You know what they put in the water, don't ya?
		Fluoride.  Yeah, fluoride. On the pretext that 
		it strengthens your teeth.  That's ridiculous.
		You know what this stuff does to ya?  It actually
		weakens your will, takes away the capacity for
		free and creative thought, and makes you a slave . . . . 

						CONSPIRACY THEORY
						Brian Helgeland

				MAN BITES  

     "Uh, yes, hello, um, this is, ah, someone who lives in your
neighborhood, and, uh, it's very near your house, ahm, and I just wanted
to let you know that your dog has been barking non-stop all night long
ever since you went out tonight.  And, er, if you can't figure out a way
to control your dog's barking, ah, I'm going to have to report you to, oh
well, to the Police Department, um, or to the Humane Society, or, uh,
something like that, because your dog is always waking us up at night when
you're not home, ahm, and even waking me up in the day when you're not
home, ah, and I'm getting pretty tired of listening to it bark.  So, uh,
thank you."
     I pop open a diet soda and replay the message on my answering
machine.  That voice.  That guy.  I know that voice so well.  He always
talks so loudly when he and his girlfriend come home at 3:00 or 4:00 in
the morning.  And barking, huh?  Jeez!  From the time they go out at like
sunset, to the time they come home at 3:00 or 4:00, when, I might add,
they start up their very loud conversations while they bang around pots
and pans to make dinner, and play their answering machine that's so loud
even I could take messages off of it, their dog barks like a maniac.  Do I
leave anonymous messages on their machine?  Do I report their dog?  And
while I'm at it, do I ever report their noisy, stereo-blasting parties
that end when the sun comes up?  After they've tossed all their beer
bottles into my yard?  No.  I take dog biscuits down and throw them over
the fence and assure Rocco--I think that's his name--that his owner will
be coming home "before you know it, boy"--unfortunately.  I take the time
to talk to Rocco, try to help him get through the anxiety of being left
alone, try to calm him down.  Anonymous phone call, huh?  And I'm not
feeling real great already because guess who won the award for the most
gray hair at my high school class reunion?  Anonymous phone call, huh? 
Jeez!  What a sonofa--

