So let’s say that I was having dinner this weekend with my dog agility boyfriend Robert Downey Jr. in a Mexican restaurant. Where everybody orders Mexican food except for Robert Downey Jr., who orders ribs and fries. Because Mexican food is shite. I think shite is a Hollywood movie star word that means too spicy, as far as I can figure? I will tell you this, though. Robert Downey, Jr. has no trouble drinking the beverage portion of Mexican food.

Margaritas, not shite.

So naturally, as it can happen when you put a swarm of dog agility ladies together in a cluster, me and some of the other ladies are discussing footwear. We have a hive mentality, us dog agility ladies, and the topic of the night is high heels. There are oohs and aahs as various footwears come in.

I personally, have come from work, where work equals the wine bar across the street, so am wearing muddy clogs.

What? You think I dress up for the wine bar?

In this dog agility circle, footwear easily segues into flicks.

Because, you know. Chicks. Flicks. Chick flick.

You with me so far?

Everybody knows what a flick is, righty-o? Or using the verb, to flickaway?

In the holy order of the Greg Derrett Handling System, we enjoy very much keeping our dog in a straight line, on one side of us. Dearest dog thou shalt not blind cross via my ass to get to the other side. Or cut in front. My dog knows to stay on that one side until I show dear dog an arm change meaning we have a turn. Which I only do on a turn. Never on a straight line.

If your dog breaketh thy commandment and just turns on his or her’s own, we do not rain praise down on the dog in the form of weenies and cow milking devices.

Oh no.

We curse.

Loud.

Muthaflicka.

If the flick is horrendous beyond belief, making mockery of one’s strong foundation of circle work and careful, consistent training of arm changing, and important use of special occasion arm for threadles and serps, and rewarding only in the reinforcement zone, this flick is upgraded. Red alert status.

Horror flick.

And if it happens during Dirt Nite or in the mud in the pouring rain?

A dirty flick.

Can there be a dirty horror flick?

I shall cite an example drawing from real life. Not that I ever draw from not real life, but you know. Sometimes I get confused. Me and Otterpop, we are in a dusty and dirty covered arena in our fair city of Santa Rosa, steps from the racetrack and a short drive to all your favorite shopping including Starbucks and Trader Joes. We are running fast around a gentle turn towards the finish line, going super speedy and surely about to win. Otterpop is on my left side, I am rotating my shoulders and my eye is on my dog, we are accelerating through a loop to the end and it is the Grand Prix, and without warning, in her glee, she peels off and over the a-frame WAY THE MUTHAFLICKA OVER THERE.

A dirty, muthaflicking horror flick of a chick flick.

The moral of this story? Thou better not flick. Goddamn.

However. I have cleared up one thing with our leader, Robert Downey Jr. If you so choose to cheat, just a teensy, weensy bit, not exactly on purpose but there’s been a mutiny somewhere and you screwed up the rear cross and here you are left, faced with no other way to get in those weave poles except the teensiest flick, there is a way to forgiveness.

You get to your knees, you make your sign of the cross, say a dozen Hail Mary’s, right there on the course.

Genuflick.

And maybe, just maybe, if you are truly sorry and you are truly repentant, all will be forgiven.

Amen.

Please direct any further questions of flicks to Her Supreme Mistress of Chick Flickage Verbage, my friend Anne. I will be busy washing my mouth out with holy water. At the wine bar. Muthaflickas.