Dog Eat Dog...based on a truse story

Blake wasn't always a stray dog. He once had a home and a family with kids and other pets to play with. There was a lot of love in that household, at least for the first couple years. As he would wander about, searching for his next meal, he often would think of those times and he would miss it. And every time he thought of those happy memories wrath would swell up inside him. He was angry at what led him to where he was today... a stray dog, abandoned and left in the middle of nowhere.

And even though he was angry, deep down Blake always hoped that one day he would find his way home. He could forgive them if he could just come home. Anything was better than living on the streets. Even the thought of how terrible things were just before they dropped him off on a county road in the middle of nowhere was more welcome than being a nobody's dog. 

Blake still can't understand how this came to be. There was so much love in that family, he just couldn't understand why such good people would do this to him. He spent countless hours contemplating on where he went wrong. Or was it his masters who went wrong? He longed to know.

Blake was born the biggest of the litter, a stout little fellow, solid and heavy. He always used it to his advantage, bullying his way to front of the pack, taking more than his fair share. He knew how to throw his weight around, knocking the other pups down to be the first in line. He carried most of his weight in his rear end and he would swing it out like a little wrecking ball to plow his way through whatever stood in his way.

Blake was also an incredibly cute puppy and he knew it, giving him an even greater advantage over the rest of the litter. When potential owners came to visit they picked him up first, not because he bullies his way to the front but because he was so stinking cute. He was the top dog and he knew it. And pride washed over him.

When he at last was taken to a knew home he was greeted by another dog who had already been with the family for seven years. There was also 2 kids to play with and 2 cats to torment. But one thing he quickly realized was how he had to compete for attention. Jonesy, the other dog who had already established himself as the top dog in the house, seemed to get the most attention. Blake envied the veteran dog at how much attention he got.

Boredom set in as he got little attention so he would spend his time eating and laying around. And he continued to gain more weight, and it still went to his rear end. There would be times when the kids would want to play with him and play he would but he would quickly grow tired and he would flop on the floor in the middle of playing and take a nap. Oftentimes his movements would be slow and meticulous, like that of a sloth. When they called his name he would only raise his head and stare instead of coming to them.

And he ate some more. Blake felt that if Jonesy is to get all the attention then he is to get all the food. If there was food in the dish, he would eat it. If there was water in the bowl he drank it. Blake then thought while he's at it he should eat the cat's food too. If he could starve them out he would be the top dog again. His greed for all the food would cause fights with the other animals whenever their masters put food in the dish.

And the dog grew some more, still packing all the weight in the trunk. "Move it you fat ass!" or "Get off me you fat fuck!" were words commonly used by his masters towards him. He liked the attention though and so he would always flop on his masters just so they would yell at him and push him off. But they soon grew accustomed to his weight laying on them so he had to find a new way to get attention.

A dog has needs but the only females in the house were either feline or human and so his only option was to hump Jonesy. He was male but at least he was a dog. This served as a double bonus because he could fulfill his doggy needs while venting his frustration on the dog he both admired and despised. It was awkward and not very satisfying at first but he soon had a lust for Jonesy and would hump him whenever he came near.

But the excitement would wear off as it often does with any relationship and Blake grew bored of Jonesy. He continued to seek the attention of his masters so he would dig through the trash and make a mess. They would smack his fat ass and throw him outside. It hurt at first but after a while he began to like it. He was a real glutton for punishment. But his owners wised up and put the trashcan behind closed doors and so the attention came to an end.

He then took to humping the cats to pass the time until a new way to get attention came along. Humping the cats did get him a little bit. "Blake! You sick fucking dog! Stop it!" his owners would yell just before kicking him away from the cats. But the abuse just wasn't the same. His owners didn't seem to be too angry with him since he wasn't making a mess.

Blake thought that if the adults won't give him what he wants maybe the kids will. He tried to chew up their their toys to make them angry with him. This plan backfired however, as the kids seemed to have more toys than they know what to do with and so they didn't mind donating a few toys for him to chew on. He had to find new ways to make a mess.

