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Guest Blogger: Pugsley

I drool? No, you drool!

You thought you had me, didn't you, Reynolds? You thought you were rid of me. Hah! You great, stupid oaf. You dare to match wits with me? With ME?

Lufthansa! There, I've said it! And I will say it again, and may my poop-fumed drool spray onto your face (okay, ankles,) as I bark it in wild triumph: Lufthansa! Lufthansa! Lufthansa!

You think because you tower above me, a lumbering, stumbling Tyrannosaurus to my fleet-footed pot-bellied pig, that you will have your way with me? That was your dream, wasn't it? To be rid of me. To see me in your rear-view mirror. To push me out of your life, abandon me, and forget me -- aside from daily prayers for my swift and painful death. Admit it! You hate me and plotted against me!

Well, guess again, human. You may look like Lex Luthor, but I am your Superdog! I will foil your nefarious plans every time. You don't have the kryptonite to take me on, big boy.

"Sorry, babe," you said to the mistress, with faux sympathy that wouldn't have fooled a cat. "It looks like there aren't any airlines that allow dogs in the cabin going over the Atlantic."

"Sorry," you lied, you bastard. "No way we could squeeze his fat, foul-smelling sausage body into a sherpa bag, anyway."

"Of course, you could put him in the hold," you said, half-sneering, half-gleeful. "Just because they say it's risky for short-nosed, mutant, inbred, DNA-damaged, freakishly ugly, snorting, snoring, gasping, wheezing, half-toad, pissing-on-every-vertical-object, dogs, it's probably not a very big risk. He'd probably make it."

"There's only a small chance that he would die gasping for breath in the belly of a 747," you said, rubbing your hands in fiendish glee at the very thought of it.

Come here, Giant Shoes, come down here where I can whisper into you ear. Listen close: "Lufthansa, bitch! Ah hah hah hah!"

"Lufthansa! I'm flying, asshole! I'm flying to Germany on Luft-freaking-hansa! And then . . . oh, this part is so sweet . . . you, Reynolds, you will drive me to Florence. And will I howl, howl, howl the entire way, all the way through Germany, through Switzerland, through the northern half of Italy? Will I howl until you lose your mind? Will I howl till you are ready to take your own life? Yes! Oh, God, yes!

Game, set and match, human. I'm going to Italy. You will haul me through airports. You will place me under the seat in front of you during take-off and landing. Then you will be my chauffeur. Serve me! Serve MEEEEE!

And I will never, never forgive or forget your efforts to dump me. Everything you hold dear will feel the warm trickle of my urine. Prepare to see yellow, my friend. Mmmm, I already feel my bladder swelling.


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“Guest Blogger: Pugsley”

  1. Blogger fabius.maximus.cunctator Says:

    michael reynolds:

    Hilarious ! Wonderful ! I hope I ll see more of this blogger in the future.

  2. Blogger Ruth Anne Adams Says:

    Does he have a sister Wednesday?

    I'm sort of disappointed that Reader didn't nab the little cur.

  3. Blogger reader_iam Says:

    Me, too. My guess is the saner 3/4 of Michael's family googled some of my comments and decided it would be better to torture Michael.

    ; )

    Which reminds me of what I meant to post yesterday: Our oldest pug every once in a great while gets really pissed off at me, at which point he deliberately finds one of my shoes and pees in it. I'm not talking about spraying, mind you, but rather careful squat and aim.


  4. Blogger reader_iam Says:

    By the way, our youngest pug, whom we rescued from a shelter, was originally named "Pugsley." Obviously we kept the dog, but we traded in the name. (All of our pugs are named after dead scientists/mathematicians.)

  5. Blogger amba Says:

    "And not only that, Reynolds . . . I'M blogging Italy.

    "My fans demand it!"

  6. Blogger Tully Says:

    I knew it as soon as I saw the promo picture.

  7. Blogger Michael Reynolds Says:

    Okay, that does it. All of you stop encouraging him. I didn't even know the little turd could write and now he's got fans?