This Update is About My Dog's Penis
Some little girls want to be princesses when they grow up. Others want to be doctors or race car drivers. Little Nicole just wanted to look like a clown without ever having to wear makeup.
Some of you guys may think I’m taking a pretty strong stance on pet care when I’m saying this, but I think it’s important to let you all know right off the bat that I am strongly against the practice of dog wiener-biting. Nothing is more reprehensible to me than the thought of chomping on a dog’s penis (except maybe the music of Phish), and if I really wanted to munch on something that red and slimy I’d find the tanning bed Nicole Richie is living in and fingerbang her until my index digit looked like a candy cane dipped in gelatin.
I also learned recently that I am very much opposed to grilling food outdoors. This came as a shock even to me, since I cannot recall the last time I ate a meal that didn’t consist of meat and diet soda. The mere sight of a vegetable is enough to set me into a seizure that pumps cholesterol-laced blood out of my nose with enough force to propel me to the nearest McDonald’s, not unlike some morbidly obese, hemophiliac version of The Rocketeer.
Both of these lessons came to me like a kick in the nuts from god himself just last weekend, when I hosted my very first cookout. For those of you not in the know, a cookout is where you buy a grill, stand around and try to light it for six hours, return it to the store, use the money to go to the scrapyard and buy a ton of flat bike tires, then go throw them at your neighbor’s house because he never returned the grill he borrowed from you six months prior. Incidentally, your neighbor won’t notice you throwing the tires because he’ll still be in his backyard trying to light the grill while the skeletal remains of his family sit in lawn chairs, holding out paper plates in their decomposing hands.
Unlike in other countries, where a journey into manhood may require hiding in a tree for a week or watching an entire season of “Charmed” without developing multiple sclerosis, the first cookout is uniquely American and useful to boot. It’s a magical time where a father can impart important advice like “your house smells like piss” and “don’t eyeball me, you pink panty wearing faggot,” and a son can reciprocate his love by playing good natured pranks, such as hiding good ol’ dad’s stroke medication in the septic tank. Although my old man couldn’t make it (he recently had a stroke for some reason and is currently at the hospital relearning the difference between “walking” and “crawling around on the floor pissing himself”), I am sure he would love to impart upon me some of his own wisdom if he could speak out of the right side of his mouth. Please note that this is a joke and my father is alive and well, so if you planned on making fun of me please realize that it was your father who recently had a stroke and not mine. Also, your dad’s brain is a pussy. -ed
But even without my old man hovering around me and telling me to hold my face closer to the igniter so I don’t ruin his name by looking like him, I can’t help but think my first cookout was a resounding failure.
Why? Because my dog is a huge, flaming homo.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Dogs are, of course, the gayest of all leg-humping quadrupeds. When I was a kid I seriously believed that dogs were gigantic bugs, and I was terrified of them. I would often follow the family dog around, waiting for it to lay a pile of eggs from which a batch of terrifying dog larvae would emerge, but it never happened. I eventually found out that dogs never actually reproduce because they are too busy rolling around on the ground licking the genitals of other dogs of the same sex. Show me a dog that is not actively looking for another dog’s ass to sniff and I’ll show you Liv Tyler after a couple of days away from a razor.
My dog, Reggie, is no exception from this. Although he rarely sees other dogs and spends most of his time doing things like “humping the cat” or “looking for the cat so he can hump him,” he enjoys a quick roll the the hay with other boy dogs from time to time. These incredibly awkward situations usually come about when my friend Kevin brings his dog, Shogo, up for a visit.
This is Reggie. Please notice the little black polo shirt he's wearing. It's there because, as a woman, my girlfriend is absolutely in love with the thought of dogs wearing people clothes. I could kill her family, wreck her car, and tapdance on the antique porcelain bowls her aunt willed her, but if I brought her a box full of puppies wearing sunglasses and bow ties, I'd be forgiven instantly.
Also, she's a gigantic sap.
I’m the first to acknowledge that pet owners are among the most boring people on earth. Upon buying a pet they become unable to communicate unless they can somehow shift the conversation at hand into a zany anecdote about how heartwarmingly stupid their beloved companions are. Often they get together to talk at length about the exceedingly rare practice of owning a domesticated animal. Such meetings often end in tragedy when one of the owners mistakenly walks off a cliff and the rest of them follow, yapping about the time Dakota barked at a box of napkins, all the way until impact.
