Baseball Lives

As if I’m not already taking up too much of my time chasing an impossible dream, I began writing for a new website. This new task has taken away from working on other projects, but from what I have learned in the last year, writing seriously has a much bigger benefit in the long run than trying to make people laugh does. In fact, making people laugh is pretty much a waste of time. Why put so much effort into something a feather to a foot can?

Anyway, the new site I’m contributing for is called Call to the Pen. For those unfamiliar with baseball, it’s a slang term for–I’m not going to even bother. To view my articles exclusively I will redirect you to my other baseball site I write by myself and the page I have dedicated to this new site. I figure, if you are interested enough to click on one link, you will probably click on a second.

You can find what I have written so far here on this really long string of words that for some reason I thought should all be part of the link.

That’s it. Just wanted to share this little piece of nonsense.

I’m also spending New Year’s with a sexy lady.

No, not here. She’s only my number two and three.

Beavers

I have not been updating this blog as much as I had planned this month. One could say I have been as busy as a beaver!

The first week this month I spent reliving Groundhog’s Day over and over again. It was really terrible having to watch that boring Super Bowl so many times. I actually didn’t watch it. This is called taking creative liberty like when people talk about slavery existing. Yeah right! Where’s the evidence?

(Clearly Photoshopped! The guy in the back on the far right has a butt with 90 degree angles)

Then I was not home for a few days because I was staying with my girlfriend Molly.

 

 

Then I came home and continued on with a normal life.

On Monday I received terrible news midday. Yahoo Sports where I have been writing terrific articles and making a nice coin while doing so will no longer accept contributions from asses like me beginning February 21st. After only 23 articles I have already gotten more views than I have from this blog. I’ve also been called an idiot a lot more too, I’m sure. I never look at the comments.

Upset by the news I arrived home where I actually received some awesome news. My sports blog Phalse Philly Sports has been discovered by several radio personalities in Philadelphia (okay, two of them) but one has actually mentioned my blog at least twice on his show and how much he loves it. He is also giving me the opportunity to produce a weekly segment for his show, which I will be working on this weekend after writing jokes for it all week long.

(My best joke it goes “Small squiggly line, big squiggly line, m, ink blot”)

I will continue to be a busy beaver into next week as I would like to write as many articles as I can for Yahoo Sports before they discontinue their program. There is supposedly a chance they could return to letting people like me contribute, but there is no guarantee.

That’s what I have been up to. I’d ask you what you have been doing, but I already told you about me and the only reason to ever ask anyone what they are up to or how they are feeling is so they ask you back. I said what I had to. Now be gone!

Mistaken Nazis

The Nazis have a reputation for being bad people. Most of the blame can be placed on the Indiana Jones movies and fact. There is one Nazi in particular who managed to rise above the rest and have his name known more than any others. That man was so powerful he only goes by his last name, Hitler.

(I actually made this meme and sent it to a girl. Mostly embarrassed that I made a meme)

I remember in school whenever we learned about the Nazis the teachers would make a list of factors and whether or not you would be killed during the Holocaust. This was not very effective since the majority of my school were Irish and Italians. In my reading class there was one mulatto we determined would have been killed and nobody really liked him any way so the Nazis seemed like a fly stuck in a light; only a minor inconvenience.

Not researching much into Hitler’s personality and basing it more off water cooler conversations I have had on the job, I see how I could easily be mistaken for a Nazi. I have several things in common with Hitler.

1) We both love animals. Hitler was a vegetarian or a vegan. I’m not sure. If you have ever had vegan ice cream you will know only the most evil person in the world could have enjoyed it. I eat meat daily and feel sick if I do not. That still doesn’t change the fact I enjoy animals and so did Hitler. Looks like we have a conversation starter all ready to go.

2) We both idolized a movie character so much we changed our image to reflect them. Hitler was a big Charlie Chaplin fan and stole his mustache. I was such a big fan of Taxi Driver that I got a mohawk like Robert DeNiro. Only a truly insane person would ever do this and I will not argue in favor of either of us being sane enough to function in the real world.

