Pocket's concession speech

Bichons, Lhasos, Weimaraners, lend me your ears. I just got off the phone with Senator-elect Scott Brown to concede the election and congratulate him on a well run race. He promised to take me for a ride in his truck. I have never been in a truck. If Mommy and Daddy had bought me a truck I might be Senator-elect, but this is no time to look back in anger.

I would also like to thank Attorney General Martha Coakley on a race run. I have heard much criticism of her performance and I take exception. She did a commendable job for someone who cannot speak the English language, suffers from severe vertigo, is unable to find Massachusetts on a Texaco road map, and thinks Raider Sinica is a Yankee fan.

Then there is Joe Kennedy, the Labrador Retriever who adopted the Kennedy name I rejected and ran as an independent. He did not get many votes, maybe a few more than me. I would like to take this moment to remind him that the Tanner Brigade gets the yacht the last weekends of July and August.

I do think I cost myself some votes when I vacillated over the weekend. I tried to drag a throw rug over to cover it, but soon my vacillation was exposed in public. It is true that I did ask voters not to vote for me on election day, but that was because I did not want to influence the election in a negative manner by drawing votes to what was nothing more than a vanity candidacy, and I was afraid that my Saturday night tryst with a matted beagle, a randy Siamese, and a snout full of Foleytinis would be portrayed in a negative light.

(As well it should have. We got jiggy with it.)

Today we are left to reflect on the meaning of the election of the century of the week. During my campaign I have been told what humans want is change. But while my fellow candidates spoke, I stayed under the table, waited for food to drop, and listened. (Editor's note from Foley: She was peeing.)

This country is broken. Now I've broken stuff before. And I don't know how to fix things. But I can break it in a whole new way. Take a chair for instance. Say Foley and I were playing. We run into a chair, knock it over, and break the arm. Mommy is made because her chair is broken. Foley and I swear to change the chair while she is out. When Mommy goes to the store we chew the leg off. We changed the chair. But when Mommy comes home she's still mad. Because while we worked really hard on the chair, and we changed the chair, we didn't fix it.

What people need is a fix they can believe in. Ironically I did not learn this until after the election is over. Maybe a guy in a truck is someone who can fix it. But I doubt it. Nothing against him but until the non truck driving men (and women) there realize it's not just about change, but about fix, stuff is going to stay broken.

I do have one suggestion. We have given humans 235 years of bringing change and not fixing much, maybe it's time for us dogs to run things, so in 2010, vote for Canines for Change. We'll fix stuff (unless there's a rabbit, or a squirrel, or a warm spot in the sun, then all bets are off.)

A vote for Pocket is a vote for?

Election day is Tuesday and I was prepared to plead with my friends who are Massachusetts voters to write in the name Pocket Dog, and the address 60 Hodges Avenue (which is the site of the State Mental Hospital across the street, but I've marked it enough time so it is mine) Taunton MA, for United States Senator.

But now I am reluctant to do so, because these humans who are campaigning against me, and their supporters, are crazier then a rabid squirrel in the noonday sun. The pundits (I must admit, I don't know what that is, it sounds like something I leave on the rug) say the race is too close to call. Sometimes I wish I was too close to call, when I'm having fun upstairs, and Mommy wants me down.

I have to admit I've been fooling you. I know a little pup like me can't win a Senate seat. And if I did I wouldn't want to leave my Mom and move all the way down to Washing Town. But I did have a goal.

I wanted, from family, my TB friends, and Mommy's Facebook allies, to get ten votes. Then there would be stories in the paper about the little dog that somehow got ten votes and it didn't have any affect on the election at all.

But what if the votes that went to me cost someone the election? Then all those tea baggers, liberal wing nuts, and other mean tweeters and bloggers would descend on us and burn the cone of shame on our lawn.

I don't want that to happen. What I have found after I dipped my paw in the pee puddle of politics is that politicians are cruel, vicious people, like poor pitbulls that have been beat too much. Just today, while Mommy were watching the news, both candidates kept running advertisements doing nothing but bad barking about the other one, and all I could wonder is how two such miserable people could get a nomination for anything.

Then during nap time, the phone rings. Mommy, Foley and I were in a pig pile on the recliner when our peaceful sojourn was interrupted. Daddy answered and, no lie, it was the President asking us to vote for one of the candidates. Foley grabbed the phone and asked him if he found a dog tag she lost during our crashing of the state dinner, but that old President just kept prattling on. So Foley hung up on him. I am sure there will be no repercussions from that.

