There's new dogs in town, and these ones haven't died yet fortunately.
Some of the more astute readers out there (that is a kind way of writing "the ones of you who aren't currently on hold waiting for emergency personnel to show up and remove the incorrectly inserted Q-Tips from the inside of your brain") may have noticed that I haven't lately mentioned the countless zany antics of my Golden Retriever Jake. This is because he died. I'm serious; he apparently had some neurological disease dubbed "canine dysautonomia" which is highly fatal and only affects large breed dogs in Kansas and Missouri. I don't really know how or why it follows those strict guidelines, but I'm assuming it has something to do with the Bush administration's highly anticipated war on terrorism. Jake had been unable to urinate, didn't have any appetite, and was generally very sick, various symptoms which prompted me to take him to four different veterinarians, all of which claimed there was nothing wrong with him. The vets who checked him out must've gotten their degree in amateur piano tuning from Clown College because any moron could tell there was something wrong with the dog, and I was such a moron. Here's a couple little tips I wrote for all you aspiring veterinarians out there. I hope you memorize them:
VETRINARIAN TIP #1: If a dog cannot urinate, is in pain when he tries to open his eyes, emits a steady stream of glue goo from his nose, has no appetite, and is in extreme pain, then HE IS PROBABLY NOT "NORMAL" AND THERE MIGHT BE ACTUALLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH HIM.
VETRINARIAN TIP #2: If the customer is sensitive to off-beating sounds, if they hear amplitude pressure-rhythms in the notes aside from the actual musical "pitches", then they will want their piano perfect each time they sit down to practice or to play for their own pleasure.
I planned on printing out these tips and giving them to the Lee's Summit veterinarian, but I heard he lacks the ability to read and is only able to communicate through a simple series of hand gestures and whistle noises. I eventually took Jake to a specialist in Kansas who diagnosed him with that goofy dysautonomia disease and he (Jake, not the specialist) was put to sleep because there is currently no cure for the affliction. It was pretty sad, especially since I had invested so much time and energy in the little guy and taught him such clever tricks as "sitting," "not biting my face," and "advanced calculus," but I guess that's the way things go sometime. I tried to tell myself he was up in Doggy Heaven and rolling in Jesus' poop, but I saw the way he lustfully humped the face of my male cat shortly before urinating on him. He was a doggy faggot, and doggy faggots roast in Doggy Hell. Jake didn't accept the eternal love of Jesus Christ into his heart, even after I tried shoving it in there with an oven mitt, so I assume he's currently burning in a fiery inferno where the entire ground is made up of those infernal red laser pointers that would drive him so crazy with unquenchable passion.
This update isn't about bad news though; it's about the opposite, which is "slightly less bad news." I adopted a couple new Golden puppies about a week ago to take the place of Jake and hopefully restore the required amount of urine on my kitchen floor. I had originally planned on adopting a female, but the person who was selling the dogs claimed that his females suffer from "canine depression" when they are adopted alone. I responded, "well that's okay, I'll just shove a couple SSRIs into her Gravy Train and she'll be fine," but he didn't seem to find the humor in that statement. Now that I think back on it, neither do I. I'm fairly sure the guy who sold me the dogs thought the term "Gravy Train" was a sexual innuendo, in which case I'd like to publicly apologize for the confusion. I did not mean to imply I planned on shoving capsules of Paxil up your dog's ass, and I promise I will not place anything up my dogs' asses except 100% pure love. Er, dammit, I think that came out wrong as well.
The two newest additions to my great, stupid house are the aforementioned two Golden Retrievers who I initially named "Jay" and "Dee" because if you shout their names together you either say "JD" or "DJ," and at some point in time I mistakenly felt that was an intensely clever idea. Unfortunately, after having these two puppies for a week, I have given them new names to reflect their personalities: "Fatty" and "Speedy," mostly on account that one is fat and the other one is fast. Let me take this moment to introduce them in no particular order besides the order they were introduced:
Fatty dreams of food and consuming so much of it that she transcends this physical realm to become a creature composed entirely of ham energy.
Fatty is the female and is an absolute drama queen. She'll run up to Speedy and tackle him, immediately snapping her jaws on his eye socket in an attempt to pierce his corneas in the playful manner only puppies know. Speedy will reel back from the initial rushing attack, gather his wits, and then respond by gently nipping at her tail. This little counter-attack will surprise the unholy shit out of her, causing Fatty to emit a high pitched squeal of pain which cracks many of my storm windows. Of course she won't actually be in pain; this is one of her many, many dramatic ploys she utilizes to gain attention. She's like those professional wrestlers who begin spastically convulsing and shrieking their lungs out when the enemy fat white guy wrestler performs some infinitely complex move on them like the infamous "punch which never hits them in any way whatsoever" or the good ol' "causing them to tip over and fall on the canvas" maneuver. Once Speedy hears her bloodcurdling scream and mistakenly believes he hit a major artery when his tooth brushed lightly against her tail, his defenses will temporarily go down, therefore allowing Fatty the chance to grab his jugular and whip it around like a Twizzler caught in a tornado.