     (Sniff Sniff).  "Pssst!  Hey Rocco!  You there?"
     (Sniff Sniff).  "Yeah, hey Mitzi!  How's it going?"
     "Pretty good, Rocco.  Wanna give somebody the business tonight?"
     "My butthead is home tonight; we could do him.  BEVERLY HILLS 90210
is on. You know that's his favorite show.  Can you believe it?  He's
thirty years old, and his favorite show is BEVERLY HILLS 90210.  What an
idiot!  So you know there ain't no way he's going out the door tonight, at
least not between 7:00 and 8:00.  And even if he does go out and deal
drugs or whatever it is he does for a living, ruining that one hour for
him would be great.  How about yours?" 
     "Heh heh heh.  Rocco, my butthead is going to his high school reunion
tonight.  These human beings are sooooo pathetic.  They suffer themselves
through this idiotic ritual, guzzling beer, comparing stomach flab,
counting gray hairs or how much hair's left, and moaning about how the old
days were good days, even if they really weren't, and how life now is so
complex and unpleasant, and they play their sappy old music, and sing
their ancient class songs as badly as they sang them at graduation, and
swear that these friends are the best friends, and then go home, sober up,
and forget about each other for another five years.  Yeah, Mr. Talking
Bubbles is out for the night, so let's do yours."
     "At least yours lets you sleep in the house on a nice soft bed." 
     "True.  And one of these days the bed will be mine. All mine. 
Whenever he rolls near the edge I kick him off.  He comes to pretty fast,
all dazed and confused, mumbling about old age creeping up on him or some
ridiculous thing.  If I kick him off enough times, pretty soon he'll be
too afraid of sleeping that high off the floor.  Before you know it, he'll
be in a sleeping bag on the ground and the whole bed will be mine." 
     "Gee, Mitzi, I guess I'll never know what it feels like to sleep on a
real bed.  Bad enough mine's so stupid he forgets to feed me, but all I
have for a bed is this concrete slab, not to mention my own mosquito
flying circus.  If I trained the little buggers, I could make a million
bucks."
     "You know, Rocco, if it weren't for this fence between us, I'd invite
you up to sleep on my bed tonight.  Maybe we could both bark all night for
your, heh heh, 'master.'"
     "That would be funny, all right."
     "The mosquitoes are pretty bad these days.  I hope Pea Brain has you
on heart worm pills, doesn't he?"
     "Yeah finally, by accident.  It just so happened that he was watching
SLING BLADE, and when it got to the point right before Karl kills that
family's pain in the ass, I broke through the screen door and chomped down
on Mr. Brainiac.  I couldn't have timed it any better.  Karl lowered the
boom with the lawnmower blade just as I grabbed old Dumbo right where he
lives.  Guess he knows now that it could happen to him too, just like in
the movies." 
    "So how did that get him to put you on heart worm pills?"
     "Mr. Crackhead is so lazy that it took him four days before he
finally repaired the screen.  The mosquitoes were swarming.  Finally his
girlfriend says, 'There are so many mosquitoes in here, Wally. I hope you
have Rocco on heart worm pills since you make him live outside like some
kind of outcast.' I almost licked her.  And she forced him to take me to
the vet the very next day when Dufus admitted he'd never even taken me to
a vet." 
     "Rocco, you don't really think he deals drugs, do you?  You could
be in danger if his customers start showing up here because they're as
upset with him as you are."
     "Well, Mitzi, you tell me.  He's always home in the day sleeping, and
he goes out a lot at night to party hearty.  I mean, whenever his
girlfriend makes him watch JEOPARDY, after each contestant answers a
question, old Einstein always says, 'Huh!  I didn't know that.' Like he's
bragging or something that he has the IQ of a boiled peanut.  Come to
think of it, he never has much money so he must be doing drugs, Mitzi, or
I don't know what." 
     "But Rocco, how does he pay the rent?" 
     "She pays the rent.  That's how come she's here so much.  She
actually lives at home with her folks, and I think she kind of likes
getting back home to forget Mr. Always Snoozin', Always Losin' from time
to time.  She's got the best of both worlds.  Her own place, although
Feeble Knieval's usually here, and she's got an escape to her parents'
home when she has to get away." 
      "Hmmm, I think I like her Rocco.  Maybe I shouldn't bark tonight.  I
don't want to ruin BEVERLY HILLS 90210 for her. She sounds like a pretty
good butthe--I mean human being." 
     "Hah hah hah.  Mitzi, that's a good one.  She can't stand BEVERLY
HILLS 90210. Tonight's the one night she definitely won't come over. She
keeps riding him about how much he drools over that show, and how he tapes
all the episodes, and how he joined the fan club, and how he keeps buying
all the merchandise.  She finally made him take down all his 90210
posters." 
     "He sure sounds pathetic, all right.  Okay, Rocco, I'll get my
butthead out of the house before 7:00.  And the minute I hear his car
leave, I'll keep barking until I hear the car drive back in.  I better
knock around the water bowl to make sure he fills it up.  Barking non-stop
for hours and hours sure can make me thirsty."
     "Sounds good, Mitzi.  I'll have my ear plugs on.  Give him the
business.  You know, if we weren't both fixed . . . ." 
     "I know, Rocco.  As if we were the ones who were broken."
     "Yah, Mitzi, as if we were the ones who didn't have any self control. 
Oh well, catch you later."

--gun.  I listen to the message on my machine yet one more time in a kind
of Twilight Zone disbelief.  Mitzi comes up to me wagging her cute little
tail.  "Poor, Mitzi," I say, "I know you were lonely tonight.  I'm sooooo
sorry.  I left you alone sooooo late.  Let me fix you a nice little
snacky."
     Out of the refrigerator I pull two of Mitzi's favorites:  kalbi and
pizza.  Holding out both to her, I ask, "Which one would you like, my poor
little Mitz-Witz?"
     She is so cute.  She stands up on her hind legs and taps at both
plates with her two front paws.  I laugh, put the plates on the dining
room table, then gather her up in my arms.  "You are such a smart little
girl," I say.  "My Queen Mitzi worked hard tonight, huh?  Barking barking
barking."  We sit down at the table, she happily seated on my lap, and I
proceed to shovel pizza and kalbi into that bottomless pit of a stomach
until both are gone.