3) We both hate juice. Hitler reportedly killed 6 million juice. I’m not sure if this was measured in liters or by the carton. I’m not even sure why it’s referred to him killing the juice as juice never was alive. I’m not a fan of juice either as most are high carbohydrates and sugary. I’ll drink the juice sometimes, but like Hitler, I prefer white beverages like milk with my breakfast.

4) We both were denied access into art school. Hitler always wanted to be a painter. He sent his work in and they turned him down which eventually led to him becoming the most evil dictator in the world. I never bothered trying to get into an art school. It just sounds interesting. Think of all of the needy girls willing to strip just to be told they are unique and artistic. I could have scored so much. I was denied the access though because I didn’t have the skills or desire.

5) We both have orgasms when we give speeches. I remember hearing from a kid in 5th grade that Hitler had one of his testicles removed because he would get so excited during his speeches he would orgasm. I never had my testicles removed so I still have orgasms whenever I give speeches. I’m just a passionate person. Don’t make fun.

Do you have anything in common with an evil person?

Facebook Profile Picture Thieves

I have very little to say in this post which means this will go 300 more words than planned. All I want to say is that I recently discovered someone was using a picture of me as their Facebook profile picture. At first glance, this is a sweet gesture to let me know how important I am to them. Well, let me clue you in on some facts.

 

The above picture is the one they use as their profile picture. Granted, it’s a great picture. It’s still not even my profile picture on Facebook though and never has been yet it is hers.

Who is this woman?

The woman is someone whose dogs occasionally come to the place where I work. They’re not allowed to do much because one of them bites dogs. I met the woman once in person. She was with her husband who made a joke about how his dog is Jewish and it wasn’t a joke, more of a statement. I later thought of a funny response. I should have said “Yeah I can tell. He’s still got his foreskin” because the idea of circumcising a dog is humorous. I didn’t say that though. Instead I laughed and got a stern reaction back, and when I say stern I don’t mean that to be a reference to the popular Jewish last name Stern.

So I met this woman only once ever. Why am I still in her profile picture? Her dogs must be in the picture! Nope. As I said, they aren’t allowed near other dogs because they are troublemakers. So nobody she actually really has a relationship is in this picture.

Perhaps she just likes the picture. I stalked her profile and a couple of her Facebook friends, including a few younger ladies ::raises eyebrows:: liked the picture. Do they think I am related to her? Do they wonder who the fuck I am? I’m bothered by this, yet flattered in a strange way. A very strange way. A way where I’m blushing yet always looking over my shoulder wondering when I will end up tied to a bed like in Misery or whatever happens in the movie. I’m not sure. Kathy Bates frightens me.

There’s nothing I can do about this. For now I am in a picture representing a 50+ year old Jewish woman and it’s a bit of an identity crisis.

Former Single Season Home Run Champions

Last night the old family dog and frequent contributor to this blog McGwire passed away. In many ways his last days were like my mom’s, constant health problems and having no permanent home for more than too long. He lived 14 years, unless my math is incorrect, not that it makes a difference at all. He was an old dog who still often times had the wonderment of a puppy.

Fortunately we knew McGwire was sick and I got to see him last week before passing. I stole some gourmet dog treats from work in hopes these might brighten his day. I suppose they temporarily did.

The story of McGwire is not a simple one. We first got him back in 1999, a few months after the home run chase between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Since I have a white family, we rooted for Mark McGwire to succeed. We were thinking about getting a black cat and naming it Sosa, but chose not to and thank goodness we didn’t because Sammy Sosa is white now.

I remember the first time I held McGwire. He had shit on his feet. The shit on his feet go onto my shirt, smearing Tino Martinez’s face. The woman at the animal shelter said this was his way of saying he liked me. I knew immediately we would be mortal enemies.

The summer was spent raising McGwire, teaching him how to behave better and potty train. He had our first dog Baylee to learn from, but being the youngest he was always the spoiled one. McGwire immediately took the biggest liking to my mom. Whenever I questioned it my mom would say “it’s because I’m the mom” as if this justified him ignoring everyone else and being obedient to her.

