Seriously, who the FUCK let the dogs out? I left them in the laundry room and somebody opened the door and they got out and took a soft serve dookie-dump all over my grammy’s Persian rug. And guess what jagoff, Persia doesn’t even exist anymore so that thing is a collectible. Just fess up. Spill dem guts. I PROMISE I won’t get mad. Swear to Gauld! Even though I told everyone specifically to stay the fuck out of the laundry room because the dogs were in there and if they got out and juicy deuced in the house, grammy would have my balls for breakfast with a glass of fresh squeezed OJ and a half a grapefruit and a bowl of piping hot oatmeal and a whole wheat bagel and cream cheese and a bowl of fiberPLUS. Grammy loves breakfast. She is always saying how it’s the most important meal of the day. However, there is no empirical evidence to support this. My point is, I’m not mad about the dogs. Seriously. I just want the person responsible to come forward so I can punch you in your stupid orangutan tits, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!
As if that wasn’t bad enough, then somebody left the back door open and those mangy mutts done dug up my flower beds. And I was THIS CLOSE to winning the tri-county’s monthly Most Beautiful Lawn Award and telling May’s reigning champ- Old Lady Goutshanks to go fuck herself with a big ol shovel, right in her poop shoot once and for all. Every month I’ve sat idly by while Goutshanks shows up with her fucking chrysanthemums. March, April, May. Cunt ass chrysanthemums. This month was my month to turn everything around. But then somebody let the dogs out. Now I can kiss that All-You-Can-Fit-In-Your-Shopping-Cart Lowes shopping spree and $35 gift certificate to Olive Garden goodbye. I could almost taste the unlimited salad and b-b-b-buttery breadsticks. Imagine that, hot doughy breadsticks dripping with sticky cum-butter. You ever had a mouth full of cum-butter? Me neither. Sounds fucking de-vine, but thanks to some loose-labia’ed floppy twat flap, I guess I’ll never know. The thing that really irks my nips raw is that now I won’t get to see the look on Granny Goutshanks’s face when the judges buttholes clinch in their stain-resistant khakis after laying eyes on my geraniums. Goutshanks won. Goutshanks won. Woe.
And if that don’t beat all, then somebody left the gate in the yard wide open and all the dogs got out and they ran in the street and all got hit by cars and are all dead now. If you were to go outside and look into the street, you would see like 50 to 60 dead dogs out there littering the roadside. Mountains of them. A dog pile.It smells yucky and it really is an eyesore. It’s driving the market prices on every house in the neighborhood into the fucking gutter. All because somebody let the dogs out.
Was it you Randall?! WAS IT?! Were you born in a barn Randall, you selfish so and so!? What don’t you understand about closing the gate so the dogs don’t get out? Why I oughta! Sometimes I just want to take you behind the woodshed and give you the old one-two, RIGHT IN THE KISSER. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to wallop you. Wallop you good ‘n hard. One time. Clock Ya. Knock your block clean off, seeee? Pack your bags Randy, I got you a one way ticket on the knuckle-express with an in flight meal of knuckle sandwich with a side of black eyed peas. And a pickle. And a Capri-Sun.
So I’m only going to ask one more time, RANDALL, who let the dogs out? Who? Who-who? Who? Who?