Dick, Jane, Sally & Spot: Where Are [We] Today?

We probably taught your mama or grandparents how to read in the '50s or '60s (pretty important, right?) and then got tossed aside like potato peelings, except that peelings sometimes get the chance to be mulched.

Because we're literary, we don't really move-on but we do live-on and I’m Spot, a pup of the 50s, hoping I'm barking up an empathetic pant-leg with all of this.

I got sick and tired of that little blonde bitch tugging on my ears all the time but got my revenge on Sally by pissing a yellow lake next to her bed so that every morning her footsie-bottomed pajamas would get soaked, but don’t blame me for her psyche being as scrambled as a Scrabble letters bag.

Poor Sally's a drunk who can’t handle obscurity, sleeps with every worthless loser-boozer in this little dive bar down on Jefferson, the one whose neon sign hasn’t worked right since Sal was America’s little darlin’--with a bigger and longer run with us than Shirley Temple (who at least got a drink named after her even if it is diabetic death and dry as a Mormon dance, for chrissake).Freckle-faced Dick still has that eldest sibling superiority thing when, in actuality, the poster boy for nerdism can’t figure out how to start the lawnmower sometimes and still hangs his Christmas lights along the front of his house in rows that frantically blink Morse code of, “Why are we the only crooked fucking string on the block, dick!” or maybe it’s “Dick” (because, trouble with Morse is, you can’t tell upper from lower cases, “dick” from “Dick” with that code stuff).


You had to know Jane went corporate, one of those MBA feministas, man-without-balls types who thinks she can get to the top without going horizontal, but I guess that’s why you people write, so that colorful characters like us flea-bitten, leg-humping old pooches can exist, even if it’s on dusty shelves or in old musty boxes in attics and basements, while some of the diminishing few of you cherish and collect us to warm your hearts or whore us out for whatever you can scrounge on e-Bay and never give a nanosecond of thought as to why poor Sally‘s a lush.