"Beep ... be-boop."

Huh? What the ...? Look at the clock. 2:47 a.m., which in real time is approximately 2:07 a.m. since the clock is set 40 minutes or so ahead, because that way when I wake up to go to the gym, I see 4:15 which is a lot more palatable than a real time of 3:35, which is just ungodly.

Ok, 2:47. What the hell woke me up? I listen. Nothing. No, wait. A tinkling of metal. A scratch of fabric. A creak.

I know what that is. My dog, Dusty, has risen from his spot on the couch in the adjacent room (yes, he gets a spot on the couch, my one and only pet indulgence as long as you don't count his place at the dinner table). The metal clinking of his tags comes closer and I see a dark spot next to my bed that vaguely resembles him. If it is not him, I am either dreaming or in trouble.

I pat the bed next to me. "Up."

He jumps and rather than doing the usual (turning in a circle for 10 seconds and lying down with his nose against his butt, perhaps a position we would all chose if we could, and we were alone) he slinks next to me and sits, pushing his noise into my face.

"Beep ... be-boop."

Dusty turns his head and utters a small and submissive sound, like he does when I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the closet (as opposed to the way he barks and growls when a dog walks past our home, his courage boosted by the door that removes him from the possibility of confrontation).

We wait, me because I hope whatever is chirping will just run out of power and go away, Dusty because he is wavering between fight and flight, with flight having a definite advantage.

"Beep ... be-boop."

Dusty: "Mmm, mmm."

Me: "Stupid dog."

Dusty turns back to me and thrusts his nose under the pillow, no doubt learning (as every 3-year-old knows) that if you can effectively bury yourself under bedding, the threat no longer exists.

Because my 5-year-old Australian shepherd mix, fearless defender of hearth and home, is frightened by one of my son's toys that apparently has risen this night to attack with the one thing no dog can hide from -- random yet incessant beeping.

I throw off the covers and rise. The clock: 2:52.

"C'mon, let's go figure this out."

Dusty doesn't move. It's all on me to take on the dreaded chirping.

I enter my son's room and flip off the light. This does not wake him since this night he is at his mom's and, thankfully, safe from toys that go "beep."

I sit in his chair. I wait. I have no idea what the hell is making the noise. I do not feel like rummaging through drawers and shelves of toys, 98 percent of which he no longer he realizes he has (though his fully enabled Kid ESP -- which alerts him the second I throw out so much as a Lego brick causing him to immediately ask for said item and throwing a fit when I tell him I pitched it -- keeps me from throwing out any of his prized crap). So I sit and wait until I hear the noise. And I don't for at least 15 seconds, at which time I rise and head back into my bedroom knowing I've done my best for, let's see, 2:53 in the morning.

Dusty awaits word of the hunt. I scratch his neck and give him a nod. He licks my hand, which means either "You are my hero" or "If you forget to feed me just once, my first bite will be from the spot I just marked."

I slip beneath the covers and--

"Beep. Be-boop."

Dusty, realizing his master failed in his quest to find and eliminate the threat, does the only thing he knew how to do.

He lays on top of me knowing that when the chirp mounts its inevitable attack, it will get both of us.

No problem, I can sleep like this. Until I feel a ripple. Then a steady vibration.

Dusty, faithful watchdog, is shivering.

Had this been a real emergency, like some guy bursting in swinging a chainsaw, no doubt my faithful companion would have lunged for the intruder's throat, ripping out the attacker's larynx before he could scream.

But an ax-wielding murderer is not a chirp. No, a chirp, especially one of mysterious origin, is, well, downright bloodcurdling.

Thus my dog shivers next to me for, ;et's see, now it's 3:20. No beep for at least five minutes.

He begins to settle down. I promise him that in the morning, he and I will mount a hunt that the chirping has never seen, tracking it down no matter how many drawers we have to look in.

And if we don't find it, then I just go ahead and throw out 98 percent of the crap in my son's room. And when his ESP kicks in, I will tell him we had to do it for Dusty's sake.

And then I will hand him my credit card and drive him to the toy store so he can buy a lot more crap he'll never play with.

White chocolate. Hey, I don't know what you were expecting when you opened this particular blog (notice I used the second person, as if someone would actually find this thing among the millions of other blogs written by people with so little to do that they share the types of things that otherwise are too insignificant to share in the annual Christmas letter). This is not one of those blogs that open with how I got up that day, whether or not I awoke with the morning erection only to waste it once again with an emptying of my bladder, and what kind of coffee I happen to drink (which I don't. Drink coffee, that is. Because I do drink. Oh yes.)

I am writing this as if no one will ever see it (excuse me, when did you come in?), in a literary vacuum, because in space, no one can hear you rant unless you do it in front of the Hubble Telescope, which can quite possibly read your lips (and at $20 billion or whatever it cost, it better be able to do that in addition to creating) those pretty screensavers.

So I repeat: white chocolate. What the hell is up with white chocolate? Who got the great idea that removing the cocoa improved nature's most perfect substance? Why don't we just erase the blue from the sky? How about taking the wetness out of water? Why don't we just strip every tree out of the Brazilian rainforest? Wait, we're doing that. But it still doesn't excuse white chocolate, which makes about as much sense as unsweetened Kool Aid. Or those Oreos with the red cream, which taste the same as the regular Oreos except that when your kid vomits because you don't have the nads to tell him 32 Oreos are enough for one day, its utter redness stands in stark contrast to the beige carpet and even a sandblaster won't remove it. Stupid red Oreos.

I could take white chocolate as a stand-alone product, limited to only those shut-in pasty-faced no-taste toothless geeks with the stupid "I'm from Arkansas" grins whom you see only on Tuesdays as they stand in the back of the local 7-11 next to the drink machines where they anxiously await the delivery of the new Slurpee flavor to go with Coke (and it's ALWAYS cherry, but they're still surprised). But then white chocolate spread. To Oreos (no problem, see above). To Hershey bars. To Nestle Crunch.

But then came the most unholiest twist of all. You can now find white chocolate Reeses Peanut Butter cups, bastardizing the One True Candy. Maybe we are only a test market (living near Phoenix, land of sun-dried retirees, we are often used as a test market because when someone dies, old age is naturally assumed). But this is not a product that should have gotten to the shelves. This is a product that should not have ever been allowed off the drawing board. And anyone who buys this crap that is no better than chocolate-factory sweepings needs to be held accountable. Maybe to the point of sharing a jail cell with that geek at the back of the 7-Eleven, who surely will earn jail time when, one day, the Slurpee guy adds pina colada to the other stainless steel barrel, causing said geek to want to go berzerk. (I was not going to say "berzerk," I was going to say "John Malvo on someone's ass," but on my first post, I do not want to come across insensitive.

That's it. I need a beer. And a good excuse to write Reeses and ask them when we are going to see a black vanilla peanut butter cup.