Chewing toys just wasn't cutting it so he chewed on other things like dishes or other various household items he could get his paws on.

Blake took his attention-seeking methods to a whole new level when he began hiking his leg and urinating in various spaces in the house. He figured while he was at he would leave land mines in strategic spots, insuring detonation by any non-suspecting victims. This enraged his owners and they would rub his nose in it, smack his fat ass, and throw him outside. And it was good.

Blake especially liked it when it was the man of the house who would carry out the punishment, for it was he who hit the hardest. Sometimes Blake would growl and bite at him to anger him even more and solicit a few bonus kicks, and every time he kicked him his foot landed true on the dog's fat ass. Sometimes his master would kick him all the way out the door. And Blake loved every second of it.

Blake liked to milk things for what they were worth. When he was outside he would scratch at the back door, signifying he was ready to come in. But when they opened the door to let him in he would just sit there and blankly stare at him. They would gently call for him, "Come here Blake! Come on boy!" and he remained still, staring. They would then grab a bag of treats and shake it at him to try to lure him in and still he did not budge. Then they would then change their tone and yell at him "Dammit Blake! Get inside now! Go! Move it you fucking fat ass!" and still the dog held his blank stare. Finally they would step out to manually escort him inside and Blake would lay down on his back. The scooted him along with their feet, subtle at first but then more aggressively as he offered up more resistance. Blake's favorite part was that one final kick that would send him spinning across the kitchen floor.

Blake missed that family, the abuse. He still couldn't believe they had dumped him though. They just didn't seem like those kind of people. He often heard them talk about getting rid of him and every time they had that conversation he heard them say "If we get rid of Blake we gotta make sure he goes to a good home, where he will get attention." It just didn't make sense to Blake and it left him searching for answers.

And then one day those answers came. It happened while he was nosing through a bag of Taco Bell he found on the side of the road. A white car was approaching so he cautiously moved to the side to wait for it to pass. It was coming slow at first but then when it got closer it sped up and swerved towards him. Blake jumped out of the way, narrowly escaping death. As the car sped away he got a good look at the bumper and the sticker that was on it. It read: "IF REDNECKS GET DIVORCED ARE THEY STILL SIBLINGS?"

In the car's wake Blake caught a familiar scent and instinctively began to chase after the car. It was a funky odor that he knew he had smelled before, but from where he could not remember. All he knew was that he didn't like that smell. There was no way he could keep up with the car but still he tried. And then all of a sudden it hit him. He remembered where he knew that smell from, it was those fucking neighbors, the ones who had painted him.

And then he remembered that it was them who dumped him in the middle of nowhere, not his owners. Images flashed through his mind as he recalled the day he was lost. The bumper sticker on the car that he had read as he was pissing on the bumper, the neighbors coming at him with a bag and scooping him up, being violently tossed into the car and then later getting thrown from the car while it was still moving, the countless hours he spent in a ditch trying to escape from the bag.

Anger swelled inside of Blake when he remembered was those bastards had done to him and he ran even faster, keeping the car in his sight. He knew there was no way he could catch up to the car but still he ran, fueled by rage. He was giving up hope when the car was now a couple miles ahead of him, fading in the distance, about to go over a hill to disappear forever. Then all of a sudden it seemed to turn into a driveway, just before the hill. With hope restored, Blake ran hard, like never before.

At last he came to the driveway, and sure enough there the car was, parked near a trailer that had seen better days, surrounded by trash and overgrown weeds and grass. Blake came to a stop to plan his next move. Then he noticed there was something familiar with his surroundings. He looked around some more and then he saw it, his home. He was so focused on catching the car that he simply didn't noticed that he ran right past his home.

Blake's heart was lifted and he let out a bark of relief. He dismissed his pursuit of the car, their time was coming, but for now he had a family to reunite with. He ran to the back door and scratched it, just like he used to. The door opened and there stood his master. With his tail wagging furiously, Blake sat and blankly stared at him. It was good to be home.


*disclaimer* We do not abuse our dogs nor do we endorse the abuse of any animal. Parts of this story are fictionalized for dramatic effect.

