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Advanced Dad training
By Hobo Hudson
I consider myself pretty accomplished at Dad training. However, I know there is always room for improvement, and I constantly strive to learn new techniques. While recently browsing through our local library as I waited for Mom to pick up the books she had ordered, I chanced upon a book entitled “Subliminal Suggestions” and decided to check it out.
The first part of the book was about how to implant messages into TV shows and then have them flash by so fast that the hooman eye won’t see and read them but the hooman brain would recognize and process them. This, of course, was of no value since I didn’t have the resources to accomplish it.
The second part of the book was more interesting. It dealt with the use of headphones to listen to tutoring lessons while sleeping, and it seemed to work for some people. I immediately decided to try out the method on Dad, and during the following night, I began softly barking into Dad’s ear as soon as he fell asleep. My bark was a continuous series of “Obey Hobo.”
It seemed to work on Dad as I noticed the next morning, but it kept me awake all night. To avoid losing another night’s snooze, I recorded my barks as a continuous loop on my tape recorder and started playing it as soon as Dad fell asleep, and it worked like a charm. I am now at the point that Dad will do anything I ask until he is about at the middle of his fourth cup of coffee whereas prior to my indoctrination sessions, he would begin to fail to respond at about the middle of his second cup of coffee.
After I outdid myself indoctrinating Dad, I looked around to find an even more efficient and permanent way to do it and discovered a doll with a programmable microchip on which a hooman mother and father can record a message for their child. Anytime the child squeezes the doll, the microchip sends out the recorded words. I bought one of those dolls, recorded my message “Obey Hobo” and then destroyed the doll to retrieve the microchip. While I was racking my brains about how to fasten the microchip to Dad’s ear so that it would continuously play my message 24/7, I suddenly came up with an even better idea.
I have become very close friends with a California lollypop. Two days ago, I found out she is a doctor, renowned throughout California for her medical expertise, and professionally known as “Dr. Lily.” My plan now is to visit her in July and to take Dad, whom I will have to drug so that he doesn’t know what’s going on, with me and have Dr. Lily surgically implant the chip into Dad’s brain.
If this works as well as I expect, I’ll form a partnership with Dr. Lily, and we’ll open hooman training clinics all across the country to give all dogs the opportunity to benefit from my new discovery for a reasonable, not yet determined, price. I see the potential for Dr. Lily and myself to pick up a few million bones each in a short time. Afterward, we will have an IPO and be able to retire to live in the lap of luxury forever.
By Hobo Hudson
I consider myself pretty accomplished at Dad training. However, I know there is always room for improvement, and I constantly strive to learn new techniques. While recently browsing through our local library as I waited for Mom to pick up the books she had ordered, I chanced upon a book entitled “Subliminal Suggestions” and decided to check it out.
The first part of the book was about how to implant messages into TV shows and then have them flash by so fast that the hooman eye won’t see and read them but the hooman brain would recognize and process them. This, of course, was of no value since I didn’t have the resources to accomplish it.
The second part of the book was more interesting. It dealt with the use of headphones to listen to tutoring lessons while sleeping, and it seemed to work for some people. I immediately decided to try out the method on Dad, and during the following night, I began softly barking into Dad’s ear as soon as he fell asleep. My bark was a continuous series of “Obey Hobo.”
It seemed to work on Dad as I noticed the next morning, but it kept me awake all night. To avoid losing another night’s snooze, I recorded my barks as a continuous loop on my tape recorder and started playing it as soon as Dad fell asleep, and it worked like a charm. I am now at the point that Dad will do anything I ask until he is about at the middle of his fourth cup of coffee whereas prior to my indoctrination sessions, he would begin to fail to respond at about the middle of his second cup of coffee.
After I outdid myself indoctrinating Dad, I looked around to find an even more efficient and permanent way to do it and discovered a doll with a programmable microchip on which a hooman mother and father can record a message for their child. Anytime the child squeezes the doll, the microchip sends out the recorded words. I bought one of those dolls, recorded my message “Obey Hobo” and then destroyed the doll to retrieve the microchip. While I was racking my brains about how to fasten the microchip to Dad’s ear so that it would continuously play my message 24/7, I suddenly came up with an even better idea.
