But more to the point, has anyone seen that movie Year of the Dog? I will shit nails if anyone tries to pull that adopt-them-all shit around me. Keep your fleas and ticks and what have you at your respective rescue centers, thank you.

Instead of being caged on Christmas, I could be stowed with luggage on a plane and swifted away to a winter wonderland. But I never get taken because I’m too much of a “hastle”, which I’m pretty sure is a German word for “loyal”. It’s good to have some time away from loved ones, you know!

I’ll tell you when I’m going to update my blog: WHEN I’M GOD DAMN GOOD AND READY!

I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. That’s what Daddy said. He said I’m his little man and I can update my blog whenever I please. And also that I’m “goodboy” for not barking when I saw this mutt bitch outside the window. She was so close though. Fifty feet, tops. I didn’t bark though. Gee golly, no I did not. I “bruffed,” but that’s not barking, it’s just making a “bruff” noise as if to indicate I long to bark. I did bruff though. I PLEAD GUILTY TO BRUFFING, EVERYONE!

She comes a foot closer, I break out into a full-blown howl. Let’s just keep that between you and I.

Before responding to this female humanoid, I did check to make sure I’m not bleeding out of my vagina. It’s always a bad idea to say things to people on the internets when your vagina is gushing blood. Thankfully I wasn’t cursed with a vagina, so I have nothing to worry about. I was given a cock, and two balls, (which were later removed due to high potency):

Check the titles, Scout. The very first entry on the page is all capital letters, followed by way too many exclamation points, and then followed by the number 1. I guess Scout lost his grip on the Shift key when he got to the end of his “Exclamation Point Rampage”.

I had to take internet humor 101 when I was locked in a cage for two weeks while my food-pourer traveled overseas. I don’t see why this female human hasn’t had to take this class too.

There are no links. Scout apparently only blogs to talk about himself, because he certainly doesn’t link to anyone else for reference points. I guess Scout has a pretty big ego, but unfortunately for him, his ego problem is giving him a comment problem. If he took time to give other people props, he might get some traffic and some comments. Read our tips on tricking out your blog.

Look, the Internet isn’t as dog friendly as it used to be. If my website gets too famous, they’ll do to me what they did do Rover. You remember, Rover right? Hmmm, maybe I’ve said too much already.

This blog is written from the point of view of a dog. Yes, that is correct, a dog. I have four dogs, and I hope to heck that they don’t think like this dog apparently does! I wouldn’t even let my dogs play with this dog, with his dirty mouth and antagonist attitude. Scout seems very angry all the time, and I just don’t think that’s too appealing.

What makes you think I’d want to play with your dogs?! They’re four yorkie whores that are too busy turning tricks at the dog park to blog intelligently.

Guys, true story, last week, I saw her four dogs tag teaming a French Bulldog for a payment of two milk bones. Have you sniffed the ass of a French Bulldog? I have, and believe me, no amount of milk bones would ever let me come near that thing again. Sixty. Maybe for sixty I would.

I’m too universalistic to respond to this jobless ho’ anymore, I have asses to sniff and children to growl at.

You’ll notice I’m bearing my teeth at her, a move of mine once dubbed by a reporter as “something you should live life each day hoping not to see.” That’s because I have what is known as “plaque”, which I think is Greek for “bloodcurdling fangs”. Don’t bother looking that up, I would know. I was once dubbed an honorary Greek God by King Gyros 24/7 Pita Palace. I have the crown to prove it, but I don’t want to go get it because it’s in the trash compactor. Seriously though, don’t fuck with me!

I mean, this doesn’t change who I am.  I’m still just Scout, the little dog you love.  PSYCH!! I FUCKING ROLLED OVER I’M AMAZING WOOOOOOOO!!1

Luckily I’m univeralistic and throw around 24k diamond-studded things all the time, mainly to attract bitches, so I’m not worried about the material loss. Diamonds are bug lamps for bitches. As silly and helpless as we regard mosquitos for wandering right into a purple light of death, why too do we not laugh at ho’s who view a rock picked up off the ground as the treasure of their very existence? I’ll tell you why we don’t laugh: bitches like stuff that’s shiny. That’s why the twinkle in my eye has me fending off da’ ho’s more than an NBA-player in a strip club.