(Our nap was also interrupted by Foley's grumbling that I was on Momma's lap. She went "mumble, grumble, whine, grumble, hey I can lick my crotch, lick, lick, grumble, mumble, whine, whine, hey that crotch is tasty, lick, lick, grumble, mumble, grumble.)

So, I decided, after my nap, that I would not be asking for votes. But I had planned to ask for votes by telling you what a vote for Pocket was for: And I will still do so, because it's stuck in my brain and needs to come out.

A vote for Pocket is a vote against the idiocy of bipartisan politics. In short: MA state law read that the Governor appointed a Senator if a seat were to become vacant; but when MA democrats thought John Kerry would be elected President (Ba-ha-ha-ha) they changed the law so Republican Governor Romney would not be able to appoint a Republican, and made it an election; after Senator Kennedy passed they tried to change the law again to let Democratic Governor Patrick appoint a Democrat, but public opinion was so harsh they settled on a temporary appointment with an election pending; then the Democrats could not decide on a candidate making taxpayers pay for a costly primary; leading to Tuesday's election. What a big pile of Vick. So a vote for Pocket is a vote against big piles of Vick.

(I'm not even sure what I just wrote.)

A vote for Pocket is a vote for whimsy. Of laying with your friends on the grass under the bright sun thinking of silly, fanciful things you would do with your life, like being a fireman in space, or someday having a dog who got ten votes in a statewide election.

A vote for Pocket is a vote for laughter, where we live in a world where everything isn't so somber and each drop of rain is argued over and blame isn't assigned to it. A vote for Pocket is a declaration that life does not have to be so serious and glum.

A vote for Pocket is a signal that we've had enough of the extremes that this country has become. A vote for Pocket is not a vote for us or them, but for ourselves. A vote for Pocket says if you don't cut this vick out we'll turn the country over to the dogs.

A vote for Pocket would have been fun. It's too bad we don't live in a country where you could vote for a Pocket without having to worry that you'd become the story of the moment knocking Tiger Woods and Leno off the front page.

A vote for Pocket is a vote for innocence and we could all use some innocence again.

Pocket's Stomach Illness May Cause Her To Withdraw From Senate Race

AP (Affenpinscher Press) TAUNTON MA: Massachusetts Senatorial candidate Pocket Gay may have to abandon her independent candidacy after a bout of stomach unrest has made her and her family question if the stress of the campaign is too much for her delicate intestinal system.

Pocket first become stricken on Sunday night after spending a typical Sabbath of chasing balls, eating bacon, laying on laps, and strategizing with her campaign manager Foley Monster. Ms. Monster said that they were all enjoying a meal of hamburgers and soup when Pocket left Liquid Vick on the rug behind her Mommy’s chair. It was at that time that Mommy put her on a chicken and rice diet.

Steve Pagliuca, Democratic candidate for Senator, and managing partner of the Boston Celtics, questioned exactly why a candidate for a major office would live with, and take direction from, someone called Mommy insinuating that Pocket was not experienced enough to gain the seat. Ms Monster countered that Pagliuca signed Stephon Marbury, who subsequently produced Internet videos of himself eating Vaseline, to be back up point guard, contributing to the Celtics early exit from last year’s NBA playoffs, and insinuating that Paglicua did not have the acumen to be a successful candidate. Pagliuca could not be reached for a retort because he was curled under his bed crying for his Mommy.

By Monday morning Pocket insisted she was over her unrest and hit the campaign trail hard, going from one end of the flexi leash all the way to the other. She continued on this vigorous pace Tuesday, and had resumed her normal diet, but by Wednesday morning the Liquid Vicks had returned.

But despite her internal distress Pocket insisted on going to an assisted living center in Norton MA to put a smile on all the faces of the Seniors who had gathered there, and in turn they promised their vote. Democratic candidate Martha Coakley was unimpressed with Pocket’s Senior Center endorsement saying she doubted if any of the Seniors could either understand the ballot or had the strength to push the little pin through the card.

Her busy day got the best of Candidate Pocket last night as the Liquid Vicks returned, and then this morning she would not take food. Her Daddy lives by one rule, if a dog is eating, a dog is fine, if a dog is not eating, its time to panic, which Daddy does so well. He made Mommy call the vet and even came home at lunchtime, where he took Pocket out, and she formed a slightly better Vick, ate some food and even played ball for a short bit.