An Ego Trip Down Glory Lane

Ah, I was in the middle of saving a bunch of children from a landslide when it dawned on me, I have a contractual obligation to answer your questions. I suppose the children can hold their breath a little longer. Hell, I can hold my breath for 5 minutes while being subjected to extreme environments such as Twilight opening nights and Dunkin' Donuts at rush hour.

H'anyway, let me get this over with. The world ceases to spin if I take more than a 3 minute break from saving its ass.

Is it wrong to go to family dinners, get drunk, and boast about how much better I am than everyone else? It isn't my fault if I'm successful and they're all rather pathetic, is it?
submitted by Jewels at According to Jewels via Email

Is it wrong? Absolutely not! What are family gatherings for other than to assert your dominance over the entire dinner table? Families are much like prides, there needs to be a designated lioness to lead the pack. The only way you'll even be considered for the role as alpha female is to flex those muscles and slug those brews. The more alcohol you consume, the more likely you are to drown out the dronings of Uncle Jim's fishing stories. Once you've taken Uncle Jim out of the equation, don't forget to call out the red, bulbous sore that's setting up camp on Sally's upper lip. Then you're clear to move on to the more threatening targets such as Aunt Melinda and her PhD, Charisa and her newly inflated breasts, and Jordan, with his recent robotics degree.

If your adversaries are unsuccessful and pathetic, then rising in rank will be easier than outliving Kirk Douglas.

Prime example

Source

Soap or body wash?
submitted by Anonymous via Email

Neither. I've learned that my body gives off a natural musk that drives people insane. Literally insane. The last passerby that happened to inhale a whiff of my glorious, gland excretions had to be immediately admitted to the nearest asylum. Most days I refuse to leave the house for just this reason.

But, for those days that you're getting your swell on, the next best thing to do is to lather yourself in body spray. Truth be told, I exited the womb cradling a can Axe body spray. I'd suggest half a can per armpit minimum.

I'm glad to see one of the women I've driven insane is getting some work out there.

Source

Is it wrong to steal illegitimate children from under-age teenage mothers to create my own Spartan program to hunt these social disgrace?
submitted by Anonymous via Email

Well, first we have to lay down some ground rules. I've already begun a similar program of my own. My background in all forms of martial arts and fighting techniques makes my illegitimate child army a force to be reckoned with. Though, fortunately for you, I ordinarily use my child army as nothing more than spotters for when I go to the gym... because it takes an army to properly support the weights that I'm able to lift. As for the socially inept, they're all yours to conquer and destroy. I don't usually have too many run-ins with them as once they get one look at my bulging biceps, they have no choice other than to turn a cheek to shield themselves. In other words, to answer your question, you may build a Spartan force, just be sure not to cross my boundaries for I alone will wipe out your army with a simple flick of my wrist while my illegitimate children assassins cheer me on from the sidelines and wait to clear out the grotesque aftermath.

Recently I have decided to begin a search for my Noah. (Y'know the overly romantic dude from The Notebook). I think I may have found him but he lives 500 miles away.

Do you think it is possible A) That a Noah exists and B) To find him so far away (which brings another Nicholas Sparks book to mind, Message in a Bottle)

Being that I'm getting up into the cougar age, it is imperative that I find love soon before I find myself settled down with either an old fart, or a twenty something young buck who just loves his older ladies and is looking for a sugar mamma. 
submitted by The Insomniac's Dream at The Insomniac's Dream via Email

Well, it's hard to believe that there's a man worthy of nearly as much attention as I, but if you think you've found yourself a syrupy sweetheart, then good on you. It's always nice to see the common folk catching a glimpse of the happiness I feel every second of every day.

Although, it has been proven by science that it is impossible for a man to be anywhere near my caliber, I suppose it is true that ordinary people could find attraction in beings that are lesser than I.

Luckily for you, it's the dream of any 20-something year old to take a cougar to bed. As for settling down with him, that should be more than feasible taking into consideration that you'll most likely be putting the bread on the table.

Actually you're both humans. 