However, when I tell my stories they are not meant to be amusing, but cautionary. I am not exaggerating when I say Reggie and Shogo are the two stupidest fucking animals on the planet. My neighbor accidentally ran over a stray cat the other day and nobody has cleaned the mess up, and while it is nothing more than a bloated mass of fur cooking on the asphalt in front of my house, I am sure its rotting, stinking corpse is far more intelligent than both dogs combined. Take, for instance, this little exchange that happened last weekend (dialogue added for dramatic effect):
Shogo: Hey, Reggie, what’s up?
Reggie Not much, man. I just dug this empty jar of peanut butter out of the trash and I thought I might get my head struck in there trying to lick trash-water out of it.
Shogo: Sweet ass, man! While you’re laying on the floor trying to pry the jar off your snout can I get behind you and lick your asshole?
Reggie: Hell yeah, bro! Let’s do this!
These problems culminated at the cookout. As a rule, neither dog is allowed to run around outside unsupervised very often. This is because they love to play a game that consists of eating flowers out of my neighbor’s garden and vomiting their findings in strategic locations, such as in my shoes or on the back of my head if I am taking a nap. However, they can’t very well be left alone indoors, either – mostly because, if left alone for more than five minutes, they take the opportunity to cover every square inch of my house in piss and shit – so we decided to tie them to a bench in my backyard while we ate.
Unlike Reggie, who is basically a mutt, Shogo is a very expensive, purebred pug. Despite his flaws, however, he is a good pup, and I would certainly never think the $400 my friend spent on him would have better been used on these things:
- A new Xbox
- A transmission for an ‘86 Toyota Corolla (should you ever own an ‘86 Toyota Corolla)
- A busted pitching machine that constantly hits you in the face with baseballs no matter what setting you adjust it to
- A 50-gallon aquarium full of worn out rechargeable batteries
- 1600 packs of Juicy Fruit.
Reggie again, sans his gay shirt. You might notice the guilty look on his face. It is undoubtedly there because he just got done having sex with another boy dog.
Because Shogo is a pug he is also blessed with an incredibly flat face. This allows him to stick not just his nose, but his whole wrinkly mug, up in Reggie’s orifices. He also uses his deformity to slide his face up and down Reggie’s stomach like he’s playing some sort of foul-smelling harmonica. He also has sharp little needle-teeth, a fact we learned during the cookout when, during one of his harmonica shows, Shogo switched to prop comedy and did a Jaws of Life impression on Reggie’s tender young penis.
The noise a dog makes when his penis is in danger is not something human ears are meant to interpret. It sounds like the end of the world is coming, like a bus full of abused choir boys is heading straight for Gary Glitter’s house. When a dog screams for his genitals birds fall dead from the sky and the most rugged of men weep tears of blood. When the rapture comes and god takes us all to heaven, he will undoubtedly complete his task by raining thumbtacks and beagle puppies down upon us.
Although the cookout was a gigantic, terrible debacle, I must say I learned many new facts and even expanded on a few concepts I thought I had mastered. For instance, I knew that a dog, when carrying something in his mouth, loves to shake his head around violently. This is to show dominance over whatever he is carrying. However, the events of the cookout forced me to reevaluate and add to my list of things dogs love to shake. Here are my findings, with new results indicated by an abortion of an arrow I tried to make in Imageready:
THINGS DOGS LOVE TO SHAKE WHILE BITING:
Other Dogs’ Penises
And another thing is that when they’re shaking on something they’re not very likely to let it go. I found this out when I unhooked both dogs from the bench, hoping that it would allow Reggie to roll over and escape Shogo’s wiener-crushing deathlock.
It is one thing to see one dog drag another dog around by his penis. It is a totally different experience to see a small, cockeyed pug grab a dog twice his size by the dick and haul him around like a renegade semi, dragging him under tables and over tennis shoes. Shogo may have been slowed by Reggie’s weight but that did not stop him from prancing around the yard like an all-pro running back, juking and spinning his way to some bizarre touchdown only he could appreciate. It took us a full minute to track Shogo down and detach him from Reggie’s penis, but no matter how much we chastised him a smug grin remained on his deformed, black face. Reggie slunk back in the house and hid the rest of the afternoon.
