It's called a Lazyboy; I'm the boy, I want to be lazy, dammit
Shit on all that is holy; in the game of power that is my life with the Mooks, I have been fucking up royally.
Mook A has been trying to get me to do tricks and the motherfucker uses food to get me to perform. I've resisted well—bringing him practically to tears of frustration 'til he finally just throws up his hands and tosses me the cocksucking cookie. But I've let him get me twice in the last couple of days, goddammit.
First, he tried to get me to sing. He was making that shrieking noise he thinks is a howl and it was drilling into my brain so I started barking. Problem? I held one note of the barking for about three bars and, jayzus!, I was singing. Sure! Fine! The cunt gave me the cookie! But now he expects me to sing for it and he's waaaaaay more patient.
Then, yesterday, he was fucking about, amusing himself by torturing me. I was just sitting there and he was holding an effing cookie just above my head, out of reach of my mouth. I was hypnotized by that cookie. It was like there was a force between my mouth and that cookie. That cookie was my life. That cookie was my breath. That cookie was my soul. Then, mysteriously, the cookie was at my nose. A was yelling for Mook B, "Look! Look! He's sitting pretty!!" Well, stick a dick in my ass and call me a popsickle! I was sitting pretty and though I got the cookie, I could barely swallow it for the bile of humiliation rushing up my throat.
If word gets out that I was sitting-fucking-pretty I'll be the bitch of every dog in the neighbourhood. Even the bitches.
In Memoriam
My Beautiful Cousin Vikki
Any dog's death diminished me because I am involved in dogkind.
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