Something about Mr. Fratelli’s car accident, the power outage and Sparky eating one or two pizzas that weren’t technically his had inspired Mrs. Baxter to, suddenly, consider relocating my pal to a more rural environment. Newsflash puppies: things are hardly ever what they seem. At first, when I relayed the rumor, Sparky was thrilled. “The big show! When do we leave?” he asked. Don’t get me started. I explained that I didn’t think that that’s what Mrs. Baxter meant””that she might be talking about sending him away, all by himself, to learn about agriculture. “That’ll never work,” Sparky said. “We’re a team.” I couldn’t argue with that and decided to locate Vern for advice and instruction. We went to the hole in the fence and asked my neighbor what he thought. “This isn’t good,” said Vern, “farms are euphemisms.” Sparky thought euphemisms sounded delicious and asked if he could have his with extra hot sauce. Don’t get me started. I knew better and began thinking about how to make Mrs. Baxter realize that Sparky was utterly, absolutely and completely essential to our organization. Which reminds me of the time that Vern and I convinced Sparky, for his own good, that he wasn’t a dog anymore but instead a four-legged butler robot.
Happy BIRTHDAY CHUNKY!!!
This birthday boy deserves every lick of his cake. Put your paws together for our favorite @bigchunkymonkey and his St. Patrick's birthday!Morty Exposes The Industrial Chew Toy Complex
If humans got one thing right, it’s the IRS. Wonderful profession. More of a calling than a job really. If I understand Mr. Baxter correctly, it’s an entire agency that sneaks around making sure everybody else is on the up and up. Newsflash puppies: That’s what I do everyday—have been for the better part of a decade. Don’t get me started. Of course sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Most puppies are hopeless. It’s all entitlement and excess with these goofballs. Doggles®? Are you serious!? Ha! I can see fine without “stylish protective eyeware” thank you very much. Who comes up with this junk? When I was a puppy I had one tennis ball. One. Kept it for three years and it wasn’t even new to begin with. That’s how we did things back then. Don’t get me started. Did I complain? Heck no! I was grateful and took damn good care of my belonging—dropped it in my water bucket every now and then, kept it clean as best I could. No telling when I’d get another one if God forbid something happened to it. Of course that was all before the meteoric rise of the Chew Toy Industrial Complex. That’s right puppies, I’m talking about a shadow pack of elites—probably Huskies—who control everything. But don’t expect to read about it in The Droolitzer, I’m pretty sure Bogie is in on their mainstream agenda. Canine social engineering and whatnot. Newsflash puppies: life’s not all biscuits and belly rubs. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And whatever happened to carefully burying your bones for a rainy day? Lemme guess? You don’t wanna get your wittle paws durtie. Ha! Anyway, who’s funding this surplus of assets in the canine community? That’s what I want to know. Half these puppies are underemployed at best. Unbelievable. Which remind me of the time…
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