On Canine Good Citizens and the Interloper Study Group

You may or may not have heard recently from my sainted mother (peace be upon her) that my fat whore of a sister (may she rot in hell) just *cough* earned *cough* her Canine Good Citizen certificate, passing the tests with flying colors. Well, my friends, those colors run, unlike my fat whore of a sister (msrih), who really kind of slides about like salted slug.

Sometimes my mother (pbuh) is really deluded. Canine Good Citizen??? Who is she trying to kid? Everybody can get that. EVERYBODY. Not only is it the most mediocre sounding award I have ever heard of, but it is also a mere piece of paper. That's right. No stars, stripes, shining metal on an immaculate white coat, military music, tear jerking hymn singing, brindle on bitch action, er... where were we? She can pretty much keep her Poodle Certified Jerk tabloid extract. I have THREE purple hearts, one Medal of Honor, four silver stars, and 1,234 Distinguished Barking Crosses. None of these medals would look even remotely good on a crap and tar, I mean black and tan coat. I am sick and tired of putting up with her (msrih) and/or the Interloper (may his pathetic shriveled wiener disappear entirely in a random quantum fluctuation).

Some people have been heavily criticizing me on the way I conduct the eviction process. This brings me to my second topic. When I said earlier "We are winning this war", I really meant "We are going to win this war". By we, I mean my sainted mother (pbuh) and myself (pbum). So, We have been stuck with my fat whore of a sister (msrih) for how long? Seven years? And how long have we been stuck with the interloper (mhpswdeiarqf)? 18 months? I think calling it a quagmire is stretching the truth in a very LIE-beral kind of way. Nonetheless, I have decided to pay heed to the will of the American People and read the Interloper Study Group Report on the (Cold) nose war.

There are two kind of things amongst the 79 pieces of worthless commie advice in that brilliant piece of intellectual onanism. First, ideas that would lead to a victory at home. Well, DUH. I have already come up with those, which is, by the way, why we are going to win this war. I mean, these ideas are merely excerpts from my speeches. The second kind is ideas that would lead to a defeat at home. Defeat being defined here as having the black thingy and the yellow bastard stay. I reject these ideas entirely as the ejaculations of godless cowards they are. Some of them were written in French, I kid you not. I had to sanitize my nose after reading it.

Now, having read the ISGR, and having considered its proposals, I am pushing forward my idea of a surge of brindle to control the situation.

Thank you, and God Bless My Beloved Mommy, These Stars and Stripes, and The AmeriCAN Way.

Bark (1,235 DBC's)

On the French

That's it. I'm through with him.

Is it not enough that the Interloper continuously defies my orders and touches by beloved mother? That he sleeps with her on a nightly basis, approaching dangerously close to her with his woefully inadequate package? I ask you, my friends, is it too much to ask for him to just file in and follow orders?

This time he's really done it. I began to suspect exactly one week ago today that he was plotting something, when my mother (who can do no wrong) extracted the suitcase from the closet where she hangs her collars.

Then she filled it.

That's right, compatriots. Last Friday the Interloper took MY MOTHER to Paris.

Now, there are so many things wrong with this plot, I can't even begin to list them. I mean, who did he think he was kidding? Did he think I would not catch on to his scheme? Did he think I would allow my angelic mother to be loaded onto a dangerous commercial airline (not even a Concord, I might add), flown to a Socialist country, and paraded about the streets like a common whore for the benefit and delight of a bunch of freedom-hating inbred? Never. At least not without brindle supervision.

The minute the taxi pulled away from the curb, I took action. I called in a few favors and asked a paratrooper friend to pick me up. Within hours, I was at the sniveling surrender monkey airport, disguised as a customs beagle, awaiting their arrival. I followed them from the dirty French airport to the dirty French apartment where they were staying. I installed a "pet cat" to keep an eye on them while in the apartment. When the Interloper came too close to her or started speaking that damn liaison'ed gibberish to her, I had the pet cat agent attack his feet. When he tried to woo her in front of the Eiffel Tower (read: We-As-A-Nation-Have-Very-Small-Baguettes-And-Feel-The-Need-To-Compensate-Therefor-In-The-Form-Of-An-Ugly-Useless-Metal-Thing Tower), I herded a group of tourists into them to knock him down. In short, I thwarted his dastardly plan at every turn.