As time went on McGwire grew closer to my mom than anyone else. He still loved us and we loved him, but it was clear he was her dog. He never quite learned how to play well outside as he was a dog who went by his own rules. Fetch for him was a one step process, running to the ball and then not bringing it back.

After our parents sold our house he stayed with my mom. In that 2-3 year period I saw him a lot less. When I did see him it was almost like he didn’t even know me. He would bark like we had never met before and I was a threat or stare out me with no emotions. I would only see him a few times when he lived exclusively with my mom until she died.

When my mom died McGwire came to live with me. This was not the most convenient situation. McGwire would be alone for 10 hours every day on days I went to work. Amazingly he only ever pooped once in the house over those 20 months he lived with me and never once peed inside. Coming from a sick dog left alone who loved people, I appreciated his strong bladder and bowel.

The longer McGwire lived with me the more attached I became. He had without me wanting it to happen become my dog. I was in no position to take care of a dog nor could I take on the financial responsibilities fully. Still, there were no other options available. If I didn’t take him then he would end up in a shelter or worse, with someone I didn’t like.

At the end of last year I decided to move and McGwire would not come with me, while ironically I was actually in a better position to take care of him as I was jobless. Thankfully a friend of my sister’s was able to take him in and give him more love than I ever could have. He would have a yard, cats to keep him company all day, and more than a small apartment to roam around in. McGwire had won a retirement plan.

Not everything McGwire gave the world was perfect. His poop was gross and his butt looked like an elephant’s face/my elementary school librarian. Having him in my apartment gave me bad allergy attacks at times and his selfish need to eat for survival cost me much of my social life for the good part of two years as I always had to make sure he got what he needed. Still, I tried not to complain. Taking care of him the best I could meant sacrificing other moments and opportunities in life. I think I did this because it was the simplest way I knew how to honor my mom.

Despite his brief shortcomings, McGwire was a loving dog. Behind kicking me off the couch every night at midnight, getting into my trash every so often only to find nothing interesting, and making most meals I ate intrusive to my knees, he was a great dog. He was a ladies man, choosing girls over me anytime. M.C. Gwire had a temperament that was near perfect and a breath far from it. He might be gone, but his presence will always be felt. McGwire is the reason why I wanted a job working with dogs in the first place. He gets a lot of the credit for every hug I give a dog at work. He gets a lot of the credit for every baby-talk voice I do that makes a dog’s ears go back and tail wag. Best of all, McGwire is the reason why I never learned to pick up food if I drop it.

Here’s to you McGwire. I cannot cry over your death because I know if I did you would just come sit next to me and kiss my face anyway like you always did before. Instead I’ll eat a lot of candy today (that’s my excuse for eating a lot of candy) because you always loved food. I hope wherever you have gone has a cool bathroom floor for you to lay on and nobody ever turns away when you breathe in their face. Thanks for the love you gave everyone.

The hardest part of death is always that the world never stops. People can give you sympathy. They can let you relax on responsibilities. The world just keeps going though no matter what our mood is. Before I even knew he was gone I had a dream with him in it. I have always hoped that dreams are us entering another world, perhaps even an afterlife. If this was somehow the case, he seemed to be happier, younger, and healthier than ever.

Brief Updates

No. I will not be giving you updates on the state of my underwear. You get it? Because some people call underwear briefs…

Clearly I haven’t been attending classes at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater with that attempt at humor. And by that I mean it’s impossible to be funny without first paying a couple hundred dollars for a class. And after you graduate that class you WILL BE funny, even if you never have been. Not.

So what have I been up to? I’m clearly not blogging much, if you didn’t already notice. Or at least not as consistently as I have. What have I been up to?

I work just about every day, sometimes weekends too. When I work weekends it’s staying inside a luxury Manhattan apartment watching television and playing with dogs. It’s as bad as it sounds, not really at all.

When I am not working, I have been attempting to write other things. I do so much writing at work by the time I get home I don’t have the energy do much else other than eat. Food is supposed to give you energy, but it never gives me much. I think I might be doing it wrong.

