Jake, at age nine weeks. If you would like to compare and contrast how he looked three weeks ago, make with the clicking on this here link.
Dog ownership is proving to be one of the most important and valuable experiences of my lifetime, offering me a vast wealth of information which I could've only otherwise learned about from shady sources like the Internet or the fat women who waddle through the aisles of Hy-Vee and carry Glamour Shots photos of their poodle inside their purses. For example, just yesterday I learned that large chipped blocks of concrete are edible if you put a lot of effort into it, and my puppy Jake certainly puts enough time and effort into the noble full time occupation of being a puppy. Every time I glance at him, there he is, acting just as if a puppy would in any given situation! It's really quite incredible when you think about it, and even more incredible if you bothered to think about it and then still refused to stop reading this webpage. I personally would've closed my browser after seeing the word "dog" in the first sentence, so anybody who's made it this far is a real cyberspace trooper and I applaud you for your noble efforts.
A very important activity in any human-puppy relationship is the need to walk your dog. I really can't stress this enough; if you have a dog and fail to walk him every day, then you are a horrible monster and I pray for your death. If you don't own a dog, you should probably break into somebody's house and walk their dog for them, even if he uses his hydraulic pressure jaws to clamp onto your arm and tear it free from the socket. Er, I mean the dog would clamp onto your arm, not the person who owns the dog. Well I guess the owner could do that as well, but we'd be entering a whole new territory in that scenario and it would probably be shown on "The Ricki Lake Show" right after the "My Teenage Whore Is a Slut" episode. When you're bleeding to death in a hospital emergency room, somebody somewhere will thank you for walking their dog. It will probably be the doctor because they get paid in diamonds and Egyptian treasure every time they operate on poor saps like you and me, more specifically you. Also the dog will thank you for not only attempting to walk him, but for providing him with a nutritious dinner of your human blood and cartilage, assuming you are currently human. Any dog anywhere appreciates it when somebody walks them, as all dogs love to be strapped to a cloth rope and then paraded around town like a two bit hussy chained to her pimp, because in their hearts, all dogs are horny hookers.
I discovered this shocking fact when I walked into my kitchen last night, which I usually do when I want to see what highly depressing single-serving frozen entrees I have left in my freezer of broken dreams. One of my cats, Stupid, was sitting around and minding his own business, perhaps brainstorming new and exciting ways to meow directly into my ear the exact nanosecond I go to sleep. Jake was at my heels following me, hoping that my leg would suddenly turn into popcorn and subsequently fall into his mouth, which would then bounce off his tongue because Jake doesn't seem able to comprehend basic physics yet. Every time I throw anything at him, it bounces off his face and ricochets into a corner about 50 feet away. I have attempted to walk up to him and manually place popcorn in his mouth, yet it somehow still finds a way to fly out and land in a corner. This is the miracle of either mother nature or the Metric system. I know that some day and in some way Jake will figure out some rough approximation of basic physics, but I'm not exactly sure how this will happen. Hell, I can't even teach him to stop eating concrete blocks, much less junior high school physics models.
I would apologize for turning Something Awful into my own little LiveJournal about my dumb pets, but to be quite honest, this is the Internet and if you're expecting some cutting edge intelligent humor here, then you're sorely confused.
Regardless, Jake noticed Stupid sitting on the ground and minding his own business, which was naturally a clear invitation for him to be accosted. He proceeded to engage in his standard method of greeting Stupid, an activity that revolves around him biting, pawing, and drooling all over the poor dopey cat. Stupid naturally has no idea how to react to this 12-pound bag of fur slobbering all over him like a chew toy, so he frequently decides to go limp and pretend like he's dead so Jake might lose all interest in him and go back to gnawing on whatever horrible dead thing he found in a gutter the previous night. Jake reads this passive act as an open invitation for him to do whatever he feels like to Stupid, and this time it resulted in one of the most disgusting, horrific events which I have ever seen in my entire life: homosexual dog rape. That's right, Jake started going right at it, pumping away on poor Stupid and humping his tiny feline rump like there was no tomorrow. When I first witnessed this shocking act of disgust, I couldn't believe my eyes. Here was my dear sweet puppy dog and my dear sweet puppy cat engaging in gay rape sex right here in the middle of my own kitchen. Is nothing sacred? Aren't there any taboos these days? What kind of world do we live in if we can walk into our own kitchens and see a homosexual dog rape a cat? Can't Congress put some kind of tax or something on this kind of nefarious action? I felt a horrible surge of shame after I pulled Jake off Stupid's paralyzed frame, and the only thought that consoled me was the knowledge that Jake will eventually burn in hell with all the other homosexual rapist dogs, at least according to Reverend Fred "Jack Chick" Phelps. All homosexual rapist dogs go to hell.
