Lady, just because your boyfriend doesnt want to settle down, doesnt mean you should pretend that Im a real baby in hopes that hell play along in your twisted game of house. I promise youre scaring him off, and it makes you look insane. Think about it, you dress me like a Gap employee and tote me around like a damned fashion accessory. Its disgusting, and you need to get your shit straight. Meantime, you can stop force-feeding me Altoids, you bitch.
While Im on the record, there are some other things I could do without, you psycho. Yeah, as it turns out, I dont really care for the ylang-ylang oil massage. Its not relaxing, it actually hurts and generally creeps me out. In fact, its damn close to rape.
Oh, this just in, Im not actually a fucking vegetarian. Do you honestly think that I prefer couscous and tofu over my lamb and beef nuggets?Lettuce wraps? Are you fucking serious what is your damage? I would rather eat my own shit, and guess what, when youre asleep, I do. Then I lick your whore face and laugh about it.
Dont even get me started on my name. Louis Vuitton? You superficial bitch. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? Im already wearing the gayest sweater since the "Cosby Show", but you insist on naming me after an expensive line of European handbags. Seriously, fuck you. You make me look like a complete pussy and I hate you for it. For real, the next time you try to gel my hair, I will tear a hole in your windpipe. I swear to God I will.
Not that youd ever fucking notice, but you continue to place me in dangerous situations. Just yesterday at the dog park, I could feel the cold hard stare from a Doberman through my Kenneth Cole double-breasted pea coat. Shit, even the French poodle called me a fag, and he was wearing a beret.
Do you have any idea what would happen to a dog like me at the pound? You dont even WANT to know. I step in there with even a whiff of CK One on me, and its all over.
It pisses me off that you dont pull this shit on the cat (Although its probably because shes a lesbo). I am really tired of the smug looks I get from that butch-ass feline. Just once Id like to see you put an ascot around her neck and let her feel what this shit is like. Then shell realize its not funny, and Im in real pain here. At the very least you could throw a flannel shirt on that dyike and even it up here, you owe it to me. I promise I will end all nine of her lives if I ever get a chance to chase her without these miniature Steve Madden patent leather urban utility boots strapped on my paws. Not that Id get far; even without the shoes I still have to battle these Italian micro suede chinos.
Listen lady, Im at the end of my rope and Ive been doing a lot of thinking (Yes, theres a lot of time for that while you watch E!, thumb through your copy of People magazine, stopping occasionally to read the text message on your jewel-encrusted Sidekick). I have decided that Im running away. Im going to take my chances on the outside. Tomorrow morning, during doggy yoga, I am fucking gone, baby and there is nothing you can do to stop me.
The last thing youll see is my puckered little asshole as Im out the door, but not before I leave a hot, soft and juicy turd pile right on my miniature doggy yoga mat and Ive got a half a pound of espresso beans and 3 bran muffins for breakfast to make sure its a good one.