My fantasy baseball team collapsed and barely made the playoffs, then got bounced out in the first round. My other fantasy baseball team is in the finals, but they are not doing very well. I also have a fantasy football team now and it has me interested in the sport for the first time ever. I don’t know what this has to do with anything. None of this takes up much time.

I also had someone mail me a birthday card already. My birthday isn’t for a few more weeks though. It was a pretty awesome card and includes hand-sketched pictures of me. This is much better than in past years when people would give me butt-sketched birthday cards.

I have still consistently been submitting to Yahoo. Some of the articles are pretty good and mean while others are boring and pay money. If you feel so compelled, here is the entire listing of my Yahoo articles.

I think the moral of the story here is that I don’t have much to complain about. I’m actually pretty happy. Yuck.

Couches

I don’t own a couch. It’s the first time in forever. I’m planning on getting some little futon or something at some point because I miss having a couch. For now my couch is putting my bedroom pillows up against the wall on my bed and I sit on my bed using the pillows as a back rest. I think the proper term for this involves the n-word followed by rig, but I ain’t saying it.

(“Thank you, Tim.” – Spike Lee)

Couches are a wonderful invention. They were created by the Egyptians in the time of Cleopatra because she had so many husbands. She was always getting in fights with these husbands and they needed somewhere to sleep that was bed-like but not as comfortable whenever they were in the dog house or in the cat house as it was called in Ancient Egyptian times. Everything in Ancient Egypt was about cats. Imagine how hard it must be a cat living in today’s world. They’re all over the Internet but they’re not really worshipped like they used to be. I see the white man meeting the same fate.

I hardly remember my family’s earliest couches. The first time I met my first dog Baylee she was sitting on the couch when I got home from school. She picked her head up and looked at me. My mom said to be gentle. She went on to say Baylee wanted to relax and watch Batman: The Animated Series. Did she?

My family did get new couches at one point, I think. They were new to us at least. The worst thing about new furniture is you are so cautious with it until someone does damage to it. I like to invite a clumsy friend over immediately whenever I buy something new to take away the worry. These new couches were great though and provided plenty of room to sit. Ultimately it was decided I got the chair because not only had I become the man of the house, nobody ever wanted to sit next to me.

(Basically me except I have never been caught masturbating in a public theater)

Our family’s pets liked couches almost as much as we did. Baylee, McGwire, the cats Stephanie, Stashu (why the hell did we have a Polish cat?) and Briscoe all enjoyed sitting on the couches. The dogs especially liked them. If you ever get a new dog and think at any point in the future you will not want them sitting on the couch then never let them sit on it when they’re young. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Getting a dog who is used to a couch to lie on the ground is in fact a trick and I don’t mean the kind whores do for money.

I have a lot of wonderful memories from couches. There was a lot of eating and TV watching. Perhaps the best part was when I had a girl next to me on the couch. No. Eating was better. Girls want to cuddle too much. A cheese doodle never cuddles. A cheese doodle provides crunchy cheesy goodness. I don’t have to be self-conscious with a cheese doodle. I never have to wonder with a cheese doodle when we’re going to skip the foreplay and get straight to what I came there for.

Couches do have a dark side. They are a pain in the ass to move. To move my last couch out from my apartment I had to go all MacGyver and place it on a swivel chair on one end and push it from the other. A black neighbor watched me struggle. Then he realized what I was doing and told me I was clever. Black fellas know clever when they see it. They invented peanut butter.

(“Thank you again, Tim.” – Spike Lee)

I think couches often go overlooked in this country. Not having one makes me realize their importance. How else will I allow to over time let my posture go bad? I never lose money in the cushions anymore. The only good thing is if I bring a girl over I tell her she has either has to hop in my bed or sit on the toilet. I guess she could always sit at the kitchen table, but I would probably kick her lame ass out.

What is your opinion on couches?

Bees

Be aggressive. Be-e aggressive. Bees aggressive. Bees are aggressive. Bees want to fucking kill you.

