Brain Storm

My dog's a headcase.

Pretty much every female in my bloodline is a headcase. Starting with my great-great-great grandmother, whom my mother and my aunts (headcases all) swore on a stack of Bibles was a descendant of the Royal House of Norway, to which I always responded BFD, the population of Norway is 2,314, everybody's related, royal house or outhouse, what's the point.

So what I did was, a few years back (or maybe it was a century ago), I barricaded myself in the upstairs study with a weekend's supply of grog in a Vikings mug and conjured Ancestors.com. I was determined to prove/disprove this headcase/royalty thing once and for all. Seventy-two hours later, I had my answer: my female ancestors were in all likelihood headcases, and they were about as royal as a flush.

Which is pretty much what my aunts told me I could do with this ill-gotten info, any peasant could see how royal we all were, just look at our necks. My mother (Odin rest her soul) had already passed on to that great Castle in the Sky, and in agreement with her earthly sisters, was no doubt nodding her lovely head (perched on that royal neck) from some lofty turret beyond the clouds.

"You're a royal pain in the ass," is what my husband said, when I proudly announced my ancestral findings.

"But I'm not!" I said. "That's the point! My ancestors dumped out babies in the fields with the rest of 'em! I'm peasant stock down to my ankle bones!"

"And such lovely ankles they are," said my husband, who has this foot thing. He could care less about my neck.
 
Then there's my dog.

My dog's been a headcase from the get-go, and now she's in her sixties. Here's a small sample of things my dog's terrified of: thunder, fireworks, planes, pigeons, shrubbery, wood floors, garages, falling leaves, men, snow, doors, wind, the moon, magazines.

At our last appointment, the vet offered to write a prescription for valium. I perked right up.

"For whom?" I asked, ever the persnickety grammarian. I wonder, is that a sign of royalty?

But for once I eschewed drugs, and went shopping. For clothes. For my dog. Face it, she's spent her whole life running around buck naked, it was time for an upgrade.

What I did was, I got my dog a ThunderShirt.

For the uninitiated amongst you, rest assured this is no pussy-ass Paris Hilton doggie-in-a-teacup style tutu. Nosireebob. This is the canine equivalent of chain mail, my friend, and we're talking armor, here, not Saturday delivery. ThunderShirt: for the dog who has everything — and is scared shitless of all of it.

Do yourself a favor. Next time you're up for a chuckle, pour yourself a flagon of your favorite swill and sit your ass down and click here: ThunderShirt. What a trip. I never realized how many dog headcases are out there. It's a wonder any dog can manage to get out of bed in the morning, let alone hold down a job and raise a family.

The concept behind ThunderShirt is that it wraps snugly around the client and provides a gentle, constant pressure, producing a dramatic calming effect by giving the client the impression that he/she is being hugged. And being hugged is near the apex of every dog's top-ten list, second only to nosing genitals.

The ThunderWorks logo ("Taking the 'Pet' out of Petrified" is the tagline) offers a variety of ThunderProducts, including ThunderTreats, ThunderCaps, ThunderToys and ThunderLeashes. They also offer ThunderShit for cats, but any peasant knows that's just a marketing ploy. Cats question the very existence of existence, they never fall for hype. Dogs, on the other paw, believe anyfuckingthing they can see, smell or bury in the couch.

Setting that age old debate of cats. vs. dogs aside, the whole concept got me ... thinking. Stranger things have happened.

This is what comes of being unemployed, my friend. When the number of Free Cell games you've played is nearing the six-figure mark, you come to a stark and humbling realization: you need a hobby.

What I did was, I brainstormed. With myself. I sized up the choices, and after a minor period of adjustment (during which my brain had to be jump-started from a near-vegetative state), I took up ... thinking.

It was one day at a time in the beginning, but after awhile I started to get the hang of it. I persevered and my efforts paid off. I've been thinking nonstop for over a month now, which has resulted in some pretty great ideas (if I don't say so myself), one of them being the following:

How about a line of clothing for women with anxiety issues? Better yet, how about a line of clothing for women with anxiety issues designed to be worn underneath our normal attire? Call it ThunderWear ("Taking the 'Woe' out of Woman" is the tagline), and offer a variety of ThunderProducts, including ThunderCamis, ThunderBras, ThunderBriefs and ThunderThongs.

Trust me, ThunderWear would sell like a house afire. My female relatives alone would keep the line in business for generations. I can already picture it: me and my dog, in our respective ThunderDuds, calmly circling the block, smiling at passers-by and dreamily picking up shit. Paris Hilton and her teacup-pups would have nothing on us.

I'm telling you, there's something to be said for this thinking thing. It puts the "head" back in headcase. Who knew? I just keep coming up with this amazing shit out of nowhere.

Remind me to tell you about my surefire solution for ridding outdoor music fests of that ubiquitous menace, LSD WALA.* I'm also working on the prototype for a juju which specifically targets prepubescent former bosses who fire your ass just because it's a bit wrinkled.

But enough, my brain needs a break. Think I'll take the Stepford dog for a walk. To be cuntinued.

(*Loud Smoking Drunken Women Acting Like Assholes)