Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Evidence of Sarah's Stupidity

On our trip to Chicago this weekend, Sarah (the asshole) managed to out-dumbass even herself. And let me tell you, I know from personal experience that out-dumbassing Sarah is a tough task. She's probably the only person who could actually do it.

On Friday, after leaving me in my kennel for at least three fucking hours (thanks, asshole, I really wanted to sit in the kennel after sitting in the car for three and half hours), Sarah finally decided that maybe she should come home from the bar and let me out of the kennel so I wouldn't have to piss on myself. We were staying at her brother and sister-in-law's townhouse, and Sarah got the code to get into their garage before she left the bar. So, Sarah manages not to forget that number in between the bar and their house (which is somewhat shocking to me), and gets into the house and lets me out.

At which point, the house alarm goes off.

Now, I have to admit, I kind of lost my cool at this point, and ran out the open garage door toward the busy street next to the house (in retrospect, I should have stayed there and made fun of Sarah). But seriously, that thing was fucking loud! I have sensitive ears. There was no way I was going to stay in that house a second longer than I had to. After a few minutes (and two frantic text messages to her sister-in-law), Sarah managed to turn the thing off. So, all was happy and good, right?

Not a fucking chance. Because this is when the CPD shows up. Yes, the police. I'm still running around outside (without my leash - score!), and Sarah is still feeling the effects of three and a half hours of bar time. She drunkenly attempted to explain the situation to the CPD, while I ran around, hoping that maybe (a) Sarah would get arrested for burglary for breaking into the apartment and I would be adopted by the CPD and become a bad ass mo fo police dog, or (b) Sarah would get arrested for public intoxication and I would be adopted by the CPD and become a bad ass mo fo police dog, or (c) Sarah would get arrested for not having me on a leash and I would be adopted by the CPD and become a bad ass mo fo police dog.

But noooo, instead, the police officers start joking around with Sarah about what happened (stupid skinny bitch, soon you're going to be too old and busted to flirt your way out of trouble). And to add insult to injury, she asks if either of them saw me go potty. And one of the officers tells her that he did, indeed, see me do a number two. Seriously? A number two? Are we in kindergarten here, assholes? And why the fuck are you watching me go to the bathroom? That's sick and twisted right there.

Anyway, Sarah didn't get in trouble, I was not adopted by the CPD and did not become a bad ass mo fo police dog, and I was humiliated. I'm sure Sarah was real fucking proud of the evening.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Oh. My. God.

Wrong. Just fucking wrong.

Snow?! In April?!

Hey Mother Nature, I have something to tell you: Fuck you!

Seriously, Mother Nature, it's almost April, yet you saw fit to dump several inches of snow on me yesterday? Not fucking cool. So not fucking cool I refused to even look at the camera for a picture yesterday on my morning walk.

However, Mother Nature is not entirely to blame for this one. Unsurprisingly, most of the blame for this latest terrible incident in my life falls squarely on the shoulders of Sarah (the asshole). See, instead of staying home in Terre Haute, where the tulips are blooming and the weather is decent, Sarah decided I needed to join her in a trip to Chicago for the weekend to visit her siblings. Did it snow in Terre Haute? Of course not. Next time, I am staying home.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Do Not Leave Me In Here Again

Oh, Bitch, it is on!

Seriously. I can handle being in the crate all day, because God knows that if Sarah was at home all day, she would drive me fucking nuts, and I would probably have to kill myself just to get a little peace and quiet (daily watchings of The Price Is Right? I swear, there is hell on Earth, and it starts with whatever Sarah decides to watch on television. Have you ever watched Maury? I have, because Sarah TiVos it every single day. I get stupider just by being in the room when that shit is on).

But last night, Sarah decided that I should spend two extra hours of my day in the crate, because she wanted to go out to a birthday party. The worst part was, she came home to let me out, then she took me for a walk, and then she put me right back in the crate! That sort of shit? Not fucking cool. I haven't thought of my revenge yet, but when it happens, it will be quality revenge. Because it is so on, Sarah. It is so on.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Vet Can Suck It

OK, veterinarians of the world, what is up with your obsession with my ass?