A few days passed and Reggie kept limping and licking his crotch like Louie Anderson after they fired him from Family Feud so I took him to the vet. Given recent advancements in medical technology, such as “medicine” and “electricity,” I was surprised to find the local vet’s office was little more than a cardboard box in a strip mall parking lot. I assumed the misspelling of “reputable” by the clinic’s name in the phone book was some sort of tongue-in-cheek joke but I was clearly wrong.
I have no clue what the fuck is going on here, but it's the first thing you get when you search for "veteranarian" so it must be kind of relevant, I guess.
Most vets are educated, professional doctors with a passion for fixing hurt animals. They care for their patients, explain what’s going on to the owners, and earn a good living making sure the animals they’re entrusted with don’t die. However, our vet, Dr. Alahujaninamandato (I think that’s the correct spelling – the English language doesn’t have enough consonants to support all the letters in his name), still practices archaic rites Old Testament vets implemented when god first created sick pets. Most of his methods involve pounding on a bongo drum and finding a virgin to defile over a pit full of broken glass and rabid panthers.
Of course, I’m embellishing things a bit for the sake of comedy. Once you find your way through the palm leaf smoke and convince Dr. Ackawaggawomba to wipe the chicken blood off his hand so you can shake it, he’s a pretty good vet. This is assuming, of course, that your pet is already dead and you just need someone to sell you animal tranquilizers. Just make sure his pupils aren’t dilated when you make the transaction or you may end up with an envelope full of used syringes and bloody clumps of cat hair.
All jokes aside Dr. Blahblahboombuttuah is still a gigantic fucking asshole. Like I said above, most veterinarians make their money, you know, fixing sick animals. This is not the case with our vet. In fact, our good doctor has pioneered a whole new two-step plan to make money while still calling himself a “veterinarian”:
- Accuse the client of molesting his pet
- Charge the client $150 for the service
I’m sure someone out there would find this service incredibly helpful. Undoubtedly some guy is out there right this second who wants nothing more than for a foreign man to accuse him of molesting his pets. But for a regular guy like me, someone who just wanted his dog’s dick to stop looking like a rotten strawberry, I was highly offended when the good doctor pulled me aside and asked me, point blank, if I “abused” Reggie. Please note that his eyebrows, which take up fully half of his face and tend to move based on things like barometric pressure and what he ate for lunch, crawled up his face like the world’s biggest caterpillars when he said “abused.” I can’t tell if the prospect excited or disgusted him.
But whatever the case I told him “no” and he handed me a tube of doggy Neosporin and a bill for $150. Since I rarely spend that much money on anything that doesn’t give me a blowjob afterwards, I have to say I was pretty unahppy with the whole ordeal. Still, I’m sure the vet needed the cash – he was out of white rum and running way low on frog glands. Every time I drive by the place and hear the beat of bongos and the shrill cries of voodoo priestesses, I’ll know I’m at least giving back to the community.
As you may have guessed, rubbing cream on a dog’s wiener is maybe the most uncomfortable thing you’ll ever experience. Reggie has taken to hiding under the bed most days, and I’m sure that every time he hears the snap of a rubber glove he wishes he could hop on a train to Newark and never look back. It’s a terrible thing, dragging your canine companion out from under the bed and slathering gritty brown cream on his bruised junk until you’re both crying like little girls and averting your eyes from family and friends.
So now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to don the gloves and yell “treat” so Reggie will come out from under the bed. As soon as he sees the tube in my hand I’m sure he’ll make a beeline for his kennel, where he’ll try to lock himself in until I finally wrestle him to the ground and and shout “IT HURTS ME MORE THAN IT HURTS YOU.” And when the moon is high and I hear the clucks of dying chickens coming from town, I’ll curse the voodoo doctor that turned me into a dog molester without so much as a potion. Paying someone to rub cream on a dog’s junk? That’s not impressive – everyone has a price. Making them pay for the right to do it? That’s fucking talent, folks.
I don't have much to say this week but click here if you want to read it anyway!