I guess romanticism takes the place of common sense.

Source

At what point do you admit defeat?
submitted by WorkingDan at Shameful Promotions via Email

"Defeat" is a word I'm totally unfamiliar with. So, upon looking up its definition, I'm more than comfortable admitting that I'm the worst person to consult. I've never experienced anything remotely similar to defeat. Seeing as I'm being contractually forced to provide an answer, I'll say (solely from my newly learned definition) I'd say never is a point to admit defeat.

On second thought, there are those exceptions to the rule.

Source

Is there any shame in enjoying the smell of your own farts?
submitted by SolarBit via Email

I've never expelled anything short of perfection from my body, so I can be the first to say that enjoying one's own farts is completely acceptable. I find it's best to capture your gas in jars labeled according to your diet. You'll get a firm grasp of what foods cause you the expel the best brand. Truth be told, I've earned over $700 selling my fart jars via eBay. If you pass gas that's nearly as pleasant as mine, I suggest you seize the same opportunity that I've been blessed with.

Source

How many people have you taken to bed?
submitted by Lesley P. via Email

Count the stars in the sky. Multiply the results by the grains of sand on every planet in the universe. Then, minus 2 and you'll get the answer. It's a number that's out of mankind's ability to comprehend.

Alrighty, is that all of them? 1... 2... Yeah, 7. Finally! That took longer than the average 20 seconds it takes me to write a post. Bah, until next time you insignificant peons.

Envy: I Wish I Were You But, With A Bigger T.V.

Having lived most of my life, known only as "the reason Gwyneth Paltrow's head ended up in a box" and "capitalism's dark mistress", it's time to tell it like it is!-- only, I'm doing it for you! Having gotten your questions, scribbled out the answers (in my trademark depressed binge drinking scrawl ) I bestow the ultimate truths about how you're just as deserving as every prick in a Polo shirt and a daddy bought Mustang.



Katy Anders asks: 

How do you handle it? I mean, how do you handle splitting this site with 6 other sins?

      The truth is...I don't. Not "well" anyway. They are all...literally all, better than me...on the surface anyway. Deep down inside, they're all pricks. Regardless, to cope with my inadequacy, I've taken up this nasty habit of cutting myself, you know, secretly...under tables and want not? It's not something I'm proud of--and, and when you usually dine alone...at Chuckie Cheese, it can, at times, draw a crowd. Did I mention my incredibly low pain tolerance? Pained screaming and easily scared children never mix. Ever. 

Mr. McFliperson asks:

My co-workers are jealous I got a promotion. They insinuate I only got 

the promotion because I sleep with the boss. What is the best way to 

poison those stupid bitches in the secretary pool and not end up 

getting raped in prison by Betty-Lou?

      First and foremost...relax. Preying on co-workers has never turned out well, even in third world countries. You'd most likely end up in prison, as you said, doing unmentionable "rape-like" things with a mannish Betty-Lou and her entourage of androgynous friends. So, for the time being, let's find a less violent solution until a less violent one can't be found, okay?

      Now, dealing with jealous people can be a tricky affair and understand your wanting to poison them. Perhaps, simply sitting your offended cohorts down for a discussion would quell any hard feelings they and you might have. Sometimes a simple, firm, "You bitches need to shut your mouths or I'll sneak into your houses and cut you when you sleep!", is all you need to get your work relationship back on a good footing.

Anonymous asks:

Yesterday, I saw the guy that lives across the street haul a huge 80" t.v. into his house. I know I shouldn't care about it, but, when I saw it, I felt intensely angry. My t.v. is a 25 inch hand me down from 2002 and yet, he (a pensioner) gets to watch that behemoth. Why am I so angry?

      Your anger stems from an incessant need to qualify and understand old people enjoying the fruits of a retirement you are nowhere near (I assume.). This irrational hatred is unhealthy, bitter and overall...fine. Hatred and jealous rage over what someone else has is what sells 80" televisions in the first place! So, don't beat yourself up over something that's keeping millions of people entertained and employed. Revel in it. The pornography industry does it every day.