Candidate Michael Capuano tried to take advantage of Pocket’s illness bringing into question who this Daddy character was and insinuating that he was the elusive Big Papa who is involved with the wicked weave wearing Kim on Real Housewives of Atlanta. But Pocket’s Mommy scoffed at Capuano’s suggestion saying that no one would ever describe Pocket’s Daddy as “big.”

Republican candidate for Senate Jeff Beatty also weighed in on the subject, but this being Massachusetts, and he being a Republican, no one is interested and no one cares.

Pocket is going to be falling the three R’s for the next several days: Rest, relaxation, and rice. She will then discuss with her family her political future. Since in recent polls Pocket has emerged as the front runner in the race all the candidates are waiting for this important decision.

How my crazy sister will help me get elected to the Senate

Hello friends. Pocket here. Wow, what a crazy week it’s been. I’m no longer a Kennedy. I am very happy with that. I think it’s time to let Pocket be Pocket. There was the wonderful afternoon with our friends on the yacht, then Foley’s embarrassing break down at the DVA’s. This morning Foley’s friends (enablers?) broke her out of re-hab and she’s back home, sleeping with Mommy after finishing a big bowl of Foley-tinis.

At first I thought how terribly Foley’s actions would affect my Senate chances. No one wants a skelaton in their closet, even if it’s a five pound one. But then I realized, all great politicians have crazy siblings.

Bill Clinton had Roger. Jimmy Carter had Billy. Jack Kennedy had Teddy, Teddy had Jack, and Bobby was lucky enough to have them both. Jeb Bush had W. who started an unnecessary war and forgot to listen to the weather report for the Mississippi Delta.

Maybe that one wasn’t good. But if you’re running for office, crazy in the family is never a bad thing.

I had begun to wonder, after losing the Kennedys and Foley’s incident, if I should abandon my Senate run. And then on Wednesday Zoe’s Mom Connie Gross drew the most wonderful picture of me in the Senate. I have been inspired to continue with my campaign for all puppies everywhere and owe Connie Gross my forever thanks.

Now enough with the Gross lets get back to the Crazy.

Having Foley as my sister means any mistake I may make either on the campaign or in office won’t top the news cycle for long because what I can do bad Foley can do badder. I will always publicly support my big sister, but then will “accidentally” speak into an open mike calling my beloved sister a “jack-ass.”

There is plenty of precedent to show Foley’s mistakes can only help me: Woodrow Wilson’s brother Desmond left the beloved sitcom Sanford and Son making many fans angry, but it did not hurt President Wilson; The unfulfilled promise and often selfish play of NBA guard Rickey Pierce did not prevent Franklin Pierce from being President; the slovenly housekeeping of Oscar Madison did not stop James Madison from reaching great heights; and don’t even get me started on Kenny Reagan.

So every time Foley either slaps or insults a cat, leads a raid on an unsuspecting castle, storms on stage at an awards show (we are keeping her away from the Emmy’s, Lord knows what she will do if Cherry Jones doesn’t win for 24,) it’s a plus for me.

So go ahead Foley, let your Crazy flag fly and I’ll ride your warped coattails all the way into the Senate.

Goodnight and God bless

The Pocket Kennedy saga concludes

Pocket has made it into the Kennedy inner sanctum at Hyannis Port and convinced The Kennedy that she is a real member of the family. Just as she was about to be fully backed by the family a woman notices a puddle on the floor.

“What is this puddle?” the woman asked.

“Ah, don’t worry, ah, must be spilled chowder,” The Kennedy said.

Pocket let out a big sigh of relief: If they couldn’t tell the difference between chowder and pee then who was she to disagree.

“Now Pocket, we are going put the entire weight of the Kennedy family behind you.” He grabbed a briefcase and opened it. He took out a paper with rows of people’s name followed by numbers. “This is a list of people who will be contributing to your campaign,” he said.

Pocket looked at the list. “Well isn’t that sweet,” she said. “I have about 100 of my doggy friends who will be giving me a million dollars and moving to Massachusetts to vote for me.”

“Ahh, yes, that’s impressive, we have a million people on the docks in Ireland ready to come ashore and vote for you for a hundred dollars. It’ll ahh, all balance out.”

Pocket continued to study the paper. “Why would all these kind people give me money, they haven’t even sniffed me yet?”

“Well, Pocket, they ahh, give you their money, and then they will, ahh, tell you how to vote on issues.”

Pocket stopped looking at the list. “Oh, I don’t know about that Mr. Kennedy. I was planning on looking at each issue individually, weighing the pro and cons of each, and voting on what I believe is the best for the country.”