I am proud to report that within days, days, my friends, I was able to herd the two of them back to the dirty airport and onto these United States without resistance. Resistance, in any case, would have been futile. I then hopped into the Atlantic and swam across in record time, arriving back at the house hours before her return with the Interloper.

And now I plot my revenge.

On Cheap Eastern Block Imitations

She did it again. My sainted mother, though of ample heart and stunningly fabulous taste in Billies, has a weakness for dogs in need. As such, she came trotting home not two weeks ago with a little lost dog.

Exhibit A


What's that you say? The dog in question has a blaze, bug eyes, and pseudo-brindle fur? That's right, my friends, the dog was an imposter. I can now safely only speak of the treachery because high level agents have removed said dog through trickery and a well-planned coup.

"Naughty" informed me shortly after his arrival (whilst hefting his leg on MY tomato plants) that his mission in life was twofold: (a) to emulate me in whiteness and high-stepping awesomeness; and (b) to secretly take over my position as beloved of my mommy. Clearly this mission was the brainchild of the Communists, who have for many years longed to bring my beloved and sainted mother to the dark side. Naughty further confirmed this when he revealed his full name to me, Juggernaut the Pink-Skinned Harbinger of Destruction. Damn pinko.

Ladies and gentlemen, I had to do everything in my power to rid my home of this parasite. I tried drowning him in a saucer (for the parasite was very small); taking him out for a night on the town and leaving him at the Bad Dog Tavern (jerk caught a ride back with a stupid chihuahua); biting him (he has Adamantium skin); and a host of other remedies, to no avail. Although I am loathe to call upon others for aid, in this instance it had to be done.

For assistance, I contacted a Secret Service Agent with whom I served in an as yet unclassified mission. Using America's vast resources of underground and highly skilled agents, he quickly formulated a plan. An agent in Idaho was flown in, a female person. We'll call her Agent X. She was chosen for her ability to resemble to the countless hair-sprayed persons who carry dogs in purses. We sprung the trap.

Agent X called from a remote location, masking said location using recorded dogs in distress. She said she was calling from a local shelter, that she had lost her dog, and that she thought Naughty was him.

The plan worked flawlessly. Even my highly evolved and intelligent sainted mother was no match for the acting skills of X. She fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Juggernaut was removed, all the while shaking his paws and whining, "I'll get you and your big fat whoore of a sister too..."

My home is again a sanctuary and a haven for freedom, even more so now that I have driven out the Interloper. More on that one later.

Keep fighting the good fight, brindle warriors. America needs you.

B

On Marxanoma

I survived. I have an incision as long as the great wall of Communism, but I survived.

My doctor erred in her first attempt to close the incision, after removing the "lump", and I had to seek treatment at a top notch veteran's facility that, as you can imagine, understood the need for closing a Super Spy Dog's incision with Adamantium stitches. I blew the gut stitches out the first time I jumped after a commie squirrel.

Yes, friends, I am very much alive.

The doctor called yesterday. The lump was benign, she said. HA! It wasn't benign to begin with. Some covert commie spy grafted that horribly malignant and aggressive tumor near my manhood after drugging me heavily while I was most vulnerable, undoubtedly whilst I was making sweet love. The medical name for the type of tumor is Marxinoma. Fortunately for me, my Super Immune System easily defeated that unholy lump of Dialectical Materialism. My starred and striped antibodies pounded the unnatural red cells with surgically precise FNA bombs. Yes, friends, FreedoNucleic Acid. So far FNA has only been found in my body. You can bet that my friends at the DOD have been studying it for years.

I will live to love my Sainted Mother another day.

More later,

B

On Gramma and Commies

*sigh*

My even-more-sainted-than-my-sainted-Mother Gramma just left. She visits from time to time to stroke my silken fur, whisper sweet nothings in my flying nun ears, and generally make this life paradise on earth. Alas, she has departed.

Gramma makes my mom look like a dog owner who would chain one to a camper. She is just that awesome. I look forward to her visits as the American People look forward to a State of the Union by G.W. Bush. This time, however, I know she came to call out of worry.