I have become very close friends with a California lollypop. Two days ago, I found out she is a doctor, renowned throughout California for her medical expertise, and professionally known as “Dr. Lily.” My plan now is to visit her in July and to take Dad, whom I will have to drug so that he doesn’t know what’s going on, with me and have Dr. Lily surgically implant the chip into Dad’s brain.
If this works as well as I expect, I’ll form a partnership with Dr. Lily, and we’ll open hooman training clinics all across the country to give all dogs the opportunity to benefit from my new discovery for a reasonable, not yet determined, price. I see the potential for Dr. Lily and myself to pick up a few million bones each in a short time. Afterward, we will have an IPO and be able to retire to live in the lap of luxury forever.
Dove Field
By Hobo Hudson
I supervise Dad twice a day feeding the birds on the sun deck in our backyard. For some time now, after Dad has refilled the bird feeder in the evenings, an old dove lands on the top of the feeder. It continually scans the sky and never jumps down to eat. A few minutes later, a small flock of doves appear, and a series of tweets go back and forth. Then, the flock flies parallel to the sun deck rail, makes a left turn, another left turn and lands on the rail and walks to the base of the feeder. As they begin to land, their bodies tilt upward, and their tail feathers spread wide to cushion their landing.
It struck me how similar their actions were to hooman pilots when they come in with their planes to land at an airport. They always contact the tower and report their position, altitude and intentions. The tower then gives them landing instructions. Just before touching down, the pilots raise the planes’ nose and pull back the elevators for a gentle touchdown.
I bark a variety of bird languages but don’t understand a chirp of dove, and a while back, I asked my pal, Gimpy, next door to listen and give me a translation.
This is his translation: “Sundeck tower. Bomber Brigade-flight of six with you 100 feet north, decending through 50 feet. Inbound landing for refueling.
“Bomber Brigade. Sundeck tower. Enter a left downwind for niner. Wind 080 @ 6, Altimeter 29.89. Cleared to land. Contact ground on tweet 2 when clear of the active.
"Bomber Brigade: Roger.”
The Bomber Brigade is a group of young doves who acquired their nickname when, as rowdy teenagers, they used to sit on electric wires over sidewalks waiting for an unwary hooman to walk under them. They would carefully compute the hooman’s course and speed, and then—SPLAT! Since growing older, they have mended their ways but have never outgrown their nickname. I guess the reputation you acquire in your early life is hard to live down later.
By Hobo Hudson
I supervise Dad twice a day feeding the birds on the sun deck in our backyard. For some time now, after Dad has refilled the bird feeder in the evenings, an old dove lands on the top of the feeder. It continually scans the sky and never jumps down to eat. A few minutes later, a small flock of doves appear, and a series of tweets go back and forth. Then, the flock flies parallel to the sun deck rail, makes a left turn, another left turn and lands on the rail and walks to the base of the feeder. As they begin to land, their bodies tilt upward, and their tail feathers spread wide to cushion their landing.
It struck me how similar their actions were to hooman pilots when they come in with their planes to land at an airport. They always contact the tower and report their position, altitude and intentions. The tower then gives them landing instructions. Just before touching down, the pilots raise the planes’ nose and pull back the elevators for a gentle touchdown.
I bark a variety of bird languages but don’t understand a chirp of dove, and a while back, I asked my pal, Gimpy, next door to listen and give me a translation.
This is his translation: “Sundeck tower. Bomber Brigade-flight of six with you 100 feet north, decending through 50 feet. Inbound landing for refueling.
“Bomber Brigade. Sundeck tower. Enter a left downwind for niner. Wind 080 @ 6, Altimeter 29.89. Cleared to land. Contact ground on tweet 2 when clear of the active.
"Bomber Brigade: Roger.”