“Hah hah hah hah hah!” the Kennedy laughed so hard chowder came out of one nostril and Scotch out of the other. ‘We ought to have you speak at the correspondents dinner, you’d kill there.”

Pocket tilted her head and looked up at him confused.

“Oh my god, ah, you’re not kidding. You really are a pup aren’t you? Well ahh, this is how our country works, men, ahh, give you money to help you, ahh, get elected, you do what they want so you can, ahh, get elected again.”

“Oh I don’t even like my Mommy telling me what to do, quiet down, get off the back of the couch, don’t pee there. I think people should give me money and let me pass legislation as I see fit, and if they disagree, they can give their money to someone else next time,” Pocket said.

The Kennedy gave her a look of disappointment and took back the list. “I am sorry Pocket but no Kennedy could ever have so little knowledge of how the American political system works. I’m afraid I am going to have to not only withdraw our support for your candidacy, but also ask you not to refer to yourself as a Kennedy during the campaign.”

Pocket felt her little heart breaking. The Kennedy stood up and told her that she was going to have to leave. She walked out of the house with her head down just as she heard the lady Kennedy say “Hey, this isn’t chowder.”

She was surprised to find her sister Foley waiting for her. “What did they say?” Foley asked.

“I wouldn’t agree to let people who contribute money to the campaign tell me how to vote so they said I wasn’t a Kennedy and asked me to leave,” Pocket said with her tail between her legs.

Foley gave her a playful nip and then a big kiss. “What are you doing that for I failed at becoming a Kennedy?” she said.

“You stood up for what you believe Pocket. You showed that you couldn’t be bought, most humans wouldn’t be able to do that. And when you’re elected Senator you won’t be beholden to special interest groups, just your doggy friends. I’m proud of you,” Foley said giving her a lick.

“You’ve never been proud of me before!” Pocket said, her tongue curling into a smile.

“Well I am today, now look over there, see that Portuguese Water Dog on that boat, that’s Splash, and look on deck, there’s 12, Chappy, Whiskey, Matilda, Luca, Tadertot, Shiloh, Cali, Hurley, Max, Tupper, Pokey, Macdougal, Brody, Sandy, Mollie, Morgan, Hattie, Zoey, Hobo, Erin and Cocoa Puff, and there are more below deck, all here to support you. Splash is going to steal the boat and go sailing, you coming?”

“Did they bring a million dollars?” Pocket asked.

“They brought their love and friendship,” Foley told her.

“That’s nice but I have a tough primary ahead.” Foley told her to forget about the election for one day and have fun sailing with their friends. Pocket smiled he widest smile and asked if she could pee on the deck.

“Of course you can Pocket, now let’s get over to the boat before they cast off.”

The two sisters bounced toward the ship, their tails wagging. “What do you think about another family?” Pocket asked. “How about Pocket Bush?”

“I think Pocket’s just fine,” Foley said as the climbed on the deck and set out to sea.

Pocket reaches the inner sanctum

Pocket has gone to Hyannis Port to meet her new family, the Kennedys, but, upon finding out that she was neutered, and sexually inactive, it was determined she could not possibly be a true Kennedy and had the door slammed in her little face. But when all seemed lost the door opened.

“Ahh,” the Kennedy man who opened the door said. “A neutered sex-less Kennedy, now, ahh, that could work for us. No sex scandals, no Vatican denying annulment, you might be, ahh, on to something here,” he said motioning for Pocket to cross the threshold. When she did she entered a large living room with floor to ceiling windows giving an expansive view of the Atlantic.

“Oh no,” Pocket thought, “all that water’s going to make me pee.’

The man pointed towards a chair and told Pocket to sit. She hopped up on it. “Would you like some chodaw?” the Kennedy asked. ‘No thank you,’ I answered, “chowder gets stuck in my fur and smells.”

“Ah, that’s the most disgusting thing I have ever heard,” Kennedy said, “but I like it. How are your drinking habits?”

“As soon as it gets poured I’m right over there lapping it up before my sister gets hers,” I said. “I’m told I get more on the ground than in my mouth.” The Kennedy was smiling and nodding his head along with her. “And if I drink too much too fast I get that snorts and end up peeing on the floor.”

“My God, it’s like looking in the mirror,” the Kennedy said. “Now, about ahh, driving, do you do it?”

“Oh no I don’t drive at all,” Pocket said.

“That’s good, we’ve ahh, we’ve had our problems driving.”

“I do like to stick my head out of the car while it’s moving,” I said.

“Umm, yes, uhh, you might have to stop doing that, we’ve, uhh, found out the hard way it’s better to keep your head in the car.”