Seriously, every time I go to visit you, you're sticking something else up there. First, it was the whole spaying thing. I realize that this is not exactly my ass, but it may as well be. Then, it was the thermometer. Wholly unnecessary. This time, it was the collection of fecal matter (right, fecal matter. Let's cut the crap and call it what it is. The shit scooper). I can't even imagine what it will be next time, nor do I want to imagine.

Vets are assholes.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

What I Could Have Had In Life

It turns out that Sarah (the asshole) used to live in Wisconsin. So, this last weekend, Sarah took me up there to visit her parents, which is why I couldn't post anything for your reading pleasure for the last few days. Here's what I learned while there:

1. Cats are assholes. This is a picture of one mere seconds before it smacked me.

I hate cats. Almost as much as I hate Sarah.

2. Wisconsin is freaking awesome. So, of course, Sarah moved away. Probably with the thought that she was going to get a dog and then torture it with weekends in Wisconsin. And I'm the one who has to suffer.

3. Baths suck:

Newsflash, Sarah - I sat in that mud puddle because I LIKE being muddy. I did not need a bath, nor did I want one. And you know what I wanted even less than a bath? Having my picture taken while getting a bath. That was a true asshole move right there. I mean, seriously, Asshole Hall of Fame quality right there. You must be real fucking proud.

Friday, March 20, 2009

I Do Not Need a Seat Belt

Oh, dear Lord, what fresh hell is this?

A dog seat belt? Seriously? I just don't have words. OK, maybe I do have a few words.

First, I can see that this could be a good idea, given Sarah's less-than-stellar driving record. But did you see how stupid I look in this? If I ever find out who invented the doggie seat belt, he's definitely going to be the subject of "People Who Should Have Their Balls Cut Off." Frankly, I'll take my chances with Sarah's driving if I can do it while looking cute. Instead, I have to wear this seat belt while in the car, and I look like an asshole.

Second . . . there is no second. A doggie seat belt is just a stupid fucking idea. I'm sure Sarah, dense though she can be, got the point when I wiggled out of the thing. Twice. At least if I die because I am not in the thing, I'll leave a cute corpse, and Sarah might actually appreciate me for all the joy I give her.

Oh, and P.S. - Before someone gets his or her panties all up the asshole, because I'm in the front seat and could get hurt/killed by an air bag, let me remind you that Sarah, asshole that she is, drives a piece of shit car. The thing is most definitely NOT equipped with something so fancy as passenger air bags.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

I Deserve a Better Car

I swear, Sarah (the asshole), is trying to kill me. Don't believe me? Look at the piece of shit car she drives me around in:

Yeah, that's right, she drives a car with a front bumper that hangs off. As if being a lawyer who drives a Saturn isn't bad enough, the damn car is hardly road worthy. You'd think that a lawyer would drive a Beamer or a Benz, but not Sarah. Nope, for her, it's a Saturn with 115,000 miles on it. And she seems to have zero desire to replace the thing, either, which forces me to be seen all over town in some broke ass piece of shit car. Oh, I'm sure it was a great car five years ago, but that was five years ago. Things change - just look at Sarah's gray hair. That wasn't there five years ago, I'm sure.

Oh, and in case just being in a car that is in danger of falling apart just by being driven, let me tell you how Sarah did this to her car: she hit one of those cement pylons when she was parking it. I shit you not, she can't even avoid objects that aren't moving. This isn't even the first stationary object that she has hit. I've seen her driving record, and I know all about that brand new parked car that she backed into and totaled. Smooth move, ex-lax. I'm pretty sure that my death will be coming in some horrible accident, most likely involving Sarah hitting a curb or something otherwise completely innocuous.

I hate my life.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

OK, I May Have Judged Puppy Training Too Quickly

So, a bitch should be able to admit when she's wrong (that's attractive to men, right? Not that it will do my spayed ass any good, but whatever). Puppy training class is AWESOME!

