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Vice Blog

DICKHEADZ #6 - SHIT-EATING SONS OF BITCHES

Due to some immigration baloney, I'm currently stuck at my parents' house, which is also home to two dogs who I will call Michelangelo and Kevin. I really like dogs, but these guys are kind of retarded. Though if my mom found out I was talking shit about them, she would be really sad.

Dear Dogs,

Every morning when I come down the stairs, you scramble to your feet and frantically nail-scrabble across the floor, barking like idiots. I assume it's because you think there's an intruder and are alerting your masters, which technically is the right thing to do. But every morning you also see that it's just me, and then you're like, "Oh, shit, sorry," and look kind of puzzled, and try to play it off as if maybe you were barking at something else. (Yeah, that puzzled look? It's the same one you give your butt when you feign surprise at your own farts). Dogs, this happens

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every single day

, and I've been here for a while.

Listen, you're nice guys and I want to be your friend. It's just that, when

I

hear

you

enter a room, do

I

go running across the house, screaming? No, because I know that friends aren't supposed to greet each other like that.

Now to address a few individual matters. Michelangelo: I understand that you no longer have balls. For this, I am sorry. I also understand that without your testicular instinct to proclaim your virility and do whatever the dog equivalent of majestically rearing up on your hind legs and thrashing your hooves against the sky (preferably one that's inky and fractured by scorching, electric bolts), you now live for the simple goal of obtaining food. Because of this, whenever I enter the kitchen, I can be assured of your swarthy figure slinking behind me like a molester. I think you need to edit your approach.

To Kevin: You still have your balls. I think you should stop rubbing it in Michelangelo's face all the time—and I mean literally rubbing your balls in his face. You should probably cut out those other homoerotic gestures too, all that sashaying and lusty panting. Don't think I haven't seen you licking Michelangelo's dick. Sure, he might not fight it, but we can all tell that it makes him feel conflicted and ashamed. It's also not very fair of you to hump him when we put you in the car. Maybe the enclosed space turns you on, but you're torturing Michelangelo. Now he'll always associate car rides with rape.

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It's this kind of behavior, Kevin, that has frayed Michelangelo's sense of self. Ever since you came along with your balls, Michelangelo has been eating shit. Literally. Because you're such a primo jerk and have to one-up him, you eat shit too, and now you both spend your days competing to beat your shit-consumption high scores.

So Dogs, if there's one thing that's really getting in the way of our friendship, it's this: the turd-burgling. I just can't be friends with shit-eaters. You guys are full-blown fecal fiends and, like any addict, you know it's wrong. I can tell by the way you gobble it up so quickly, backs hunched, eyes darting. I can see it in your faces when we're out, when you're pretending to casually sniff around but really are just looking for snacks, those tasty choco-nugs, those delicious shitlets, ancient white logs and all. You, Michelangelo, are an especially tenacious bastard. After numerous times I've stood on the street violently shaking your head, manually trying to pry open your jaws to release the shit-brick in your mouth, the neighbors probably think I'm nuts now. Neither of you feel remorse, not even when you have massive diarrhea day after day. This doesn't bother you? It's worth it? Remember that time you ate a junkie's poo? I do.

It is possible that maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm missing out on a world of thrilling cuisine. I hear cat shit is a particularly succulent treat. Maybe your sophisticated taste makes you better than me. Maybe you don't really need me as a friend anyways. After all, you have each other to unnecessarily sound the alarm, freak the fuck out, and eat shit with.

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Besides, if "Friends are the Bacon Bits in the Salad Bowl of Life," well, first of all, I don't even like bacon, and two, get the fuck out of my salad.

See you tomorrow morning. You know the drill.

Love,

Me, The Intruder from Upstairs

MP