Of all the insects in the world bees are my least favorite. This is how I know I was not Hitler in a past life. I have befriended more Jews than bees I have seen and not wanted to kill. Over the course of the next few words that you read, I hope you too can learn to hate bees as much as I do.

My first interaction with bees occurred when I was around 4 years old. I know I was still young enough where I was not in school but old enough where other kids were making fun of me. I was in a friend’s backyard when a bee began to circle above me. Like the passionate and loving person I am, I opened my hands for the bee to have a place to land. Do you want to take a guess what the cocksucker did? He fucked my hand. That’s right, this bee took out its sharp dick and began making love to my palm. It hurt. I was bee-raped in the hand.

Ever since that day I felt a hatred for all things bees. The first person I ever killed was someone who dressed up as the Blind Melon bumblebee girl. The second person I killed used Burt’s Bees moisturizer. The third person enjoyed Honey Nut Cheerios. I have only killed four people so the list stops there. If I had to guess though, the next person I kill will be someone holding a can of bumblebee tuna. Then again, this might be doing them a favor. Most people who eat tuna do it because they hope the mercury inside kills them.

(She grew up to look pretty normal. She’s also probably more famous than anyone from the actual band Blind Melon)

I managed to avoid bees for a while. Once I saw My Girl and realized how they are capable of so much evil they would kill Macauley Culkin, I vowed to stay away. My next encounter happened while at a park made almost entirely of tires. It was not as trashy as this sounds. On a side note, this park was the place I last pooped my pants. Thought I’d throw that in there because I totally forgot to write about it in my Playgrounds post.

While at Tire Park, I was climbing on the equipment with the same friend whose backyard I was hand-fucked by the bee in. We apparently disturbed a nest and out came hundreds of bees. I hate how bees always travel in packs. It’s like they’re clingy girlfriends who never can be alone. I was only stung once and managed to escape with my life.

(I swear the playground was a lot more fun than I make it sound)

I took this as a sign the bees were ready for war. I spent all of recess in second grade stomping on bees while they eat from flowers or whatever it is they do to flowers. One time I saw a bunch of ants eating a dead bee. It was the coolest thing I ever saw.

My best battle with a bee came while at home. A bee had flown up behind the curtain covering our back door. Our back door had a glass frame which means I am not strong enough to punch through glass. I saw the bee stop on the door and with a furious fist I launched my hand forward and crushed the bee between my knuckles and the door I thought it would reside on. It did not splatter. The bee simply fell to the ground dead as a motherfucker. Motherfuckers of course being the current thing we are supposed to call Neanderthals, or at least that’s what I think I read on Yahoo.

(There are no motherfuckers pictured here. These are all Homo sapiens, or as I read in the same article, cocksucker sapiens)

It seemed like bees had gotten the message. I was not a man to be messed with. They called off their army until one day when I was around 19. I was sitting on the couch one July afternoon when I heard a bee buzzing. I never saw the bee but I heard it. The sound of the buzzing made me feel sick. I began coughing. It felt like there was something stuck in my throat. This cough continued for 6 more months. It took until I took up jogging for a few months after seeing a live taping of Maury for me to lose the cough. Not until I exercised could I lift the curse of the bee.

I have had minimal interactions with bees since because I’m simply not outside enough. I also don’t fear death as much as I did when I was younger and full of hope so I’m more willing to go up to one and smash him without fear. When I think about it more deeply maybe the bees were trying to send me a message. My bad cough did motivate me to get healthy. It was one of the factors why I quit drinking the first time I did. Bees were trying to save me from alcoholism. Bees were trying to get me to start caring about my cardiovascular health. Bees made me incredibly boring at parties.

Fuck bees.

Related Information: Killing Bugs

Tall Canadians

Recently I read an article in the Huffington Post by Lily in Canada arguing against picking up dog poo. It’s sad to see such a nice young lady turn to drugs and come up with a crackpot theory. I’m not saying she’s doing crack or pot, I’m nearly observing how I think she’s doing them both at the same time.

