I Know What We're Doing, And I am Not Cool With It

Hey, it' you! Greg! Welcome home! Wow, it' really good to see you! Did you want to smell my ass? I rolled around in a dead squirrel earlier, so it should smell pretty awesome. No? Alright, cool, maybe later. But still, bark! Pet me, pet me, pet me, Greg!

Where are you going? OK, wow! The kitchen! Are you hungry, too? What did you get out? Wow! Peanut butter! Bark! I LOVE peanut butter! You want me to eat it off of your hand? Wow! Of course, I will! I trust you! Num, num, num, num! That tastes great!

Hey, you're taking off your pants! That', uh"¦ cool, I guess. We're all friends here! What' that? You want me to lick some from down there? Off of your"¦ uh"¦


OK, look, for the record"¦ I, uh, I see what we're doing here, Greg, and frankly, wow. I'm flattered, but no. I am not cool with this.

Listen, I'm gonna go over to the couch and try to calm down. If you'll just let me get by you, I can-hey, what' that? Peanut butter? Wow! Peanut butter! Bark! I LOVE peanut butter! You want me to eat it off of your hand? Wow! Of course I will! I trust you! Num, num, num,! That tastes great! You want me to eat some from down there off of your-wait a minute"¦

Crap! Bark! Damn this tiny dog brain! I can't believe I forgot about that already!

Greg, no. Bad Greg. Stop pointing at it like it' a Milk Bone, you're embarrassing yourself. For the record, I'm a dog, OK? I can smell the handful of half-eaten pork chops in the garbage can across the street right now, and I don't think I'll need the police department to close the case here-that' your junk, Greg. That' your junk slathered in peanut butter. I've got a snout buried in another dog' crotch for like 97% of my day, so trust me on this. I can spot the damn things in the dark.

Greg, stop pointing at it! You're making this more awkward.

Is it because I lick myself all the time? I've caught you staring, you know. I just"¦ well, I assumed you were jealous. If I gave you the wrong idea, Greg, I am sorry. My tongue' pretty much hard-wired to lick my own balls. They taste like grilled steaks to me. But that' sort of it, you know? It' not an "I love licking balls" thing; it' an "I love licking MY balls" thing. I can smell your balls from here, and Greg, those ain't steaks, man. No offense.

Wow, is this awkward.

OK, OK, look: For the sake of our friendship, I'll"¦ damn it. I'm four years old, I guess I can experiment once. Let', uh"¦ oh, God"¦ let', uh, do this.

But some ground rules: First, fuck peanut butter, Greg. You go back into the kitchen and grab that box of Snausages. I'm not a whore, you can open your wallet a little for this.

Second, you don't neuter me. Ever. If your package goes in my mouth, mine stays out of the vet' dumpster.

Third, I get a leg-humping any time I want, no push-aways. You wait until I finish, and you smile while I'm doing it.

Fourth-and this is the big one-if you ever tell any of the other dogs down at the park about this, Greg, forget "Man' Best Friend," I will drop you like a wounded deer. Do you understand me? I will clamp down on your throat and roll you like a meat log until you stop twitching.

Mmmm"¦meat log"¦.

Wait a minute. What was I just saying? Damn. This always happens.

Oh, hey! Snausages! Mmm!