag of chocolate chip cookies. There I was, going through the cupboards – in search of carrot sticks, of course – and I heard a tiny, little voice coming from the top shelf.

“We’re lonesome,” it said.

I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone, so I grabbed my healthy snack and just as I was going to close the doors, the voice came again. “Please don’t leave us,” it said.

At that very moment, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud and sent a shiny ray of light in through my kitchen window. With an almost magical sparkle, it crept over my shoulder, into the cupboard and very gently touched the bag of cookies. I had almost forgotten that they were there.

Yes, I had. No, I hadn’t been nibbling on them for days. Oh, shut up!

“Take us with you,” said the cookies, and the bag stretched slightly in the sun.

“I can’t take you. You’re not healthy,” I objected.

“But we just want to sit on the table and watch TV, so that we won’t be lonely anymore.”

The cookies sounded very sad, indeed, and I couldn’t really see any harm in them just sitting next to me while watching reruns of Friends, so I brought them.

We watched in silence for a few minutes. Once again, I had almost forgotten that the cookies were there. Joey was sitting at the central Perk with Ross. He leaned forwards, about to say tell him something in confidence, looked around to make sure nobody would hear, opened his mouth and…

“Eat me” The voice came from the table, where a small cookie had somehow made its way out of the bag.

“I can’t eat you. You’ll make me fat.” I tried to explain why it and my waist line were natural enemies, and had just gotten past that part about how white sugar is bad, when I realised that the little cookie was sobbing.

“Please eat me,” it said. “Pretty please.”

I suppose one wouldn’t hurt, I thought, and put it in my mouth. It giggled as I chewed and swallowed.

Another ten minutes into the show, a tiny little voice sounded from my stomach. “I miss my mummy.”

And since I didn’t know which one of the other cookies were its mummy… Well, what else could I do? I had to eat them all. Anything else would have been cruel.

Cookie pic by Procsilas for www.flickr.com

Another day, another tag

But this one’s got an award in it, so it greases up my ego in a very pleasant way. I’ve always thought that a freshly greased ego is a very important thing to have. I will now name five blogs that I like, thereby greasing said blogger’s egos. My reason for naming every single one of them is that they make me laugh. Sometimes I laugh with them. Other times I laugh at them. But there’s no point in splitting hairs, is there? Of course not.

The rules of the meme are as follows:1. Post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.2. Link to original source blog (which would be The Thinking Blog, I guess) 3. If you don’t choose to do either then please display your thinking blogger logo as shown on this posting.

And these are the lucky people, in no particular order:

O mighty crisis

Useless writing

To do:1, get hobby 2. Floss

My brain hates me, but I hate it even more

Alchemy anyone?”

The swedish chef

Busy, busy, busy. Here, watch this:

Welcome to Stalkers R Us. How may I help you?

Last time I discreetly touched on the topic that I had en exam yesterday. It is now today, and yesterday went bye-bye. So have the exams. It wasn’t completely horrible. As a matter of fact, it rarely is, although I’m always quite convinced that it will be beforehand. I came, I wrote, I went home and watched The Singing Detective.
In between I tried to find a replacement for the jeans I tore when I was climbing a fence, and the fact that nothing fit me properly and the hostile light in the clothing booth made me feel fat for a couple of hours. Then I got over it, ‘cause I’m not fat, dammit. When I got home, I ate cookies out of spite. I briefly thought about staking out the store, just to see if those tiny-size-people actually exist, but that would have been boring, because such a person would obviously be twelve years old. You can get in trouble if you stalk someone who’s twelve. I’ve seen that on the news. Of course, you can get into trouble by stalking anyone, really. But some people might like it. I think some of the elderly that I worked with last summer would have enjoyed being stalked.

Hey, maybe I could set up an agency? Stalkers R Us. It would be like an escort service, only completely different. In stead of conversation, the chance to impress your friends with Mr. (really good at pretending to be) Perfect and possibly the opportunity for some form of sweaty activity, we’d offer phone calls featuring heavy breathing and groaning, lots of reasons for your friends and family to show their love and concern through worrying about you and the thrill of having your underwear go missing.

How’s that for brilliant?

Huge, mean, evil exams.

On Wednesday I have a huge, mean, if not just plain evil, exam. I don’t like exams. They freak me right the hell out. I’m studying like a real hero (wearing shiny, colourful pantyhose), until Bergerac (my brain) feels all soupy and strange.

My head is currently trying to figure out whether it should spin around of just go for some sort of explosion. Its inability to decide makes it sit on my shoulders in a very normal fashion, though.

All my thoughts are very slow today. I wonder if that’ll interfere with my hero-studying. Sometimes there are periods where I don’t think I thought anything at all. And then there are periods when I think sounds. Usually something along the lines of “grumpf”. A long, slow grumpf, of course.