(A computer’s prediction on how Lily in Canada might look in 3 months if she continues down this path)

You can read her argument here

Now that you’re all caught up let me say my argument in favor of picking up dog poo. First, let’s give you some background on who I am. I am a man who has picked up dog poo his entire life. My mom even invented a game called “Poop Patrol” which involved going out into the backyard with several plastic bags. Whoever picked up the heaviest bag (we didn’t actually weigh it, it was more done by sight) would win. The game wasn’t all that much fun because I was the only participant and it wasn’t so much a game as it was my only chore. I got older and realized if I didn’t pick up the dog poo then someone else would. This is an attitude I have continued to maintain. It wasn’t until I had to start taking care of my mom’s dog that I had no other option.

You see, I hate picking up dog poo. I like doing other gross things like cleaning out his ears then saying “Ewww!” in his face at all the gunk I get out. I do it anyway because it’s the rules. Lily in Canada would like to change these rules. Maybe in a perfect world this would work, but I do not live in a perfect world, I live in New Jersey. Lily argues that poop is biodegradable. True yet I have seen the same dog poop sitting outside by a tree for over a month now. I’m pretty sure it’s here to stay. I’ve named it Newton. By the time this poop biodegrades humans will have developed levitation powers. Perhaps this poop came from a special dog but until my dear Newton disappears into the soil, I win this one.

(Accept it Olivia Newton John, I named a pile of dog shit after your middle name. Get physical to that)

Lily goes onto argue people should look down to avoid stepping on the poo. This is fair but here’s some math, something you guys don’t have in Canada. My next door neighbors have three dogs. Each poops twice a day. That’s 6 poops a day. This adds up to 42 poops a week. Add in my dog who makes poops the size of those dogs and we’ve got an additional 14 poops raising the total to 56 poops every week. These are just the poops provided by two apartments. Add in the black family across the lot who never keep their dog on a leash, the black family around the corner who never keep their dog on a leash, and the black family who live in an unknown place who never keep their dog on a leash and we’ve got a number of poops approaching 100. I don’t know how gigantic your lawns are in Canada but if we didn’t pick up this poop then we’ve have nothing to step on but (no pun intended) the poop.

Present poop is a bigger issue than stepping on it. Poop is trouble to all the human senses. Who wants to look at poop? Unless it’s a big one in a toilet my friend has on his cell phone I don’t. Then there’s the smell! I know Lily is so incredibly tall that she has a better chance at smelling Saturn than she does poop on the ground so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Us normal heighted people however are a nose scrape away from getting the stuff on our nose hairs. Touching poop is gross in itself and the sound it makes when you step on it is even worse. There’s also tasting poop. Some people are clumsy and always doing face first dives into the ground. With poop lying around there’s a chance they may get a mouthful. Nobody wants to eat poop. Not even me and I like Arby’s. Of course there’s also the sixth sense that poop invades. Imagine seeing a ghost and a pile of poop on your lawn? That’s too much to handle all at once.

(“I see dog shit. It’s everywhere.” – if The Sixth Sense took place where I live)

The main reason why I believe poop should be picked up is because not everyone has a dog or contributes to the problem. This is a bit of a Communist viewpoint, which I believe Lily in Canada is. Think about it, she once told me her favorite movie was Say Anything starring John Cusack. This came out in the 80s when the Russians were still a threat. She’s also never seen Hook starring Robin Williams. I don’t know about you but can you really trust someone who claims to have grown up in the 90s and has never seen a live action Peter Pan film starring Robin Williams? She’s also originally from Chicago. This is the home of John Wayne Gacy, Al Capone, and Lincoln Burrows, a fictional character who allegedly killed the vice president’s brother. Even Hollywood knows their made up characters are crooks. Ferris Bueller for instance, he got really good seats to the Cubs game last second. You don’t think he had to illegally buy those from a scalper?

(Even with the entire upper deck empty these are still really good seats on such short notice)

The verdict is simple, pick up after your dog because it’s just one of those things you do. The same reason you pick up after your dog is the same reason why you don’t take a dump on your own lawn. It’s just the way things are and that’s the simplest reason behind it.

