title of web site: postcards from the pug bus
 
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Your Horoscope
Week of December 2
(Ramp Accessible) . . . because you are entitled not only to your own truth but also to your own predictions
The astrological stylings of the Autistic Astrologer. If you don't like your forecast, he will stick his fingers in his ears, stamp his feet, and hum loudly.

Cancer (June 21–July 22) A stranger will stop you in the mall and ask if you can change a twenty. This is a trick question. Don't rifle through your billfold. Don't rummage through your purse. Grab your left elbow instead, spin around once, and shout, "Into what, a toad, you jackass?" The stranger will then grant you three wishes. Beware, those have trick answers.

Leo (July 23–Aug. 22) Troubled by crank phone calls you install caller ID, only to learn that the person phoning you at 3 a.m. and reciting obscene limericks in an electronically altered voice is your mother. You left her in a nursing home nine states away, but wait until you find out where she's living.

Virgo (Aug. 23–Sept. 22) Your teeth become sensitive to radio waves following a routine dental X-ray, and you begin picking up cell phone transmissions within a one-mile radius. Soon you are tormented by the shallowness of human discourse and by a neighbor who sneaks out to the garage to talk on his cell phone late at night. Your reactions are not the mark of a large soul. You have not been cursed; you have been blessed with an opportunity to know your fellow humans and to become a better listener. Embrace it.

Libra (Sept. 23–Oct.23) The goddess Maytag, in harmonic convergence with the House of Proctor and Gamble, has designated the crockpot as your ruling symbol. Unfortunately, this symbol is associated not only with the pleasure of cooking for a family but also with the loneliness of the mechanized meal. In other words: heads you win, tails you eat alone.

Scorpio (Oct. 24–Npv. 21) You are at war with your demons, and your demons are winning. You are no longer on speaking terms with your conscience. The cardinal virtues just sublet your beach house to the seven deadly sins. Unless you can lay claim to excess disposable income and a lawyer with disposable ethics, do not change anything more significant than your ring tones until next week. Concentrate on small, manageable issues such as eliminating keyboard plaque, cataloging your CD collection, and arranging the books on your shelves in alphabetical order.

Sagittarius (Nov. 22–Dec. 21) This is your bulletproof week. The world is your White Diamond Escalade. No longer will you travel at the speed of dark. Wealth, success, and teeth-rattling sex are yours for the asking. Often you will be tempted to pinch yourself to make sure you are awake. That beats the weeks when you had to pinch your favorite sex partner to make sure he or she was awake. Warm the cockles of your cockles around this lap-dancing flame of good fortune, and don't be afraid to take risks.

Capricorn (Dec. 22–Jan. 19) The inclination to be status conscious and inhibited are so Capricorn that you rarely stop to ask yourself why you are hyper-cautious. Why do you get caught with your pants up while everyone else is skinny dipping in the communal hot tub? Why do you have to march to the beat of a metronome? If your inner Lady GaGa wants to bitch slap your outer Norah Jones, don't file a restraining order, scalp tickets to the event instead. Life is a party. Why not crash it?

Aquarius (Jan. 20–Feb. 18) Troubled by your lack of formal education, you enroll in a no-courses, no-tests, no-waiting virtual university that awards degrees based on a student’s life experiences. After reviewing your application and waiting for your check to clear, the dean’s council votes to grant you a Bachelor of Arts in Compromising Positions with a minor in communicative disorders, providing you allow them to keep the pictures. Did you remember to write SAMPLE across the pictures? If not, you better start working on your self-preservation skills.

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Pisces (Feb. 19–March 20) The dating service you contacted suggests that you are best suited for the companionship of a significant other bearing a sticker that says, "Intel Inside." The next time you go looking for love in one of those fee-based places, be sure to check the application box that reads, "Same-species partner preferred."

Aries (March 21–April 19) Ever the cynic you have no trouble believing it isn’t butter; that some minds would not be a terrible thing to waste; and that maybe you don’t deserve a break today. You also have a highly developed sense of irony, which leads you to walk around muttering "I see living people" in a tiny, traumatized voice. Some people close to you might caution that trading on appearances is no substitute for developing the inner you. If they persist, try holding them at arm's length.

Taurus (April 20–May 20) Your life is a run-on sentence that is out of control and greatly in need of editing. Learn to appreciate the nuances of subordinate clauses and the hierarchical conjunctions that exist among colons, semicolons, commas, and em dashes. Strive to make the principles of good rhetoric your guiding lights. Better yet, learn when to keep your yap shut.