Some days ago, my sainted mother found a small lump on the inside of my thigh. Frantic with worry, she drove me to the vet, who confirmed my worst suspicions: it is a Commie bug implanted to track me on my missions. My vet has secured the services of a bomb squad, the Secret Service, and some communication experts from the Department of Defense. Together, they will attempt to disarm the insidious tracking device tomorrow.

Please think of me, friends, as I undergo excruciating surgery without anesthetic tomorrow, even though it won't hurt, because I'm not a pansy.

xo,

B

On a Mission

Friends,

I only have a minute. I'm in an undisclosed location fighting Communism. More later.

Keep the faith,

B

On The Interloper

Thank you all for your heartfelt encouragement. Although this brindle stud is accustomed to attention, the comments from sophisticated doggers are always appreciated.

<-Here's a little fuel for the fires of your devotion.

On the Interloper.

My new daddy (the "Interloper") is a socialist. He's European, which means only two things: (1) he is not sufficiently grateful that we saved his arse in WWII; and (2) he's skating along the dangerous abyss, dabbling in Socialism and (gasp) Communism. I thought I had forever rid my home and sainted mother of his filthy clutches just last week, leaving me time to address my many fans and lie at the feet of my Sainted Mother (who, it can never be said enough, has the voice of an angel). Imagine my dismay, nay, disgust, my friends, when I found him returned only Friday night. He was, it seems, away on a "business trip."

Friends, you and I know the French do not work. They are a lazy, shifty people. This "business trip" can only mean one thing: the Interloper has fallen into the crevasse of Communism. He is at the very least a dirty pinko and I fear he may be a full blown red.

Exhibit A

When he first moved here in a disgustingly transparent attempt to woo my Sainted Mother, he wore very tight jeans. Although she quickly informed him that this fashion faux pas would not do, the fact that it "did" for him is evidence of Eastern European or Fascist roots. Only the Russians and Germans wear tight jeans.

Exhibit B

He does not speak good English. This in and of itself should be sufficient evidence supporting my theory.

Exhibit C

He repeatedly and shamelessly defiles my Sainted Mother, a prime example of the American Dream, with his woefully inadequate props. I have photographic evidence of this one, too graphic to post to the internet.

In short, friends, the time has come to take action. As I formulate my plan to rid my home of the Interloper and this fair nation of a Communist threat, I may be less than available. Your comments, especially as they may pertain to removing the Interloper from my turf, are very much appreciated.

xo,

B

Welcome

At the request of my many fans, I have created this blog. As those of you who know me already know, I am extremely busy protecting the free world from communism, my Sainted Mother from that Interloper, et al. I will, however, endeavor to post a bit here from time to time to satisfy the throng of ladies who favor brindle warriors.

For those of you who do not yet know and love me, a short introduction is in order. My name is William John Gavin, or "Billy." I am an eleven year old border collie/pitbull/heinz mixed breed dog. I live in an urban midwestern neighborhood with my beloved Mother (who can do no wrong), my fat whore of a sister (a seven year old rottweiler), two cats (Mia and Three), and my new Daddy, who sucks. I am sworn to uphold the American Way and have, at various times, acted as special attache to the president, secret agent, and soldier.

My mom adopted me from the animal shelter some seven years ago. At the time, I had just returned from a rather harrowing mission in Siberia, and I had a rough case of kennel cough, and some other ailments. I was incarcerated at said shelter by Communist Agents who wished to keep me from protecting this fair nation. Recognizing my glory right away, my Sainted Mother adopted me, and I have continued my missions with her blessing since that time. However, when adopting me, my Sainted Mother failed to notice the GIANT BOLD PRINT in which I had written "NO SISTER" on my adoption paperwork. She therefore stuck me with a fat, lazy rottweiler by the name of Grace Anne. Grace Anne is large, unwieldy, and annoying. I hate her.

Speaking of hatred, I also hate my new daddy. He repeatedly attempts to manipulate the attentions of my Sainted Mommy in his own favor, despite his woefully inadequate equipment, which he rarely cleans. I continue to work on a solution to this problem.

More later, my friends.

B