Deer Readers,
Deer??? Where?? Where’s the deer???
Sorry. I got mixed up. Let me try again.
Dear Readers,
You’re probably wondering why I’m here today in place of my adopted shelter human Jeff Kramer, and why I’m wearing this ridiculous Seattle Seahawks hat, and speaking of birds, I killed a goose once. Can’t talk about it. My family says it was a special kind of goose that is “protected”—whatever that means. Apparently I’d get in Big Trouble if word ever got out, especially in Canada.
Why am I even telling you this? Stay focused, Larry. Stay focused. That’s my name, by the way: Larry!
You called? What? Can I help you?
Where was I? Oh, right. The Seahawks. As you probably know, the Seahawks are in the Super Bowl. As you also might know, Jeff was born and whelped in Seattle, and he desperately wants to go to the game, which is this Sunday, Feb. 2, in East Ruffruffford, N.J.
Why should you care? Because I’m offering you an amazing opportunity that will allow you to watch the Big Game in the comfort of your home while experiencing the action in real time through Jeff’s eyes as he freezes his hindquarters off in the first outdoor Super Bowl ever played in the Northeast.
See, Jeff is too cheap to pay for his own ticket, and too ethical to ask his readers to buy him one. So I’ve agreed to beg for money on his behalf, which makes sense. After all, I have years of begging experience. My goal is to raise at least $1,500 in the next two days, enough to buy Jeff a seat in the muzzle-bleed level.
I don’t mean to hound you, but Jeff needs 150 readers to donate at least $10 each toward a ticket. You can send him an email pledge at [email protected] and then mail your check (payable to Jeff Kramer) to the Syracuse New Times at 1415 W. Genesee St., Syracuse 13204. Or you can drop off a check at the New Times in person. This all has to be done by 10 a.m. Friday. Fermenting squirrel is of the essence. No, wait. That’s not right. Time is of the essence. Time.
Checks only. No cats.
In exchange for your generosity, Jeff will live tweet from the Super Bowl.
And just so you know, Jeff has some financial skin in the game, as well. He has graciously agreed to pay for his own transportation, meals, lodging, alcohol and massage therapy. That’s just the kind of guy he is.
Let’s do this. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. No, really. Please. Jeff deserves this. He’s the one who drove me to the ER to have dozens of porcupine quills removed from my face. Twice. Without getting into specifics, there have been other instances where my path has crossed unexpectedly with the legal and medical professions.
You might say I have a history. I spent the early part of my life bouncing in and out of the SPCA (Society of Perfect Canine Awesomeness) on Molloy Road. Later, post-adoption, I experienced incidents involving a skunk, a deer, even a coyote. Another time I fell into an icy quarry, and Jeff almost fell in trying to save me. Once I ate a sick goldfish. I eat a lot of chipmunks. But I’m so much more complex than that.
My story is similar to that of the Seahawks’ outspoken All-Pro cornerback Richard Sherman, who is all over the news these days. We’re both accomplished athletes and scholars who proved our doubters wrong. Just like Richard Sherman, I, too, have a master’s degree from Stanford University in communications.
Ruh-roh. I’m now being informed that I actually graduated from Blue Prints Dog Studio’s puppy kindergarten in Nottingham Plaza. Barely. But let’s not get leashed up in technicalities. My point is that I am not some uneducated thug. I’m half rottweiler/shepherd and half Brittany spaniel/Italian greyhound.
I have a lot on the ball: dirt, slobber, maybe some maggot larvae. Currently the ball is buried in the back yard at a location known only to me. Months from now when it warms up, the ball will be unearthed and proudly deposited on the living room carpet. That will be my Super Bowl.
Go Seahawks!
Oh, one more thing: If contributions fall short of the amount needed for a ticket, the money will be donated to the Society of Perfect Canine Awesomeness on Molloy Road.
I need a nap.
For more Kramer columns like ‘Fido Needs Dough” – CLICK HERE