Gemini (May 21–June 21) Car A leaves Hollywood at 9:00 a.m. on Monday. Car B leaves Bangor, Maine, at the same moment. Car A, which has a 15-gallon gas tank and averages 19.6 miles per gallon, is driving east. Car B, which has a 17.5-gallon tank and averages 18.9 miles per gallon, is driving west. After three days, what color is car B?


Deplorably Speaking: A Righteous Blog
Our deplorable editor in briefs holds forth on a variety of topics from the ruination of sports to the frog-marching of male college students to the idiocies of third-wave feminism to whatever.
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a powdery-smelling, dried-up, old-hag English teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your goddamn head if you split an infinitive. Visit The Grammar Prick

Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs, Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.

Sample chapters . . . -1- -2-


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Trigger warning! The content of this website may cause raging panic attacks in hypersensitive snowflakes who suffer from androphobia, galactophobia, emetophobia, corprophobia, claustrophobia, fear of taints, and other psycho-sexual maladies too numerous and frightening to mention.

The Rolling Stones Should Shrivel Up and Die
Nov 20, 2018 - 8:03
an image
Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie, and the Other Guy,
I have learned recently that you stinking geezers will be touring next year. Please don't. In the name of all that's wrinkled, wizened, and way past its prime—namely you sorry git—take a minute to stop and think about what you're doing. You look like shite; you sound like shite. Indeed, I don't think Brian Jones looks any worse than you wankers do these days.

You'll appear a right bunch of twats if you proceed with this sad, ego-driven scheme. To be honest you've looked like a right bunch of twats for the last two decades at least. You haven't really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band in 1975. He was not only the best-looking member of the group but also your best player, and you go and replace him with a worm who has gotten further on less talent than any "musician" save Ringo Starr.

The first time I saw you guys perform was in the fall of 1969 at the Olympia theater in Detroit. In those days a person could drive by a venue, see a sign proclaiming "Rolling Stones Tonight," and get a decent ticket. Those were also the days when you guys were considered dangerous, a quality that no rock band should lack. You were the guys who pissed on petrol station walls, got busted for drugs, fucked each other's girlfriends, made a film called Cocksucker Blues, and struck fear and terror into the hearts of parents.

Nowadays parents, most of whom clock in at 15 stone or better, take their kids (and even their fucking grandkids) to see you guys. That must be mortifying. Once you prowled the stage, commanding an ocean of ripe young breasts that were yours for the asking. Now you look out over—if you can bear to look—a bunch a Lane Bryant types whose chins are where their tits used to be and whose tits reach their navels. I don't envy you that sight. Oh sure, many of those walking heaps of cellulite might still be yours for the asking, but not even you sorry lot of sheep shaggers would ask. Would you?

After that fine night in Detroit, I saw you guys in 1972, 1975, 1981, 1989, and once or twice in the '90s. That's when I snuffed out my one-hitter. The crowds kept getting frumpier; you guys kept getting frumpier; and then the inevitable occurred: you morphed into a Rolling Stones tribute band—and not a very good one at that. Only your most delusional fans, like your butt boy, Jann Wenner, could get it up for the kazillionth rendition of "Satisfaction."

So do yourselves a favor. Stay the fuck home. It can't be any fun lugging those hyperbaric chambers and defibrillators around the world. Jesus! Your carbon footprint must be the size of fucking Missouri. The Earth will thank you; I'll certainly thank you. Besides, as you once sang— when you could still touch your toes without popping a hemorrhoid—"Who wants yesterday's papers?"


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© The fine fucking print: The editorial content on this page is fictional. It is presented for satirical and/or entertainment purposes only. We cannot be held responsible for the actions of anyone who takes this sort of shit seriously. We also do not wish to be held responsible for any copyrighted material that sneaked onto this page when we weren't looking. If you can prove that anything on this page belongs rightfully to you, we will happily take it down and return the unused portion. No questions asked. Have a secular day.


The Gift of GAB
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What Would Neitzsche Do?
image of F. NeitzscheForget Jesus H. Christ. Who gives a shit, besides Carson Wentz, what Jesus would do? In order to survive in a postmodern world, ask what would Neitzsche do.


The Pug Bus Interview
phil maggitti smoking a joint, isn't that shocking now?Smoke 'em if you got 'em, then enjoy the interviews nobody else has the balls to do. We're not just blowing smoke. Our fearless interviewer isn't afraid to stop totally at the surface.Read on.


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