OK, then, DON’T bring it. I’ll just bring ME to IT instead. If the lettis won’t come to the Rubinman, why, the Rubinman must go to the lettis. LETTTIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I pray to the Mighty Lettis God. What do you ask of your humble servant, oh Lettis God?
OMG LETTIS FROM HEAVEN! Prayers WURKED!
COME to Rubin…
Lettis is mine. Now it will do my bidding. Like… I will make lettis levitate!
[Photos by Terry. Thanks, Terry!]
(Amber’s note: Rubin likes lettuce. And almost all vegetables, to be honest. And also all other forms of food. And sometimes things that aren’t actually food. Like that spider he ate that one time. But lettuce! Is not harmful to dogs, as long as they’re not eating too much of it, which he isn’t. Spiders, on the other hand…)
A guest post, by Rubinman….
OK. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I didn’t really think it was my bizniss, but here’s the thing: Amber tells lies. Yes, she does. I mean, she’s not actually some red haired “blogger” girl, like claims. She’s an old, fat, bald guy from Essex. In fact, her name isn’t even Amber: it’s Clive.
Most of the time, I just let Clive get on with it. I’m like, “Whatevs, dude, yoo just keep on wearin’ the shoos and the ginger wig if it makes yoos happy, and we’ll see how long yoos get away with it.” Like I says, not my bizniss. But then, sometimes Amber Clive goes and MAKES it my bizniss, by writing about me in her “blawg”, and when that happens, well, the Rubinman gets MAD. Yoos won’t like it when the Rubinman is MAD, trust me.
When I ran and got onto Clive’s knee that day, I was totally protecting her. Because Clive is a wuss, you know? So I was just like, “Don’t worry, Clive, your trusty woolf is here to save the day!” And what thanks do I get? LIES. That’s whut I get.
Also, the whole “Rubin totally wore a blonde wig this one time” thing? Uh-uh. Let’s just say Photoshop is an amazing thing, OK? Actually, let’s not: let’s just say that was a totally different dog in them piktures. Because it was. In fact, it wasn’t a dog at all, it was a WOOLF. It was this woolf, aktually:
Oh, hai, I'm a woolf. I look just like Rubin, no?
It was in sheep’s clothing at the time. They totally do that sumtimes. I got it to sign a statement, though, saying it was the wun in the wig. Here it is:
“Hello, it’s a big scary woolf here. I’m writing this just to let yoos know it was me in the wig that time, not Rubin. Rubin is too tuff to wear a wig. We woolfs are all scared of him, we wear wigs to disguise ourselves. Also, Clive tells lies.
So, there yoos go, case closed. Don’t listen to Clive. Rubin is the only wun yoos can trust.
Oh, Clive. Like you could ever catch the Rubinman…
Alternative title: ‘How to Ruin Amber’s Outfit Shots: a dog’s guide’. This is a guest post by Rubin: enjoy!
Yo, homies, it’s Rubin here. Amber told me some of yoos was missing my “blawg”, and I was like, “Yoos better believe they’ll be missing my blawg. It’s not every day yoos get to hear from a real live WOOLF.” So here I am, live an’ unleashed. (Do you see what I did there? I, like, totally WAS unleashed in these photos. I crack myself up, I really do.)
Anyways, last week I took Them for a walk. They were all, like, takin stupid piktures and stuff for Amber’s shoo blawg (if there’s something more pointless than a blawg about shoos, by the way, I don’t know what it is. Shoos are just big chew toys, get over it.)? And I was all, “I wonder if there’s a way I could make this all about me?” And there WAS a way. And I found it.
Note: Some of yoos may find the following images disturbing, as they all show a really scary woolfman. Parental discretion is advised. Norma and John, don’t yoos look either, it’ll scare the pants off yoos.
Rubin is a dog with a blog. This post was written by him…
I had been stalking the water bottle for some time. Watching. Waiting. Every time she put it down, I’d be there. I learned its routines, studied its weaknesses. I knew it would take time, but I had time. And so I waited. I, the hunter; it, the totally hunted. I knew the time would come when I would pounce on that water bottle and take it back to my lair, where I would proceed to tear it apart in the most brutal way possible.
Today was that day. I saw my opportunity, and I took it:
Then I runned away and hid:
Don’t think Amber was very pleased, somehow. But still, you know what they say: you can please some of the people some of the time, and the rest are idiots, who shoulda kept a closer watch on their water bottles already.
(Rubin is the dog with the blog. This post was written by him.)
Actually, let’s not be modest here, folks. I don’t just BELIEVE I can fly: I KNOW I can fly. Lookit:
SEE? I can totally fly. Like Superman, only better.
Just in case yoos are wonderin’, no Terry is not helping me in this picture. Ha, like he even could! Terry wouldn’t know how to fly if a book called HOW TO FLY came and bit him on the ass. It’s just me what can do it. Yes, your Rubinman has superpowers! Other superpowers I’ve got: ability to pee on the washing machine more often than you would believe possible, barking at the kind of pitch that would make you deaf, saving the world. Yoos can thank me later for that last one. For now, just know that the Rubinman is here, watching over yoos. In fact, when you go to sleep at night, I am hovering over your bed JUST LIKE IN THE PICTURE.