Now if you were to approach a random stranger on the street and ask them what the most powerful force in the universe is, they'd probably say something like "a nuclear bomb" or "the sun" or "that blue guy from Contra who threw hand grenades nonstop yet never ever ran out of them no matter how many he threw." Where did that guy store all his explosives anyway? I mean, one minute he'd just be standing there and the next minute he'd suddenly have a metallic capsule of destruction in his hand, ready to throw in under two frames of animation. The budget that the enemy used up on that guy alone must be staggering. If high tech futuristic grenades cost $10, and that's for a really, really cheap discount Wal-Mart brand version purchased in bulk, then $10 x infinity is... well, a lot. What kind of evil terrorist organization has $10 x infinity plus a payroll large enough to employ several million people to stand in random locations and throw these explosives 24 hours a day, seven days a week? I don't know the answer to this question, but I do know that this is not the most powerful force in the universe; a dog's desire to eat objects is the most powerful force in the universe.
This canine lust to eat anything and everything is what I like to call "PacMan Fever." PacMan Fever truly manifests itself when I'm walking Jake around the block, an event which causes people from millions of highly foreign countries to suddenly appear all around me and cleverly remark, "are you walking the dog OR IS HE WALKING YOU?!?" If there is a record for the number of times people have made this highly witty and observant comment during one single walk around the block, I can assure you that I not only set it, but additionally broke it in the same outing. There must be some fabulous rush of endorphins which occurs every time somebody makes such a profound statement, in which case I'm providing half the known galaxy with an absolutely incredible experience each time I put Jake on a leash and parade him around the neighborhood. In between utterly hilarious comments from strangers contemplating the eternal question of if I'm walking the dog or he is instead walking me, Jake is hit with an overwhelming case of PacMan Fever, which drives him crazy and also possibly out of his mind.
This is what a full blown case of PacMan Fever looks like. It's the stuff nightmares are made of. I think PacMan is a child molester.
PacMan Fever is a disease active in all members of the canine family. It immediately takes over their brain the exact second they are born or hatched or however dogs come into this world, and doesn't let up until the day they die. Scientists have observed in some cases that even after they've passed away, certain dogs continue to show signs of PacMan Fever, attempting to eat their scientific instruments from beyond the grave. One of this disease's most obvious signs can be seen when walking your dog down the street, assuming you can find a stretch of land longer than 15 feet which isn't inhabited by people who make an infinite number of pithy, witty remarks questioning your ability to walk your dog. The dog in question will lower his nose to the ground, sniffing every single object he passes. If an object passes the initial "scent test," which means that the object either has or doesn't have a scent of some type, the dog will then chomp onto it and hope to swallow the item whole. The consumption of this object does not represent the end of PacMan Fever, however. The dog will remember the exact location and coordinates of where this item was previously located, often by employing the service of a global positioning satellite system, and from that point onward, the dog will never ever ever forget where this potential item of food was located. You could drag the dog thousands of miles away and raise him in the woods for the next 10 years, and the moment you move back and walk him down the street, he'll begin to sniff in the spot where he once consumed an ant-covered leaf during the mid 1980s. This flash inspection could last anywhere from 30 to 45 hours, so be prepared to yank your dog's leash as if you were lassoing a pregnant bull who is violently flashing red because it's an end boss of some level.
So not only will your dog attempt to consume every object in its path (as well as any object out of its path), but it will additionally remember the precise location of every object it has ever ingested in its entire lifetime, and proceed to sniff this spot every single time you get near it. In this sense, PacMan Fever is a disease that will affect you and your dog every moment you're outside with him, as the dog will be physically unable to concentrate on anything besides the coordinates of each and every possible food location within a 20-mile radius. There is currently no cure for PacMan Fever, and even worse, I can't seem to find any government scientists working on researching this harmful affliction. I encourage you to write to your state Senator and ask them to infuse a good amount of cash into the "Cure for PacMan Fever Foundation" which is currently accepting donations and car rides to work. If we could get just 1/1000th of the money that goes into the annual expenditure for Contra soldiers who throw an endless supply of hand grenades, then our scientists would have enough money to last for 1/1000th of infinity, which according to my math, is at least 40 more years.
Ryan "OMGWTFBBQ" Adams here with a song in my heart and White Russian in my belly. The song in question is this one right here. I can't get the damn thing out of my head. Mostly due the fact I still have it playing I suppose. Props out to Doodles for finding this. Props or I'm going to kill him.
You know how there are subcultures that thrive on the net, like furries, juggalos, and dentists? What if people made movies about these freaks? They’d gross about 600 dollars. But the Goons decided to make them anyhow, for your viewing pleasure. Posters for the movies, not the actual movies. We don't have that kind of bandwidth here.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.