Tuesday, August 18, 2009

REPOST: Yo. I Am Bo...and I Friggin' Hate It Here

Yes, asshole. I have flowers around my neck. Take the friggin' pic already, willya?

My name is Bo. I’m not sure why I’m here. They brought me over a few weeks ago from that puppy training place in Virginia to “get acquainted,” whatever that means. Immediately, I couldn’t stand the place. First they had that wild staring lunatic who’s missing part of a finger follow me around with a hydraulic pooper scooper and biodegradable wee-wee pads, just in case I had to go in the Oval Office. I hear it wouldn’t be the first time someone defiled that floor, so what’s the big deal?

They also had me meet that guy Gibbsy. You know, the one who actually says “ahhh” more than my new owner? He wanted to take me to one of his press briefings, told me I could really do him a favor if I traded growls with Chuck Todd for the day. But I declined. I had an itch, and I just couldn’t stop scratching. Gibbsy even tried to help. I thought that was nice of him. At first. When his tongue started lolling out, like I was scratching him, I thought he might be a little bit weird. So I bolted.

(Later I saw him sniffing a cat’s ass, and then I knew he wasn’t there at all.)

After I got away from Gibbsy, I ran into this Eric Holder guy, who kept asking me about my nationality (I’m Portuguese, you nitwit), whether I knew some dude named Elian, and if I wouldn’t mind that my new owner was bringing in someone from Gitmo to be my caretaker. Seems they’re closing that nice resort down, and the good people who used to live there, after earlier having lived in caves most of their adult lives, need a nice place to live in America. So I guess I’m getting my very own dogman; I’m not sure if I’m into the use of Arabic knives with curved blades as teaching tools, though. I’ve learned a few things from watching Cujo on DVD back in puppy school that I can use in my defense. Just in case.

I managed to get away from that Holder guy, too, but then this really evil lady got in my way. I swear I could see in her glazed eyes that I was a goner. She kept calling me “Vincent.” Then she called me “Bill,” and stomped her feet, as if she were even angrier, and screamed something about a purple dress. But then, strangely, she glanced away (my new owner was coming down the hall, I’d noticed) and started laughing as if someone had just told a joke about a bunch of Somali pirates who’d kidnapped an American ship captain and were holding him hostage and it reminded her back when she was first lady and her husband had to deal with pirates. HaHaHaHa! Yeah, lady. That’s really friggin’ funny (sorry, they taught me to curse back in the puppy mill in Erie).

So after that I had to hang around with The Guy With Big Ears for the rest of the day. Everywhere we went, there was a teleprompter, and every time The Guy With Big Ears said something to me, he had to look at the teleprompter. Do you know how puppy talk sounds when it’s read from a teleprompter?

I tried to tell my new owner I wasn’t having any of this federal dog bullshit. I bit his hand. I pissed on his shoe. I even tried humping his wife’s leg, but just being around her made me sick to my stomach. Like I said, that Oval Office floor’s been cleaned before.

When they sent me back up to puppy school, man, I thought I was home free. Golly. Was I ever wrong. For two weeks, I had to sit in class and get a crash course in The Communist Manifesto, Mein Kampf, the Modern Socialist State, and How to Pull off Systemic Stealth Jihad in America 101 - 303.

Needless to say, when I came back to the White House for Easter weekend, for good, I was exhausted, a zombie walking through a daze (although I was starting to recognize all the familiar symptoms of communism…. Hey, I really learned my stuff in training school!).

So I’ll let them lead me around on a leash for a while. I’ll even let them dress me up in smelly Hawaiian flowers. I’ll bide my time, like I’m my own little terrorist sleeper cell. While they go after the banks and the automakers and the insurance companies and the right-wing nuts, I’ll just sit here and wait. And when they least expect it? CRUNCH! I’m going to eat one of those big friggin’ ears.

I have to say one thing, though: At least when That Guy With Big Ears speaks to me without a teleprompter, he sounds like a dog person: “Ahhh…portie-wortie wanna scratchy behind the eary? Ahhh…you have webbed feet….ahhh….we’ll teach you to swim….so you can catch fish….in the presidential punch bowl. Ahhh….we’re also gonna…ahh…have to get you…ahh…your own weekly press briefing.”

Why? So I can sound smarter than you? C’mon, sir…let me hear you say “a lot of shelter dogs are mutts just like me” one more time!

Hey! Wanna know something funny? I hear I’m from the same spawn line as ole’ leering Teddy Kennedy’s Porties. He’s gotta be pretty friggin’ jealous that I made it to the White House before him. Who am I kidding? Instead of him.


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