I bet yoos are all totally freaked out now, no? Don’t worry, I know it’s not every day you see a flying WOLF and all, but rest assured that the Rubinman uses his superpowers for good rather than evil. Most of the time.
So, this morning I came home from the gym and found that Rubin had been using my computer while I was gone. Specifically, Photoshop:
Rubin's message to Amber
Rubin, if you’re reading this: that’s very sweet, but knock it off, OK?
(Also: we’ve just finished moving Rubin’s blog from Typepad to WordPress, so you may notice some changes to the template etc while we’re getting to grips with it. Rubin’s been pretty lazy recently and hasn’t been bothering to update much, but I’ve told him he has to work for his living here, so hopefully he’ll get back to blogging soon.)
So, after last week’s video, some of yoos wrote to me to say yoos were all worried about me n’ my “loneliness”. Let me just say here and now, the Rubinman is NOT lonely. Not when he has his main man Almeida in the house, anyway…
(NOTE: Parental advisory! Some scenes may not be suitable for small chhildren!)
(Rubin is a dog with a blog. This post is by him.)
It’s come to my attention that Amber and Terry seem to be expecting me to pee outside ALL THE TIME. I mean, not just the occasional alfresco pee, we’re talking all outside, all the time i.e. I NEVER get to pee in the house ever again.
Reasons for me thinking this:
1. When I go outside I get called a “good boy” and I normally get a little something for my trouble, like a sweetie or something
2. When I go INSIDE I get the whole “baaaaad boy” thing and they give me NOTHING
Does anyone else think this is just NOT FAIR?
They don’t pee in the garden. I’ve never once seen Them pee in the garden. They always use the bathroom. Always. I use the bathroom, what happens? “Baaaad boy”. *Sigh* I don’t think this is even ABOUT where I pee. I think it’s pretty much a case of “two legs good, four legs ‘baaaad’.” I think you see where I’m going with this.
Well I’m not backing down, sweetie or no sweetie. Yesterday morning, while Amber was drying her hair, I crept into the bathroom and crapped on the floor. Heeee!
And another thing, just while I’m on the subject of the bathroom: why is it “cute” when the Andrex puppy unravels a whole toilet roll, but why I do it it’s suddenly NOT?
(Rubin is a dog with a blog. This post was written by him.)
Amber and Terry are MAD. They’re, like, totally obsessed with my PAWS. “Give me a paw,” they’ll say, a few times a day. I mean, why? What do they want my paw for? “Get your own paw,” I always feel like saying, but once I’ve handed over the paw they always make a big fuss of me, and sometimes I get a sweetie, so I put up with it. MAD, though.
And another thing: what’s with the whole “Sit – stand – lie down” routine that they keep making me go through? I mean, you don’t see me walking up to them and going, “Hi Terry – SIT”, do do? So why do they do it to me? Because they’re MAD, that’s why.
This week, Terry’s been bein’ particularly MAD. It’s like, he just got up one morning and he started wreckin the house, ripping up floors and stuff. I don’t know what rattled his cage, but alls I’m sayin is, I hope it wasn’t ME, you know? Because it’s his own fault that I peed on the washing machine YET AGAIN when They went to see “Gym” last week. I’m tryin to set a world record: Dog Who Has Peed on the Washing Machine Most Times. I’ll do it too, and they can’t even stop me. And if they want me to keep handin’ over my paws, like a “good boy”, they better not even try…
One of those days when they stand you on a TABLE and CUT OFF YOUR HAIRS! I couldn’t believe it. Well, actually, I could. I mean, I should have seen it coming. There’s been a number of comments made recently about my appearance – by Terry mainly. He’s very pass-remarkable, Terry. “Scruffy” is one word he’s been using. “Smelly” is another. I mean, I just ignored him and made sure to pee on his side of the bed whenever I could, but I should’ve know he’d be up to something.
Well, yesterday they BATHED me. I thought that was the end of it, but no. This morning Terry comes and gets me, and he’s actin’ all excited, like we’re going to be doin something cool… and then he stands me on a table and he CUTS OFF MY HAIRS. Amber just sat there the whole time, patting me and offering me goodboys, but I just looked at her, like, “don’t you even touch me, traitor.”
So anyway, that’s me, HAIRLESS again. Again! Afterwards Amber gave me a JUMBONE and even Terry kept going on about how good I was and stuff – yeah, right- let’s stand YOU on a table and cut your hairs off with a sharp thing, and we’ll see how good YOU are, Terry. No, really, lets. Honestly. At least that’s it over, though. I spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping and playing with my toys. And actually, it’s not so bad, this haircut thing. I mean, it’s like, it’s not like anyone could make the Rubinman look like a sissy now, is it?