Sinatra punched a dog once, back stage at the Sands.  No reason for it.  He came off stage, shoes gleaming, stinking of whisky, and there was a cocker spaniel with a “punch me” look on its face.

Well, what’s a man to do?  You pay so much for the suits, you gota put ’em to use.  Dog-punchin’ suits, they were, and that’s what they called ’em from that day forward.

The spaniel slunk out the back, chewed his paws and cursed the Sands good, like only a spaniel can.  He passed to dog Valhalla before the wrecking ball came, but on the day the cameras recorded the Sands crumbling to dust, there were a thousand canine halos circling that site. yipping at the explosive charges and taking one last spectral whiz on the lobby carpet.

I rode a pick up truck fifty miles outside of Vegas, looking for a brunette whore I could really, really care about, call my own, shower with pancakes and cream.  I found her, but she had a spaniel in her; an angry spaniel who mistook me for Frank Sinatra.

Must have been the dog-punchin’ suit and the pork pie pants.