Why I Flork

I "Florked" a bit again this weekend to stay up with some of the interesting people who use the site. I came across this profile when I Florked at random and asked the guy, "What'd the dog have in mind?" I got this reply:

Congrats on being the first person to ask what the dog's ideas were: lots of folk wanted to stroke him, but none wanted to know what was going on it that devious mind of his. \

The dog wanted to us to go into showbiz. He had an idea for a comedy act: he'd sit on a chair and I'd stand next to him; he'd open and shut his jaws and I would throw my voice like ventriloquist. So I agreed to rehearse the act, just to humour him. Then one day he told me he'd met this cat who could get us some gigs on the "meat pie and mushy peas - in - a - basket" circuit. I was getting fed up with my studies at the time; I didn't really want to be an investment banker; all the bankers I'd come across were so feckin' square that I found myself bored to tears after five minutes or so of their company. So I told the college principal where he could stick his creative accountancy, and set out on the road with the dog.

Unfortunately, although it was a very good concept, the act didn't really work: the dog insisted on writing all the material, and to tell the truth his jokes were crap:

Dog: "There's a dacshund lives down the road from me who doesn't eat meat."
Michael: "A dog that doesn't eat meat? Why is that?"
Dog: "Because his owner doesn't give him any."

Dog: "The little terrier next door has no nose."
Michael: "No nose? How does he smell?"
Dog: "Bloody awful!"

Dog: "Mrs Jones has had her pet poodle put down."
Michael: "Was it mad?"
Dog: "Well, it wasn't too pleased about it."

We went down like a lead balloon at most of the gigs we did; and the worst part was that although it was the dog's routine, it was me who was the target of the audience's venom: all the ladies would pet the dog, and the gentlemen would throw beer bottles at me. I stuck it out for a year or so before I got thoroughly cheesed off dodging the beer bottles and other things too disgusting to mention; and I finally told the dog "I've had all I can stands, I can't stands no more!"

So we split: the dog went to live on a farm in Wales; and I threw in my lot with the working-class, securing full-time employment in a shitty factory.

But the story does have a satisfactory - if not exactly happy - ending. Even though my showbiz excursions with the dog ended in tears, whilst on the road I had been badly bitten by the stage bug. Throughout many bleak years slaving away in the sweat-shop atmosphere of the shitty factory I slowly worked up a stage act, sans the dog, and now I do occasional performances at Folk and Jazz clubs around my local area: existential humour in a nouveau proletarian vein - or so it says on the bottle I take on stage with me (shitty factory work has made me a very dangerous man; if folk start throwing bottles nowadays, they get one back double-quick) OK, there were times when I could have strangled the dog; but deep in my heart I know that if it wasn't for him I'd have probably ended up embezzling the savings of the more well-off customers at some High Street bank, and would by now be living a life of easy at a cosy little villa in the South of France.

The dog's name was Laddie.

Shine on brightly,
Michael

And this is why I Flork.