Do you suppose I could eat...like...NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!
Hey! I know, faggots, and that fucking dog is a faggot! Even the name—Bo—is faggotty, don't you think?
Why do I have a chip on my shoulder about this? Well, I met one of those dogs in the pound; a Portuguese Water Dog. The only water he into was water sports (if you know what I mean and I think you do). He tried to come on to me in the pen, being all nicey-nicey with that fruity accent and everything and then—boom—he was on me like fleas in heat. I thought he wanted to play but soon I was fighting for my life and my male virginity (if you know what I mean and I think you do). Had to take a piece of the fucker's nose and ear, I tell ya!
PWDs are not faggots like my faggots—the Mooks—who are more old sissies than faggots. PWDs are hardcore. Maybe faggot is the wrong word; maybe psycho is more the word. They don't hump legs like most normal dogs do; they go straight for the orifii—male, female, animal, vegetable or mineral. Imagine poor Malia, Sasha, Michelle or even the Prez playing hide-the-toy, innocently enough, and suddenly one of them has a face full of dog bone! What does the secret service do then? Envision the next day's Washington Post: "Bo shot dead for attempted rape of First Lady." (Well, it would certainly give the nation something to talk about besides the financial crisis.)
The thing is, all the reports on this animal talk about him as high-energy, high-maintenance, or (my favourite) frisky! Yeah...frisky like Jeffrey Dahmer was frisky. Cause PWDs not only do the nasty; if you deny them the nasty, they get violent. They play hard, at first, and then the game turns ugly and people (or other dogs) get hurt.
You watch. Photo ops now. Secret burials in the Rose Garden later. And suddenly, the First Dog has morphed into the First Budgie.
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