Editorial: If It’s Too Hot For You, It’s Too Hot For Me, Blah Blah Blah

By Señor Fluffer


I’ll just get this out of the way now: Joe didn’t leave me in the car, I got in on my own. I was just trying to make a point. Okay? Moving on.

As I’m sure you’re well-aware by now, we’re having a bit of a heatwave in Los Angeles. When I started writing this, it was 113°F. Hot as f*ck. Being a dog, I should probably use this platform to advocate for dogs everywhere who don’t want to cook in the back seat of a Subaru, right? Fine, sure. But I also need a new job, so can I please address that without being crucified? Great.

PSA: I need to get out of Fluff News, pronto. If anyone hears of a publication that’s hiring, please let me know. I’ll take anything. Service dog. Mailroom dog. Janitor dog. I just need to escape this job. What difference does it make if I wait until after the San Bernardino fire is put out? None. We’ll have something for the next one.

Or here, read this from three weeks ago. It’s basically what you would get if I weren’t busy updating my LinkedIn.

How bad could it be? I carry the whole operation. I edit all of the dumbass fluff pieces, I run the Twitter, I run the Facebook page, I troll for free stock photos because we’re too cheap to just buy a subscription for Getty Images. On more than one occasion, I’ve opened up one of Joe’s articles to edit, only to find that it’s just the word “fluff” right-justified on the page. So I write the whole thing for him. And you know what I get? “That’s not fluffy enough, Señor Fluffer. No one wants to hear about ISIS, Señor Fluffer. Write this bullsh*t about vegans.” I don’t even get paid  — and no, “belly rubs” aren’t an acceptable currency at the liquor store, so let’s drop the cute sh*t.

Can black-top pavement can reach 168°? Yeah. Don’t make your dog walk on it. But you know what else you shouldn’t do? Force him to scour the internet at all hours of the day for “fluffy” news (whatever that means) while you’re shoving andouille sausages down your throat at the Fourth of July party. Gross.

The truth is, I’ve been skimming job boards for months now, trying to avoid the public embarrassment of asking like this. Nevertheless, at a certain point I just have to swallow my pride. And while being left to pant it out in a parked car on a day like today is abuse, I’d almost take it over photoshopping our banner for the ninth time because “it’s a little off-center.”

If it’s too hot for you, it’s too hot for me. But for the love of God, please give me a job.

Editorial: There’s Still Plenty Of Meat Left On Those Bones, Son

by Mark C.

For me, Father’s Day isn’t about gifts or cards. It’s about spending time with my kids. And as much as I appreciate you wanting to treat me for the day, it was way too nice out to not break out the grill. So why not? You can get the dishes! But, as we wrap up this little barbecue, there is something I need to address, and it’s in that pile of wing bones you’ve decided are “done.” What I’m saying is, there’s still a good amount of meat there, Bucko, and you’re not going anywhere until you pick those bones clean.

Wings aren’t cheap. Just because I got those on sale doesn’t mean you can eat the bulk and let the residuals go to waste. If they were off-brand Kroger wings, I wouldn’t say anything. But these are Tyson. Yeah. Starting to rethink tossing perfectly good chicken scraps yet? I certainly hope so.

Really, I shouldn’t even have to tell you to clean them off. Look at my plate. I got every nook and cranny. And they were perfectly cooked-through (if I do say so myself). Got that Bone-Suckin’ Sauce that we all like. So what’s the problem?

Your mother didn’t let you eat before this, did she?

Alright, I’ll make you a deal. Polish off those drumsticks and I’ll let you slide for tossing that unfinished ear of corn. You thought I wouldn’t notice you throwing out a perfectly juicy cob and grabbing another? That was good corn. Fresh from the flea market. Didn’t even need butter. And sure, you got most of it. All I’m saying is, kill what you got before you go for seconds. But if you finish — actually finish — the rest of your wings, we’ll forget all about it.

Love ya, Champ. I had a blast today. It was truly a Father’s Day to remember.

But I know you can get more out of those wings. We’re not throwing them away until they’re completely bare.