As usual, I have all sorts of plans for what I want to do when I’ve survived my exams and I have time on my hands again. Not to mention in my shoes, behind the cups in the cupboard and in my right pocket of my favourite jeans (which I tore the other day when I was climbing a fence). I want to watch tons of movies, read books that have no -isms in them, stalk Jensen Ackles and so on and so forth. And as usual, I’ll probably just have the energy to vegetate in front of the TV and go to bed early.

Do you find me odd?

You Are 24% Abnormal

You are at medium risk for being a psychopath. It is somewhat likely that you have no soul. You are at low risk for having a borderline personality. It is unlikely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at low risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is unlikely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer.

How Abnormal Are You?

Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not a psychopath, but I'll buy the no-soul thing. Especially after my last post. And I DEFINITLY don't have obsessive compulsive disorder. I'm completely random and unorganized.

Entertaining acts of desperation

Over the past week or so, we’ve had a charming mix of rain, snow and sunshine. Charming in the way that Sylvester finds that yellow canary charming. By now, it looks as if King Winter has been violently ill all over my yard. On the other hand, I don’t really mind watching spring kill winter off. Hellhole is actually on the pretty side in spring.

There are a whole lot of Jehovah’s witnesses in Hellhole. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that? They have this theory that only 200000 or so people will be allowed into the party in heaven after they die, so therefore they have to do a whole lot of missionary work in order to earn their seats. I guess it’s filling up fast, because lately there’s been a certain air of frantic desperation over the local witnesses. They may be all smiles and friendly greeting when they creep up on you in the streets, but there’s something in their eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on. Besides, if I tried, they’d probably just make a scene about me poking them, anyways.

Before the weekend, for example, I was on my way to the salon, and I saw one of them standing by the crossroads with a pile of pamphlets. She tried to give me one, but I threw up my arms and ran away as quickly as I could, although not until I noticed the impressive size of her aforementioned pile. It must have been at least 200 pamphlets in there. At a spot where maybe ten people pass through every hour. And she hadn’t even pitched a tent. Now, that’s the kind of dedication that only springs from deep-seated desperation and extreme anxiety.

Later in the day, when I was sitting in my living-room with my hair looking no less than fabulous, feeling a bit miffed over the fact that nobody was there do admire it. The Pooch had hardly seemed to notice my new cut at all, although she had a short interest in the smell of the dye. I like that smell too, actually. Sometimes I turn my head really quickly, so that I can inhale the head-air, until I get dizzy and flowery scents no longer appeal to me as much.

And then I saw her.

It was the same woman that I’d met at the crossroads. She was making her way towards my house. She’d come over the river, across the bridge (well, duuh) to the outskirts of town in order to go door to door. They never used to cross the bridge before, because there are hardly any doors to go to here, but lately things have been changing. It’s like something out of Lord of the Rings.

For a brief moment I considered whether or not I was eager enough to have my new hairdo admired to listen to the “joyful message” and quickly decided that I wasn’t. In stead, I ran upstairs and amused myself by watching the woman struggle with the gate which cannot be opened because it’s half-buried in the snow (the one on the other end of the fence works just fine, but no visitors ever think to try that). Then, after she’d climbed the gate, she fought to make it up my wet, unshovelled (it’s going to melt in the end anyways, so what’s the point?) driveway in order to ring my doorbell.

I pretended not to be home, and then I watched her go through the whole process again, backwards.

I’m guessing that I’m not going to be one of those lucky 200000 to get a golden invite into the garden party upstairs.

Canary picture from Wikipedia.org

Garden party picture from Wikipedia.org

Bridge picture by Pooterjon for www.sxu.hu

Toots thinks about snow

As you may or may not have known, depending on whether or not you’re stalking me, I just had my second of three mid-terms the other day. My brain, which I have decided to name Bergerac, focused freakishly much during the whole thing and by the time I made it back to the station, where I wait for the bus to take me back to Hellhole, it had pretty much decided to take a well-deserved nap.

The ground below my feet was thick with snow and big, fat raindrops were bombarding it from above. I had my little, red umbrella in my handbag and decided that it made good sense to use it. On my way to the station, however, I noticed that I was the only one who had come to that decision. There wasn’t another umbrella in sight. People were wandering around in the pouring rain, looking like drowned rats, but pretending it wasn’t there. I have observed the same phenomena before, and have come to the conclusion that when there’s snow on the ground, people around here rarely use umbrellas, even if it’s really pouring down.

This, to me makes very little sense. I would think that the rain alone, not to mention the slushy cold soup that it reduces the snow to, would justify the use of some sort of body-covering condom-thing. Or at the very least, a little umbrella.

Eventually I got out of the rain and was sitting on a bench beneath the big, round station clock, where a lonely guy named Harold had written a message to ask if other lonely men would meet him in the bathroom on Thursday night.

