Word: dogs
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...proved that sculpture needed to be no more than the sum of its pre-formed parts. Likewise, Better Off Dead tosses on the screen a collection of objets trouves from past TSFs, woven together in a style that both draws on early TSF work (cf: Risky Business, Hot Dog) and yet sculpts a unique and, I believe, ultimately transcendent vision...
Arnie Armour, the hot dog mascot, had a wholly different problem, however. He couldn't ride in the parade because the constraints of his costume--an upright frank--made it impossible for him to mount an elephant...
Imagine a house filled with books, and then try to track down the one bearing his name. The Elements of Style should be somewhere by the desk where the letters get written. The clutter of the children's rooms ought to yield dog- eared copies of Charlotte's Web, Stuart Little and The Trumpet of the Swan. The Essays and Letters are both within easy reach of the overstuffed armchair in front of the fireplace. For A Subtreasury of American Humor, the best bet is probably the bedside table in the guest room, where Aunt Mary left it a month...
...lived in that home has had a lung removed. I remember the minister's wife who lived next door there had a miscarriage. The lady who lived here, she had two miscarriages. Kidney cancer over there, and the home here, the wife died in childbirth. This next family, the dog had a seizure disorder, and their little girl had terrible stomach and bladder problems." Leistner has four children, all in their 20s. "One of my daughters has a seizure disorder; she tried to commit suicide in 1983. Another daughter, she's hyperthyroid; we almost lost her to cancer...
...movers--Parliament and Funkadelic. You would think everyone would be able to get into his thang. But complaints have been bruited that his sound is too obnoxiously the apotheosis of libido. This is false. Simply put, if the blow-it-out-yer-ass sentiment that fuelled his Atomic Dog hit of three years ago--"Bow wow wow yipee yow yipee yow"--didn't drive you from your seat and into a fury of rear-wagging, then you weren't listening to it loud enough. This isn't music to write poetry...