      My suggestion is to turn the old guy in for dealing drugs. They'll confiscate his belongings and eventually sell them at auction. Then, go to the auction and get that 80" on the cheap! You'll be enjoying big screen porno before you know it.

Chiz asks:

A vacuous black hole has mysteriously appeared in the corner of my 

cubicle. It's grown about twice its former size in 3 days. Should I 

just get it over with and dive into the wormhole and maybe arrive in an 

alternate dimension where I've made intelligent life choices? Or should 

I just try to steal someone else's job?

      Navigating the complexities of interdimensional theoretical physics is never an easy task. Especially if it's sitting in your office...tempting you with it's infinite possibilities. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry and assume that it's not safe to "jump on in". Not without proper testing of course. Plus, I might have a solution that would get you that great job theft a little bit further along.

      Firstly, as a proper precaution, it's best test a wormhole the way cosmetic companies test their wares; on animals. Baring the occasional desk stowed hamster or wall eyed trout office mascot, you probably won't find many. It's inevitable that you will first toss in random office things (staplers, computer monitors, chairs, etc.). Once it's established that those things aren't rejected or return covered in ectoplasmic slime, it's time to move on to the "harder stuff".

      Call over that poor bastard whose job you desperately crave. Show him your newly discovered vortex. As he hovers over it in terrified awe and disbelief...shove the ol' boy in. Cobbling together a "he accidentally fell in, while trying to retrieve his child pornography" story should be easy enough. It's only a matter of time before his vacated job is your new money machine. 

Dan asks:

I seen a guy at McDonald's paying for his Big Mac meal with a $100 bill and he had several others in his wallet. I became jealous because I haven't seen a $100 bill in years, yet alone multiple $100 bills. If I were that guy I would be eating steaks, not Big Macs. So should I rob the guy or do I just accept the fact that I'm not worthy of $100 bills?

      Flaunting your wealth in the face of others isn't a bad thing. It encourages and motivates others to seek the fortune you already have. So, rather than looking at the man as a snobbish prick, see him instead as a teacher. Use the vision of those $100 bills to elevate your worldly purposes to greater heights and see yourself as being worthy of those "dolla' billz" and much, much more.

I suggest, not robbing him, but following him around until he goes to work. Then, rob the guy that pays him in $100 bills.

Asked anonymously via Sinquiry: 

My best friend recently spent a lot of money on a boob job. She looks great and now, every time we hang out, she get's all the attention! Maybe I should get a boob job too, what do you think?

      Having altered my body in several ways, I can tell you that keeping up with your friend's alterations can get costly. I have had so many piercings and tattoos done that I've often forgone rent, simply to out do my friends. Do you know what it got me? Blinding adoration.

I suggest the biggest knockers your double mortgaged house can buy you. Bills can wait...tits won't. 

Asked anonymously via Sinquiry:

I wanna be a famous rapper, rollin' in some phat chedda', know wut I'm sayin'? My boy already got some studio time and gettin' his sh*t play'd on the radio. Even though it'z whack as f*ck! My flow is way better than his bullsh*t. How do I up my game and get some uh that green?

      Oh, the pursuit of fame, what a glorious monster to hunt. Is there a more noble cause than that which might make you more famous than your friends? I think not. Now, being that your friend is obviously not as talented as you, it must mean that he may know something you don't. As a gifted rapper, I can tell you that it's probably people...and maybe bitches...or both. 

      Now, the trick is to get those people to like you better. How would you do that?, you might ask, well, that's pretty easy actually. As everyone knows, rappers, like regular people, love the same three things: money, more money and sex. Convincing people to have sex can be tricky, so, you'll want to invest in a gaggle of prostitutes. They do require payment of some sort. 

      So, simply get more money and spend it on those people currently giving your friend studio time and prostitutes to pleasure said people. How to get more money? Easy. Sell drugs. Done. Before you know it, you'll be loungin in the company of Jay-Z, Lil' Wayne and Snow, sipping champagne that's been cascaded run down a skanky strippers ass crack. 