Happy Things

Art at Pouring My Art Out wished for me to basically write a post devoid of jokes involving race, sex, religion, or abuse and it must not have any outlandish opinion to it. In other words, he wanted me to write something nobody would ever want to read. He did however say it should be about happy things or at least I think he did. So here’s a post about happy things without any insults to anybody. I feel like throwing up. What’s something that makes everybody happy? Animals! Here are some things about my experiences with certain animals. It’s completely appropriate for children too as there are no insults or foul language.

(This post can be enjoyed by everyone in this picture)

Pussies:

I grew up in a home with pussies. We had three pussies in total. The first two were named Stephanie and her brother’s name was pronounced “Stah-Shoe” which I am told is the Yiddish name for Stanley. I’m scratching my head too. The third cat we had was named Briscoe after the Bruce Campbell show Briscoe County Junior. At least we watched the show.

Stephanie’s strangest quark involved her sleeping habits. There were only two places she ever slept, in the “messy room” on an old air conditioner and on my bed. She shed a lot and I have always been allergic to cats so I always tried convincing her the air conditioner was better. Still, it was nice to know I had the most comfortable bed in the house in a room with a door that could not shut.

“Stah-Shoe” was a tough cat. By the time I could have memories he only had one good eye. He was always getting into fights with other cats in our old home in Edison, New Jersey which I am told was a tough neighborhood. He was a black cat who purred louder than anything else. He was probably the most cuddly of the cats I ever had ownership over. He also has the highest kill count if you’re scoring at home.

Briscoe was more my older sister’s cat. My mom did not like him very much. He always peed in the corner of the living room and was a general annoyance. In a lot of ways he’s exactly like McGwire the Dog, more of a pest than a companion. I think this is what happens when animals are overly babied. Briscoe was still a nice cat who never minded being picked up and swung around the room. At least, he never said it annoyed him.

(Little pussies are my favorite)

Bitches:

It seems like every dog I meet is a male dog, never a bitch. I prefer bitches. Female dogs usually like male humans more and vice versa. I had mastership over one female dog in my lifetime, her name was Baylee.

The first time I met Baylee was when I came home from school one winter day in 2nd grade. She was extremely thin at the time after the abuse she endured. Baylee sat on the couch and when I opened the door her head poked up. It was love at first sight. By far she was the coolest dog ever. She had bad hips yet was still a great athlete. I could throw balls to her and like Air Bud she would hit them up in the air.

Baylee was a great companion for a young boy. She even somewhat understood soccer rules. A dog comprehended that she was supposed to block a ball from going one way and that she was trying to push it in the other direction. McGwire the dog still doesn’t understand his heavy breathing is the least sexy noise to wake up to. I miss Baylee.

(Two bitches playing Frisbee together)

Asses:

In America it’s illegal to own an ass. Asses, otherwise known in children’s books as donkeys, are not great pets. I’m not exactly sure why. Has anyone ever tried it? I think we need to give them a chance.

There’s not much I can say about these animals. Nobody goes to a zoo to see them. I know asses are important in some countries where they are used as transportation. In America their only purpose is to run for public office and screw over the kind people who live in this fine country.

(Check out these adorable asses rubbing together)

Cocks:

Some people wake up from the sound a cock makes. It sounds like “cock-a-doodle-doo!” I think we have all at some point in our life thought about quitting our jobs and working on a farm. I know I have. There’s something about living on a farm that seems so pure and beautiful. Your biggest responsibility is making sure you’re pulling your weight.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a nice cock. Whenever I do see a rooster they’re always scary. Aren’t emus just giant roosters? Emus are the scariest animal on the planet and yes I’m including Megashark in this debate. I don’t know if I would ever want to wake up from a rooster cawing. I prefer my phone alarm because at least my phone doesn’t creep me out.

(Three cocks just hanging out doing their thing in a public park)

There you go. A nice post where I did not degrade anyone and managed to keep everything completely family friendly. If we learned anything here it’s to never trust me to grant you a wish with a positive result in the end.