Apr 182001
 

Dawg

S’up all you Dawg lovin’ fools? This is me here preppin’ to tell ya’ll a story that happened the other day. My master (yeah, right, f-him) took me to this dog show so the big Dawg could strut his stuff in front of all them fine, pure-ass bitches; yeah, I know they want me. So everything’s goin’ on the money: I’m struttin’ around the ring, long stridin’ and tail all up and sh*t. Then, out the corner of my eye, I see this punk-ass rat looking thing makin’ clown faces at me.

At first I just thought, hey, maybe the sucka’s just ugly or something and can’t help hisself. So I shake it off like the badass I am and make another pass: yeah, that’s right, all you biatches, keep oohing and aahing over my fine-ass physique. Dawg is a pure bred, baby. A play-a! Ain’t no mongrel in here, no sir.

Then I sees that chump again: he’s making the same damn clown faces. Yeah, he’s ugly a’ight, but them faces are being done to mock me. A’ight biatch, you wait until I’m done prancing around in here. Dawg’s gonna teach ya some respect.

So we finish runnin’ around for the fat old crone in da ugly dress and the handler, some chump named Frederick (what a homo), takes me back to my master (yeah right, f-him) and he puts me in ma kennel. Then sure ’nuff, from across the ring, I sees that sorry-ass, bug-eyed freak still gawkin’, makin’ them damn faces.

A’ight, that’s cool. You’s safe now, but Dawg’s gonna attempt a frickin’ jail break here in a minute. Then we’ll see what kinda faces ya make when I got you by the nads. So I think fast and start yelpin’ like I’m hurt and sh*t. Sure enough, my sucka of a master (yeah right, f-him) opens the kennel door to see what’s up; LATER, SQUARE!

I bolted out that cage like nobody’s business, all the while fixin’ my gaze on da bug-eyed freak, clown-face-makin’ be-atch. He sees me comin’ and scats faster than that punk-ass neighbor’s cat back at the crib. That’s when I notice I’m bein’ chased myself. The old, ugly dress wearin’ crone, the homo and my master (yeah right, f-him) are all hootin’ and hollerin’ for me to sit or something. Yeah, right, suckas, like that’s gonna happen.

I spots the little turd scurryin’ off around some bushes. Yeah, punk, I got ya now. By this time several others had joined in the chase. It was like some crazy-ass Benny Hill sketch. There was these two old farts, that was almost havin’ heart attacks tryin’ to keep up with me, and a crap-load of other dogs dat had joined in too. Woo, woo! Dawg’s at the head of this frickin’ train, yo! Man, this was some crazy-ass sh*t! This is the fame Dawg deserves! I felt like the Beatles or somethin’.

I finally managed to corner that punk-ass, flat-nosed, Marty Feldman-lookin’ freak and he’s all shakin’ and pissin’ hisself.

“A’ight, biatch!” I says to him. “Why you wanna be a punk and make clown faces at me?” Then the little guy gives me this stupid-ass, ‘I don’t know what the piss you’re talkin’ about’ look.

“I don’t know what the piss you’re talking about,” he says. “I wasn’t making any faces at you.” He was shakin’ like he was crappin’ a fist full of razor blades. I didn’t buy it. This biatch was tryin’ to avoid an ass whoopin’. “Honest, dude. I wouldn’t do that. It’s just the way I look. See?” Well, he had a point there. He was a goofy-ass looking chump, what with the big bug eyes and flat nose and sh*t. Then he makes the clown face again. Now I sees his point. The po’ fool couldn’t help it. He was just fugly! Yeah, Pugly Fugly! Man, what a sorry-ass excuse for a K-9.

“A’ight,” I says. “I believe you. You averted an ass whoopin’ today, but I’m gonna keep an eye on you, shorty.” The little guy starts to look relieved then suddenly gets all crazy and sh*t again, and takes off runnin’. What the?

Then next thing I ‘member was the fat ol’ broad in da ugly dress jumpin’ on me. Biatch, get off! Dawg don’t do it with no behemoths! Too late, she had me by the choke collar. Then my master (yeah f-him) grabs me and starts yellin’ some crazy-ass sh*t all fast and whatnot, and the homo’s all laughin’ and making clown faces—clown faces?

Biatch! That’s when I went ape-sh*t. Run, Frederick, you pansy-ass vest-wearin’ freak! The chase was on again and Dawg was not to be outwitted this time. Woo, woo!

Dawg out! Woof!

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