But on a serious note, now that my identity was stolen by a gypsy with no respect for their fellow kind, (note the gypsy=dog reference), I’ll probably wind up being euthanized in a shelter soon since no one knows who I am anymore.

My thesis on this issue is that, you all need guns just to stand a chance against me and my vicious paws. The ideals of those guys who have been dead for three-hundred years should never be questioned. They are on our money, and chiseled into our mountains. The only writings that should be trusted more than theirs is that of God himself, whose book, which was published 2,000 years ago, is the ultimate authority since it’s the oldest, and therefore, as we all know, the wisest.  Like the owl from Pooh.  Anytime Tigger was acting ornery, where did they go for an amicable solution?  Owl.

I am so sick of these hippie assholes who are supposing that we should rid the world of guns. If you were a good follower, you’d know that the second commandment in that one thing clearly says, “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” If you disagree with that or even bother to question it, I am going to pee on your lawn. We all know pee kills grass.

Anyway, where was I?  Ahh, yes.  You see, hippie assholes, us practical beings understand a few things you don’t.  Put down your guitars and your crayons and wake up to reality.

Without guns, how are we going to protect ourselves from evil? Never thought about that, did you? How are we going to fend off a tyranical government? With our votes? Sheesh! How are we going to be entertained by the hip-hop culture? How are we going to know which man is really the “bigger man” if they don’t have a gun rack in the back of their truck? Are we to rely on towing capacity alone?

I say, no. I say judge a man not solely by his gross tonage but by that times the square root of the length of his gun rack (measured in inches) with bonus points awarded if it’s American made.  And you know what, you liberal athiest assholes? If you need me, I’ll be hanging my head out of the passenger window, wind in my face, barrel pointing at my head.

I realize that I am probably a leading candidate to be on the charter voyage to this new thing. Eventually I will come to terms with this. Now, I don’t know how long a twenty light-year trip is, but if it’s like that one time I was in the car for 18 hours, I swear I’ll piss all over the upholstery this time. I’m just saying. I’m not trying to make enemies, I’m not making threats. I’m just saying.

For your dumbasses not privy to the system, the human I.Q. test is scored like basketball whereas the canine I.Q. test is scored like golf probably. At least what’s what my careworker told me. Also, you’ll note that 71 would have made the cut at the Masters, so you know it’s good.

I admit to having a little trouble on the question where the instructor was holding a ball, put the ball behind his back, and then tested to see if you knew where the ball was at. A sly little trick, no doubt, but it was no match for my wits. Object permanence has always given me a little trouble ever since that lady took my littermates and handed them to other people and then I was like “oooh, look! they’re being held by other people,” and then they would disappear. It was a crafty little magic trick, but I never got to stick around for their reappearance since by the time all of the puppies had been made to vanish I was scooped up by a tall, charming man with ballooning biceps and taken away to a pampered life. I guess they could tell from day one that I was a winner!

Anyway, I’ve been hooking up with all of these beautiful bitches lately since mid-April is spring sex-fest. You would not believe how many of these bitches have fleas. You see a fly-honey chillin out by the fire hydrant, you don’t expect to see fleas hopping off of her onto your shag cushion a half-hour later. I mean, you expect her to be on your shag cushion a half-hour later, just without the fleas. It’s so awkward when it happens too, ‘cause you have to tell her. I still haven’t found a classy way to say “get out of my shag cushion, you skanky bitch, there are fleas jumping off of you like pepper out of a grinder!”

Side note: Yes, ladies, I have a shag cushion. It’s baby-blue and in the corner of the room, right by the candles and massage oils.

So guys I just wanted to conclude by saying that these nasty rumors alleging I have a huge flea problem and that if you spend two fucking seconds near me you’ll have bites all over your ankle and your girlfriend’s neck even though they put Frontline on me regularly and take me for long walks and pamper me like they’ll get millions for making sure I stay alive to the age of two and a fucking half are completely untrue. No problems. No problems here!