The Universe must have just flipped over on its proverbial ass because, I, the “Crackhead Beagle,” am now in charge of advising all you people. My owner has lost her mind, but if you read her work, you already knew that.
I’ve actually been hung over for a few days. Big T., my owner’s stepson, just turned 21 this week, and my daddy, Mr. Jenn, took him out partying. The two of them got all pimped out in fresh John Deere T-shirts and went to Hooters. Apparently, the Hooters Girls did the Hokey Pokey all around Big T. in celebration of his big event, and one of them accidently touched his butt. She then had the audacity to apologize. Big T. did all he could to put her mind at ease about the whole thing. He didn’t want her to waste a moment worried that his butt might somehow have been offended by their exchange.
I should have been a Hooters Girl. My teats may not be that big, but hell, I have eight! I would say that makes me overqualified. But, wait, I’ve digressed. I started out by telling you that I’d been hung over, but then I ended up talking about tits. Please forgive me. I’m a dog, dammit.
When they got back home, Mr. Jenn and Big T. thought it would be fun to get the dog drunk. We all sat out on the deck by the alligator kiddie pool, and they poured Lime-a-Ritas in a little bowl for me. I had no intention of giving in. Hell, naw! Since being coined “the crackhead dog” on this god-forsaken blog, I’ve tried to preserve what little pride I have left. But those stupid Lime things tasted so amazing, and the two idiots just wouldn’t leave me alone. Between all the guffawing and trying to hit the inflatable alligator in the pool with their beer cans, they ended up feeding me like three cans of booze. I didn’t act like some typical bitch in heat, though. I just got really chill and fell asleep on the deck until one of them missed the alligator and hit me in the head with the can. Then I got mad and started to growl. Apparently, I’m a mean drunk.
Hatefulness aside, though, I do have some advice for Big T. and all of you people turning 21. None of you asked, but the best counsel usually involves crap no one wants to hear. Imagine how great this world would be if people actually listened?
- That plastic you like to swipe at Bennies Beer Bodega at the end of the street? You gotta pay that shit back.
- If you can see four dividing lines in the highway after a wild night at the Hog bar across from Bennies, sleep it off by the dumpster in the back before you try to drive. Jail just isn’t as bad-ass as it looks.
- If you still live in your old room at your parents’ house, for God’s sake, quit storing your dirty dishes in your closet because you’re too stoned to wash them. At least put them out for the dog. She/He will clean them up for you.
- Use birth control. Two kinds. You just ate three pieces of pizza from the frat. party three weeks ago. You’ve been wearing the same underwear for a few days because you’re too slack assed to go do laundry, and you keep sleeping through your 11:00 class on campus. How are you going to take care of a kid? Even worse, you might get fleas.
- It’s all fun and games until someone gets married.
- If you’re going to get your dog drunk, consider a high quality beverage for a greater effect. PBR? Ewwww. Lime-a-Ritas? Yum.
See you next Friday when I ponder the life-changing decision facing Ethel Moonbeam of Intercourse, PA. Should she cut her hair or have an affair? Stay tuned…