Pocket thought that would be a small sacrifice to make.

“Have you served in the ahh, military, it is ahh, very important to have that on your, ahh resume.”

“My sister and I led the assault on the Princess’ castle the day Tanner went to Rainbow Bridge,” I said.

“Ahh, very good, code, the walls have ears, and what was your rank?”

“Lollipop!”

The Kennedy was taken aback, and then held up his hand. “Well the Senator always believed in don’t ask don’t tell. What is your position on health care?”

“Every time I go to the Doctor I get something rammed up my butt hole and I don’t like it. I don’t think we should have to take it up the bum hole every time we get sick.”

The Kennedy smashed his hand on the table spilling the contents of his tray, making two great tastes that taste great together, chowder and scotch. “There it is. Not even the Senator put it so succinctly. American shouldn’t have to take it up the bum hole every time they go to the Doctor. I am going to have to pass that on to Barak. Pocket, we are proud to have you as a Kennedy and you have our full support for the Senate seat.”

Pocket’s tongue curled up in a big smile. Things could not have possibly gone better and she could see herself in Washington passing laws to help all her doggy friends.

“Hey,” the female Kennedy said. “What is there a puddle under the table?”

Pocket’s smile quickly disapeered and her stubby tail went between her legs.

To be continued

Pocket announces that she is a candidate for US Senate

I have come here today, to announce that I am officially a candidate for the seat of United States Senator from the Commonwealth Of Massachusetts.

Some of you may feel that too little time has passed since our beloved Senator Kennedy’s death to announce my candidacy, I would say to them to remember, I am a dog and for every one day you age, I age seven, so to me, the Senator has been dead weeks.

Others say to me “Pocket: Why set your sights so high? Why not run for the House of Representative first?” The answer is simple. I am not housebroken.

As was done almost 50 years ago it is time to pass the torch to a new generation, a generation born in this century, this decade, the past couple of years actually, and a new species, because let’s face it, dogs could not possibly do a worse job than humans.

I vow on this day that the only tail I will chase in Washington is my own, when Senators go out for the night for a little tail it will be to meet with me, that the days of one butt sniffs the other politics are over.

I am ready to take a position on the most important issues of the day. I say neither Rowe nor Wade but paddle. I am for Universal Health Care because Mommy’s granddaughters tell me when they go to the Doctor’s they get a lollipop and I am for free lollipops for everyone. Also I am supporting free veterinary care for all because dammit we deserve it.

Jon must immediately return to Kate. You have a litter with a bitch, and the bitch’s Mommy doesn’t sell the litter, the stud doesn’t get to wander off. And stop wearing those stupid shirts. When they get blocked out I think I’m having a stroke.

Also, it will now be law that all female dogs are referred to as “lollipops,” while that other word is reserved for mean women who don’t treat pups properly.

Cesar Milan will be deported back to Mexico: All that “humans being pack leaders”
nonsense needs to cease and desist. Chief Glynn Johnson will become pooper-scooper to the entire Los Angeles area cleaning up after every dog. Michael Vick can do the same in Philadelphia. We will pass legislation to appoint someone to go to Tennessee and explain to Billy Ray Cyrus that having his daughter working a stripper pole on television is neither entertaining nor good parenting, and for heaven sakes enough with the hair cut and soul patch. We need to get Michael Jackson buried or hand him off to science.

And free Auntie Bev!

I have listened to my constituents and there will be free ice cream for all dogs with a $10.00 fill up. Veterinarians will be required to measure a dog’s temperature by placing a device under their leg pit. The doctor shouldn’t be determining my body temperature the same way Dick Cheney instructed agents to determine if there was a bomb on a passenger at LAX. Fireworks will be forever banned.

I know that there is a long road ahead of us. Many of you, initially, will not take my candidacy seriously. It would be a great leap of faith for you to support my candidacy. But what is a dog but loyal, compassionate, your best friend? And is that not what we need in Washington?

There will be no sexual scandals during my term, unless you consider a candidate licking herself a scandal. I will walk across the aisle to work on getting legislation passed, but if my colleagues do not work together then I will follow in the steps of the great Daniel Webster and leave a steaming load of Vick in their desk.

Do not dismiss me lightly. I may be small, but I am mighty. I may not be house-trained, but I am love-trained. Join me and we will bring some old fashion dog sense. If you support me please go to my blog page and list yourself as a follower.

Yes we can. Change is coming. It’s my diaper. I spent so much time working on this I think I peed.

So change is definitely coming.

Thank you.