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Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

Brain Farts: A Bone to Pick
	By Kevin Gibson November 1, 2000

What if we switched places with dogs? Toilets and water fountains could be combined. Big-business CEOs would be referred to as “the alphas.” Who would fly the airplanes? Dogs don’t have thumbs.

We would need EEO legislation and equal rights amendments for cats. And I’m betting, since dogs would have freedom of choice, that Purina would fold. Ironically, Armour (the company that makes Vienna Sausages and Potted Meat Food Product), probably would flourish. Same ingredients, different presentation.

Rabies and distemper would run rampant because dogs would be too busy with work to get their shots. I’m thinking chairs would look different.

What would they call an ugly girl? And what would female dogs (I don’t think I’m allowed to write “bitch” in this publication) say to admonish their husbands? It might be: “Dogs are all alike; they’re all just men.”

We humans would be out of the loop when it comes to home life. Dogs would run to greet each other after a long, hard day. And they wouldn’t need a “watch-human.” We can’t even bark. If someone came to the door, it would be like, “Hey! Someone’s at the door! We should be alarmed!” And our dogs would tell us to be quiet, it’s just grandma. Dumb human. The saying would have to be changed to, “I wish I could lead a human’s life.”

The Super Bowl would be changed from American football to a brisk game of fetch. Restaurants would consist of dogs sitting around waiting for each other to drop food. Do I really want to eat out of the same bowl every day?

What would this mean for the Iditarod?

We would be tossed aside, hit by cars, allowed to breed indiscriminately (or would dogs be more responsible about human overpopulation?), and we would wind up in people shelters waiting to die — unless some nice dog family came along and wanted to adopt us.

Would the constant jingling of our collars drive us nuts? And would the dogs continue to let us wear our clothes? Or would they give us dumb little sweaters to wear with idiotic sayings like “Super Pet” and “Four on the Floor”?

I will never, ever be able to catch a Frisbee in my mouth. I’m sorry.

I think I’ll ask my roommate’s dog about all this when I get home. But she’ll probably just say, “Aw, look, isn’t he cute? He’s trying to tell me something.” Then she’ll pat me on my head and give me a crunchy, bone-shaped thing that tastes like butt.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just let it go.

Contact this writer at kgramone@aol.com. Tell him the name of your favorite sitar player.