The Bomber Brigade is a group of young doves who acquired their nickname when, as rowdy teenagers, they used to sit on electric wires over sidewalks waiting for an unwary hooman to walk under them. They would carefully compute the hooman’s course and speed, and then—SPLAT! Since growing older, they have mended their ways but have never outgrown their nickname. I guess the reputation you acquire in your early life is hard to live down later.
Bone market report
By Hobo Hudson
As my investors know, my hedge fund has been making kibbles paw over paw by swapping bones for little pieces of paper and then shortly swapping the paper back for bones. As a result of all the favorable reports swirling around the Internet, investors have been clamoring for me to allow them to deposit their bones with me, and our little hedge fund has grown large enough to become a market mover in its own right.
Consequently, it has become more difficult for me to operate since my order for a million little pieces of paper drives the price up, and when I’m ready to swap back, my order to sell a million pieces of paper drives the price down. Dad says this is a normal economic phenomenon called “supply and demand.” When more investors want to buy, the price goes up, and when more investors want to sell, the price goes down.
I’m beginning to venture into the futures market and finally decided the time was right to test the market with a small personal investment. I’ve been seeing gasoline prices going up and up, so I put a 5-gallon can into my little red wagon and tugged it down to our local gasoline station and filled it up, thinking that when the price got higher, I could sell it to Dad for a nice profit.
My opportunity came this morning when we woke to no electricity and Dad hauled out his generator only to discover that he had no gasoline and our local station had no power and couldn’t pump any gasoline for him. I quickly doubled what I had paid for my gasoline and offered to sell it to Dad for that amount.
Dad screamed, “Hobo, that’s highway robbery! You’re trying to scalp me.”
“No, Dad,” I replied. “It’s simply a matter of supply and demand. I’ve got the supply, so I can demand whatever price I want.”
That didn’t go over too well with Dad. He grabbed me by my collar and snarled, “That’s not the way things work in this household. You’ve got the supply, and I’m demanding it. I need it for generating electricity to brew my coffee, and I need it now. Do you get the picture?”
“Yes, Dad,” I yelped, rasping and shaking my neck loose from Dad’s grip. “I understand now that you’ve explained it to me. You can have the gasoline free.”
I guess I’m going to lose kibbles on this deal, so I’ll be staying out of the futures market from now on.
Page 2
By Hobo Hudson
As my investors know, my hedge fund has been making kibbles paw over paw by swapping bones for little pieces of paper and then shortly swapping the paper back for bones. As a result of all the favorable reports swirling around the Internet, investors have been clamoring for me to allow them to deposit their bones with me, and our little hedge fund has grown large enough to become a market mover in its own right.
Consequently, it has become more difficult for me to operate since my order for a million little pieces of paper drives the price up, and when I’m ready to swap back, my order to sell a million pieces of paper drives the price down. Dad says this is a normal economic phenomenon called “supply and demand.” When more investors want to buy, the price goes up, and when more investors want to sell, the price goes down.
I’m beginning to venture into the futures market and finally decided the time was right to test the market with a small personal investment. I’ve been seeing gasoline prices going up and up, so I put a 5-gallon can into my little red wagon and tugged it down to our local gasoline station and filled it up, thinking that when the price got higher, I could sell it to Dad for a nice profit.
My opportunity came this morning when we woke to no electricity and Dad hauled out his generator only to discover that he had no gasoline and our local station had no power and couldn’t pump any gasoline for him. I quickly doubled what I had paid for my gasoline and offered to sell it to Dad for that amount.
Dad screamed, “Hobo, that’s highway robbery! You’re trying to scalp me.”
“No, Dad,” I replied. “It’s simply a matter of supply and demand. I’ve got the supply, so I can demand whatever price I want.”
That didn’t go over too well with Dad. He grabbed me by my collar and snarled, “That’s not the way things work in this household. You’ve got the supply, and I’m demanding it. I need it for generating electricity to brew my coffee, and I need it now. Do you get the picture?”
“Yes, Dad,” I yelped, rasping and shaking my neck loose from Dad’s grip. “I understand now that you’ve explained it to me. You can have the gasoline free.”
I guess I’m going to lose kibbles on this deal, so I’ll be staying out of the futures market from now on.
Page 2