It's Not Over Until You Eat The Baby

Well, the holidays have just ended, and I hope you're all in the happiest, cheeriest, sugar plum mood imaginable because I'm about to spit in your soup, piss in your cornflakes, and projectile diarrhea into your matzo balls.

That's right, I'm really pissed off, and if there's one thing I hate more than sorting through questions, it's getting hassled by all the other sins to actually answer them.

Pickleope asks:
Dear Wrath,
How do I best vent my frustration on every other person in the world whilst stuck in traffic?
Sincerely,
A Road Rage-aholic

Great question. The key is to take everything as personally as possible. Whether they cut you off, or drive faster than you, or make eye contact with you, it's all a sign that they want to "throw down." Don't let those innocent "doe eyes" being thrown by grandma the ignorant lane-merger or the baby in the backseat distract you, because it's just a clever ruse, one that'll quickly fade when you punch both of them in the face. Have no mercy. There are no victims here. That baby knew what he was getting into when he hopped into the car with grandma the asshole driver.

Know thy enemy

Anonymous asks: Every time my boss talks to me, I imagine I am on The Walking Dead and he is a Zombie. I just want to shove this letter opener through his stupid "think outside of the box" skull. Is there something wrong with me?

Yes, you giant walking vagina, complete with big butterfly wing labia that could fly off into a double rainbow, there is something wrong with you. You haven't done it yet. I had a boss once, and he made me so angry I put his head into my desk drawer and slammed his brittle little skull until the bones in my hand shattered. So you've got the right idea. Just DO IT ALREADY.*

*do not do this. At all. Ever. Or so says our legal team, who make me so angry I want to feed them tie first into a woodchipper coated in AIDS

This lady knows what I'm talking about

Geoff from (sent from my iPhone) asks: I really think that Jonathan Swift was onto something in A Modest Proposal. I think everyone's satirical view on the article is misguiding, I really look upon the piece in a literal sense. Am I wrong or is everyone else simply hiding from the truth?

Let me tell you, nothing makes me angrier than misinterpretation of classic literature. For those of you who haven't read it, which let's admit, is all of you (you uncultured swines), it's an essay written in the 18th century that suggests the impoverished Irish should have used their children as food. What some see as "satire" I see clearly as a "10 page recipe book." It's a staple in my house, and I just made a baby stew last week that was simply amazing. I don't know what these fruity English classes are teaching, but Geoff, my friend - you get it.

It tastes so much better when it stops crying

Jeremy from New York asks: This redneck was making fun of my "Visualize World Peace", "Coexist", and "Violence Never Solves Anything" bumperstickers the other day. At the next stop sign, I shot him in his face. I know that's not a question. But that guy just made me so mad, with his intolerance.

Okay, forget Geoff. This guy gets it.

Dan from Chicago asks: I hear that some people can actually see red when they get angry. I haven't achieved this level of anger before. I can get pretty damn angry but I have yet to see red. What am I doing wrong? Grrr this makes me so mad!

Well, Dan, you've got the right idea, but I don't think you want this anger enough. You need to feel it in every fiber of your being, not just in your bones but down to your DNA. Your hands should be fists, and those fists should be shaking like Michael J. Fox on a washing machine. Your blood should be boiling hard enough to send you into cardiac arrest. Your eyes should be so red you burst blood vessels. Only once you've achieved this can you master true, seething, venomous, seeing-red anger.

Hell, I got so angry writing this up I just punched a hole through my chest and resuscitated my own heart, which had stopped from all of that rage. It only made me angrier, so I headbutted a hole in the wall, broke a lamp over my knee, and shook a kitten. I don't even know how a kitten got here or whose kitten it was. Now that's anger.

I'd be angry if I looked like her, too

Anything else just makes you look like this, and this cross-eyed halfwit couldn't scare a social security check out of your senile grandma.

So that's it for me. Until next time, keep sending in those questions, because if you don't, it'll make me angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

...Well, you wouldn't like me when I'm not angry, but you'd like me significantly less when I am angry. And that's a damn promise.

-Wrath