They already do that. But before I read them your recommended book, I'm going to read them your essay from a while back. I envision them sprawled in the patio chairs, tongues lolling, laughing their asses off:

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 02 Dec 04 - 03:25 PM

As some of you folks of above average deductive powers may have deduced, the "Zeke Floyd" posts made to this and other threads are totally bogus, spurious and fraudulent. Yes, I posted those messages! However, they are based upon fact. There really is a Zeke Floyd! I have actually met the man! I was so impressed, if that's the appropriate word, that I felt compelled to create a "Zeke Floyd" alter-ego and bring him to life here on the MOAB. Yet, as is often the case, truth is stranger than fiction and I am pleased to present the following true story of my experience with Zeke Floyd and his dogs.   

As I was returning from my latest road trip, I noticed two dogs, a yellow female and a black and tan male, on the shoulder of the road a few hundred feet north of our driveway. When I stopped to check the mailbox the dogs must have thought I had stopped to interact with them in some fashion because they came loping down the road and up to the van as if they were expecting something. Having no use for dogs, I told them to get the hell away. I then drove down my quarter-mile-long driveway to the house and began unloading a few things from the van. So, what should appear in a few moments, snooping around and scaring my cats? You guessed it, the very same two dogs. I again told them to scram, whereupon they ran about fifty feet away and lie down in the middle of the driveway.

Now, the road trip from which I had returned had been replete with dogs: my stepson's two exceedingly rambunctious half-grown Labradors, my parents' obsessive-compulsive dachshund, and my daughter's long-haired Chihuahua puppy which lives in her purse. I was completely dogged out and in the mood for feline companionship and these two strays had decided to take over my yard, sending my cats onto rooftops and into trees. It appeared that dogs had become part of my recent karma and that the karmic debt had not yet been paid in full.

I was actively bemoaning my apparent fate when I noticed that the yellow female was wearing a collar. "Aha!" I thought to myself, "A collar means an owner, so these are lost dogs, not strays. All I need to do is contact the owner and he'll come get 'em." So, I attempted to coax the collar-wearing bitch to me so I could see if the collar had a tag with the owner's name and phone number. She came within a few feet and I could see a brass nameplate on the collar, but she wouldn't come quite close enough for me to actually grab the collar and read the thing. We played the approach-avoidance game for about fifteen minutes until I was actually able to grab the collar and read the name "Zeke Floyd" followed by a phone number. So, I went inside, called Mr. Floyd, and told him where his dogs could be found.

Now, another thing I had done on that road trip from which I had just returned, in addition to visiting relatives with dogs, was to visit the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida. That brief but total immersion into the world of Surrealism couldn't hold a candle to the surreal scene that unfolded when Zeke Floyd came to get his dogs.

The sun had gone down and darkness was upon the face of the homestead. I was outside with a flashlight so I could make sure Zeke's dogs didn't decide to go visit some other fool's place now that their owner was on his way to relieve me of them. I heard a vehicle in the driveway, saw headlights coming around the final curve and was greeted by the sight, sound and smell of a mid-1960's Dodge pickup truck with rattling body panels and clattering valve lifters emitting a cloud of noxious oily blue smoke. The driver didn't turn the engine off, presumably because he wasn't sure the thing would crank back up if he did so. The driver's side door creaked open and Zeke Floyd himself stepped out into the oil-smoke-impregnated atmosphere, carrying a ten-foot length of manilla rope in his right hand. If you want to know what Zeke looks like, just go to the "Kenny Tague" post below, click on the picture link, and imagine what Kenny would look like if he were sixty-five years old and had no teeth. "Howdy!" I said to Zeke in my best attempt at neighborliness, only to be totally ignored as he lunged for the yellow dog which skillfully squirmed away from his grasp. If I had been entertaining visions of some kind of happy reunion between adoring, trusting canines and their loving master, they were quickly put to rest. It was obvious that the dogs liked Zeke a lot less than they liked me, which was none at all. "Dammit, dawg!" Zeke hollered as he watched both his missed target and its companion run off down the driveway. He then climbed back into his smoking truck, nearly backed it into my own much newer and non-smoking Dodge pickup, and roared off down the driveway, never having acknowledged my existence in any fashion.      

Well, I thought I'd seen the last of Zeke and his dogs at that point, but almost as soon as I had walked into the house I heard Zeke's truck heading back up the driveway. I stepped back outside, popped the flashlight back on, and there were the dogs again, having doubled back and given Zeke the slip. So a few seconds later the old Dodge slid back into the yard, Zeke jumped out and lunged for the yellow bitch again and, this time, snagged her by the collar. He proceeded to drag the whining dog to the back of the truck where he opened the tailgate and attempted to open the door of a plastic pet-carrier he had brought along. Since he couldn't let go of the struggling dog, I volunteered to get the carrier door open for him and, as soon as it was open, Zeke began trying to stuff the Labrador-sized dog into a the Spaniel-sized carrier. The entire operation was complicated by the fact that, during the time we'd been struggling with the pet-carrier door, the male dog had been overcome by a bout of lust and was busily screwing the bitch for all he was worth. Dogs! There he was, in a noisy, smoke-filled, tumultuous atmosphere, being recaptured by someone he obviously despised, and instead of hauling ass off into the woods where freedom was his for the taking, he decided to take the opportunity to knock off a piece while ol' Zeke held it by the collar. Talk about thinking with your dick!

Anyway, Zeke separated the two dogs, stuffed the female into the undersized carrier, and grabbed the black and tan male by the scruff of the neck. I was expecting him to tie the second dog to the truck in some fashion or, maybe, put it up front in the cab with himself. But, no, he opened the pet-carrier door again and began stuffing the second dog into the already overstuffed plastic box. He got the critter in there somehow and closed the door, but sardines in a tin have never been packed tighter than those two dogs were. Then Zeke got back into his truck, nearly backed into my own truck again, and roared off down the driveway, never having spoken to me, made eye contact, nor uttered a word other than "dammit" and "dawg" the entire time he'd been there.

And ya'll know this story's gotta be the truth 'cause I don't have a vivid enough imagination to make this kinda shit up.