Death Dog
Okay, so my mom and I had this conversation earlier:
Mom: “So [insert neighbor's name here] is giving away one of their dog’s puppies and Ryan’s pestering me to take it.”
Me: “I don’t see a problem with it. I mean, Ryan and I like puppies; when that puppy turns into a dog in a couple of months, we’d all be thinking in retrospect that, perhaps, we might as well have gotten an old carpet and a jar of fleas because that’s what the dog’s going to be like at that time.”
Mom: “I know, but it’s really nice…”
Me: “What breed is it?”
Mom: “A Rottweiser…”
Me: “A what now?”
Mom: “A Rott-something! It’s black and it has huge paws…”
Me: “A Rottweiler you mean?”
Mom: “Yes!”
Me: “Oh you got to be fucking kidding me!”
This is going to be nothing but trouble. Don’t get me wrong here–I like dogs as much as the next dog-walking faggot you see in Eastwood or whatever but a fucking Rottweiler? A dog that is at least four times stronger than I am and, at will, can bite my face off? I don’t think so buddy boy.
You’re probably thinking: “This Mike Villar character is scared of big dogs, what a pussy!” and you probably wouldn’t be wrong in thinking it. I hate big dogs. Yes. I openly admit that I am in fact scared of any animal that weighs at least half as much as I do, a territorial carnivore and has a set of teeth designed by God to shear the flesh off of anything that looks/smells like food. But while we’re in the whole admission/confession thing, I have another confession to make: I totally boned your mom last night; it was rough and I didn’t wear a condom. Also your dad cried while he watched so I performed fellatio on him just to shut him u–no, wait!
"The personal blog of Marketing Strategist, Rising Internet Star, Man Blog editor, child pornographer, alcoholic, and cokehead-- Douchebag Jones--Err, Mike Villar!