As you can probably guess by her name, Fatty is fat. I'm not sure exactly what she was fed before I adopted her, but if I had to fathom a guess I would imagine she was consuming a healthy 50 pounds of churned butter per day. When all the other puppies were suckling breast milk from their mother, Fatty was camped outside of the one nipple which emitted a constant stream of pancake batter. She looks as if God decided to horizontally compress her body frame in an attempt to save valuable space which could be used to store bonus dogs. This uneven distribution of lard causes her to become an absolute terror of kinetic energy in the rare chance she decides to start lurching in a random direction for no readily apparent reason. Once she's in motion she becomes an unstoppable bulging locomotive crammed full of pastries and urine, and there is no possible way to stop her without a titanium-based harness attached to a Hummer. Your only viable option is to leap out of her path and hope she collides with a load-bearing wall stud or a bag of charcoal which will subsequently be transformed into lovely diamonds. Despite her tremendous girth, she experiences some hesitance consuming her dog food, as she prefers to lick and gnaw on each individual food particle before swallowing it. On average, it takes her a quarter century to eat 1/3 a cup of dog food. Luckily her side diet of paper towels, dirt, sticks, and carpet pieces make up for any nutrition she may lose.
Speedy investigates an enemy blue rubber bone which might've just made the sound 30 feet behind him.
Speedy is the male and enjoys using his legs to propel him at incredible velocities, much like an Olympic track star who has four legs and happens to be a five-week old dog instead of a human being, which I'm fairly sure would disqualify him from nearly all Olympic events. If Speedy hears a noise coming from the kitchen, he'll jump straight up, start swinging his legs around furiously, and take off in the direction of the living room. If his ears detect something moving near the stairs, he'll leap to attention and accelerate to 60 miles an hour towards the kitchen. He may be able to break land speed records, but he can't pinpoint sounds worth a shit, and prefers using his Zen method of transportation. I can literally stand 10 feet in front of him and shout "COME HERE! COME HERE! I HAVE FOOD FOR YOU TO EAT! WITH YOUR MOUTH!!!" causing his eyes to perk up as he begins sprinting in the completely opposite direction. Once he arrives at some predetermined point at which he sincerely feels the noise emanated from, confusion will overcome his tiny, tiny brain and make him wonder what kind of unearthly spirit I am to teleport all across my kitchen and toy with his fragile canine emotions. Then he'll begin wondering if I'm composed of food, and if so, how he can take advantage of my fleshy pinata-like frame.
This hot-roddin' doggie is able to shovel down metric tons of food within a blink of an eye, at which point all this chow is repackaged as a little gift scientists call "poop" placed in strategic positions throughout my kitchen. While these wads of waste may be difficult to see, they fortunately / unfortunately leave a trail of stench powerful enough to down overhead passenger planes and present a threat to national security. His shit is the worst shit I've ever smelled in my life and trust me, I've smelled quite a lot of shit in my time. Every time some cursed lump of chunky horror squeezes free from the moist prison in his stomach, the paint begins bubbling off my walls and metal pipes below the floor begin to corrode. I have to use protective rubber gloves to scoop up his stack of olfactory gifts before it has a chance to burn through the floor and penetrate the Earth's core like the acidic drool from that one scene in "Aliens." His crap is so powerful that it possesses the ability to travel forward in time and repeatedly appear on the carpet no matter how many times I clean it up in the past. I think I need to hire a priest to exorcise the demons from Speedy's digestive system.
Now I know what you're thinking at this point: "oh Rich 'Lowtax' Kyanka, your fascinating description of your fat puppy and shitting puppy brought a series of salty tears to this old fisherman's eyes! Please tell me about the exciting adventures they have embarked upon in the past week!" Well I was planning on recanting some of their more magical tales of lore, but it would make this update too long, so I shall save it for next week! Until then, please pray for my dead faggot dog Jake and tell the "Reverend" Fred Phelps to stop sending me all those gloating emails.
This just in, Puppies and Kitties are quite cute.
Ryan "OMGWTFBBQ" Adams here with the second part of the childhood destruction trilogy known only as "Erotic Saturday Morning Cartoon Fanfic" to you, but as "Jesus Christ stop reading that out loud to me or I swear to God you will be sleeping on the couch tonight" to me. Ah, memories.
Here's a quick sample of how disturbing we really are.
Tweety bird scurried around the corner with Sylvester in hot pursuit. Unbeknownst to Tweety, Sylvester had been ordering from the Acme catalog. His Tweety Trap sat waiting to be triggered. The tripwire triggered the mechanical box to fall and restrain Tweety. For the first time in history, the Acme product actually worked. Tweety looked through the Plexiglas window as Sylvester calmly sauntered over to him.
"Looks like I finally caught you, thtupid bird."
With that, Sylvester bound Tweety's little wings together and stuffed a ball-gag into his mouth. Unable to protest, Tweety watched in morbid anticipation. This is what it had come down to, he thought. This is the culmination of my life. He closed his eyes as Sylvester roughly brought his small body up to his mouth.
Then something happened that Tweety did not expect.
The CEO of Lobstero, makers of the expensive home Lobster System, responds to recent unfavorable headlines about hand-squeezing a lobster out of one of the company's Lobster Packs.
Should you call someone a Nazi? The answer will surprise you.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.