Dogs doing lists #32: The Music of a Single Sphere Blasting through the Void
Dogs lamenting as someone somewhere plucks a tuneless guitar and the wailing siren finally dies on a wrecked, smoking ambulance, “This song is about me.”
Dogs asserting that all gun violence is merely a perpetually cascading 21-gun salute carrying harmonically throughout the galaxy, and pushing a Stoeger Condor Competition Combo O/U 12 gauge shotgun into your face as evidence.
Dogs observing the crime scene in Sharon Tate’s mansion as an inspector snaps photographs and loitering agents heave heavy sighs while drying blood
seeps into the woodwork, and reflecting to a hand-held voice recorder, “This is a song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles.”
Dogs dragging a corpse through the snowy Northern silence and feeding it to a wood chipper, grinding echoes filling the hills, and glancing up with a start to find a doppelgänger feeding a second corpse with a grind of a higher pitch to a second wood chipper—before pressing experimentally on the first corpse to alter the timbre of the mechanical whine as the second wood chipper now follows suit to produce, in fact, a few notes from a familiar tune you are now struggling to make out, until the camera zooms across a whole countryside filled with corpse-laden wood chippers, all combining to form a lush, symphonic rendition for blade and bone and combustion engine of the children’s song “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.”
Dogs cupping an ear to the throbbing pulse of a world without end, murmuring, “Magnificent.”
Dogs sucking the dialogue out of a barroom fight in a 19th century frontier town and watching as the scene progresses with slamming doors and clomping, rattling spurs accompanying stern scowls, followed by the scraping stools of the patrons ducking for cover and mouthing silent, worried observations under the tabletops as guns are drawn overhead and angry faces mime confrontational speech before suddenly guns start firing, shattering glass and socking slugs into flesh while everywhere fistfights break out and tables are overturned and the saloon generally dissolves into a speechless cartoon cloud of fists and arms and ricocheting bullets until at last the commotion subsides as the silent patrons lie silent and bloodied and lifeless on the silent, dusty floor, insensible to dogs stepping hesitantly into the mess to announce to an unseen camera, “These fuckers died for NOTHING.”
Dogs attempting to placate a rioting populace with an Auto-Tuned five-tone musical phrase in a major scale.
Dogs shrieking hysterically, “MONEY,” as a mountain of malfunctioning cash registers clang and ring endlessly toward a history without a future.
Dogs focusing a sound cannon blaring the Looney Tunes closing theme onto a black hole until the animated visage of Porky Pig emerges from within to deliver a final “TH-TH-TH-THAT’S ALLFOLKS!” and the entire universe shudders, lurches, and swirls away into nothingness with a POP.
Dogs distilling all culture into a single YouTube video and placing it below for the future delectation of the archaeologists from the worst of all possible worlds.