That’s when Toots showed up. There are two little voices living inside my head. The first, which I simply call The Voice, is the one that pops up whenever and wherever to convince me to stay in bed when I should be going to class, buy chocolates when I’m shopping for cereal and that sort of thing. And then there’s Toots. Toots only turns up when Bergerac is napping thoroughly, otherwise it doesn’t get through the door.

I had just found out the hard way that there was a crack in the sole of my shoe. “Fungus likes to grow places that are dark, wet and body temperature,” said Toots, sounding pensive. Toots always sounds pensive, even though it clearly never is.

I looked up at the clock. The bus wouldn’t be there for another hour. I shook Bergerac a little, to try to wake it up. That didn’t work. So for the next 60 minutes, I got to listen to Toots babbling on and on about all of the things that are of interest to it.

I think that Toots might be one of the things that I dislike the most about having exams…

Cat by Jezz for www.Flickr.com

Head by o2ma for www.Flickr.com

Look at me, I'm a staaaar

Look, I'm FAMOUS!

http://mrjoeblogs.blogspot.com/2007/03/joe-blogs-interview-96-welcome-to.html

Now that I'm a superstar, I'm going to start doing all of those things that stars do. Let's see... Maybe I should climb around the mountaintops in Tibet in search of monasteries where the munks will train me in all sorts of mystical arts. However, those munks tend to shave off their eyebrows, and I think that I'd be much too distracted by the shiny patch of flesh above their eyes to absorb much of their wisdom.

I could join scientology. Then again, I wouldn't want to be known as the woman who strangled Tom Cruise with his own corset.

I'll give it some thought while I'm in rehab and get back to you later.

Naked people and me taking over the universe

The other day there was a story in the news about how a butt nekked activist, one of those I’d-rather-be-naked-than-wear-fur-people, had jumped up on stage during a fashion show in protest. I wish there was a cause, or something, that I cared enough about to go stand naked next to a supermodel, but I’m pretty sure that would never, ever happen.

All in all, I’m fairly self-absorbed, really. Also, once I become mistress of both the known and unknown universe, everyone else will be forced to become me-absorbed, as well. I’ll be kinda like Captain Picard, only with hair and a title. Oh, that and a mean streak, of course.

I look forwards to having all the people I don’t like herded up and put in cages so that I can poke them with sharp sticks. Starting with the bastards who decided that I have to have my midterms tomorrow.

My brain, large scissors and a fat kid rolling down a hill

I wish I had an off-button attached to my head. Not one of those standard buttons that stick out, mind you. I mean, I wouldn’t want to turn my brain off by accident. Just imagine, standing in line at the grocery store or the bank (okay, maybe not the bank. Nobody goes to the bank anymore) and you just scratch your head and all of a sudden it’s lights out. But if I could get a button on a time switch, or something, that would be perfect.

You see, my brain refuses to turn itself off after I’ve gone to bed. Even when it’s been more or less non-functional all day long, it suddenly springs to life once I’m horizontal.

It’s especially when the brain-ball of wrinkly gel starts to imagine repetitive movements that it becomes impossible to stop. Last night, for example, I started (for some reason) to think of a kid on a swing. It went back and forth, back and forth, refusing to stop. So I had to think up a pair of huge scissors to cut the swing down. But then the fat brat started rolling down the hill. Obviously I had to place I rather large rock in his path. There was a muffled splat and then the situation was under control. This time...

So… Does this mean I’m weird?

Would I shoot you? Why, of course not...

A few years ago, I read a Garfield strip where Garfield's owner asked him and his not-so-furry canine bud if they wanted to go for a walk. It went something along the lines of "Do you wanna go for a walk.... Do you?..... Do you?..... You wanna go walkies?.... Do you?..... Do you?" and so on and so forth. All the while, his pets were becoming more and more frenzied, until they turned on him.

Then, last night, there was a story in the news about some guy in Bosnia who had been out fox hunting (shame on him) with his dog. He'd been minding his own business, when he suddenly heard a shot and felt a sting in his leg. He turned around and saw Man's Best Friend with its hairy paw on the trigger. They say that he might have to amputate his foot. I bet he was one of those walkies-people and his pooch knew how to hold a grudge.

Then again, if I had some weirdo following me around wherever I went, collecting my poops, I'd probably shoot him, too...


Pic of pug by Chance Agrella for http://www.freerangestock.com/details.php?gid=&sgid=&pid=1460

Goddess with lovely temple dog needs religion

…with its own temple somewhere warm and sunny. Preferably with a great view overlooking the ocean.
Must be monotheistic. None of that sharing-the-glory-with-some-hairy-greek-in-a-bathtowel-sort-of-thing.

Gloomy looking robes with large hoods, mysterious chanting and large, booming bells are encouraged.

Colourful, bed sheet-like outfits, singing accompanied by silly bouncing and the ringing of cutesy bells will be punished by immediate beheading.

Some missionary activity expected.

Good possibilities for crusading involved.