Today, we spent like half of the class just playing! I got to take out my aggression on other puppies, who don't give a crap when I bite them, unlike Sarah (the asshole), who screams ouch at me the second my teeth touch her skin. I know it doesn't hurt that much, but you wouldn't fucking know it from the sound that comes out of her mouth! You'd think someone up and died, the sound that she makes.

And, because I'm like twice the size of the other dogs, I totally kick their asses when we play! It's great! I totally showed that schnauzer what's what. And what's what is moi.

OK, sure, there was some demeaning sitting and walking like a prissy girl on the leash, but whatever. It was still pretty fucking awesome, because that shit only took like ten minutes.

But here's the thing - I only get to go to puppy training once a week. I could totally do this every night, but there's no way Sarah's cheap ass pays for that. So, I'm stuck doing stupid training with Sarah six nights a week, which sucks. I should have known she wouldn't have done anything cool.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

St. Patrick's Day Is Just Another Day of Humiliation in My Life

I fucking hate St. Patrick's Day. Look what Sarah is making me wear:

In case you can't read it, that's a t-shirt that says "Sniff My Butt, I'm Irish." This is so wrong on so many levels, I can hardly even begin to get my mind around it.

First, I can tell by the fact that she took my picture that Sarah thinks this shirt is pretty fucking clever. I've got news for you, asshole. It's not.

Second, I DO NOT want random dogs or people or whatever sniffing my butt. I'm a discerning individual, not just everyone gets to sniff my butt. Unlike your 30 year old ass, I'm still young and attractive. I may not be as skinny as you (Bitch!), but I have youth and energy on my side.

Third, I am most def-uck-inetly NOT Irish. You've seen my picture. I may be a Mon Grel, but my ancestry is clearly Teutonic. Do you see me eating potatoes and dancing a jig? I don't think so, asshole.

And you know what the worst part of this is? It's puppy training day, so I have to wear this fucking t-shirt in public, with other dogs. If she makes me watch The Boondock Saints when we get home from training, I'm totally going to eat a pair of her shoes.

Monday, March 16, 2009

I Need a Weekend Break, Too!

You will never guess what crap Sarah (the asshole) made me do this weekend:

See that? That's Sarah deciding that I am the "outdoorsy" type of dog. I have no idea where she got the idea that I would want to go on a two mile hike on a Saturday morning at the butt crack of dawn, but she did. And so, I found myself traipsing through woods and a creek, like Bear Grylls with fur. Hell, because Sarah seems to have chick wood for taking my picture, I even had my own camera crew.

The least she could have done, having made me go on this stupid fucking hike was let me do it without the leash. But Noooo, the rules say dogs have to be on a leash, so for those entire two miles, I have to act like her bitch, and walk next to her. What the hell kind of good is being a lawyer if you can't find a way around a leash law?

Anyway, I did show her who was boss, because I made her take me around the cave that you're supposed to crawl through. Seriously, bats are fucking creepy, with their dog-like faces and the whole flying mammal thing. Also, I totally refused to sit still for a picture in front of a waterfall. The closest picture Sarah got was this:

That's right, I showed her my ass as I went back up the stairs to the car. Seriously, two miles? I have better things to do with my weekend.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

I Need My Evening Walk

The other night, Sarah was being a lazy ass, and didn't walk me after work, because (a) it was like 28 degrees outside, and (b) her beloved Notre Dame Fighting Irish were on television in the Big East tournament.

These are definitely not excuses to keep me from going on my evening walk. First, the cold is no fucking excuse for Sarah to stay inside. She's from Wisconsin, for chrissakes, and Wisconsin may as well be Canada as far as cold is concerned. Second, she was fucking delusional if she thought ND was going to win that game. The Irish were down like 17-2 after three minutes. That's not basketball, that's a blowout. But noooo, someone kept watching that debacle and made me go out in the backyard during the commercial breaks, instead of taking me for our evening walk. Asshole!

So, you know what I did? I didn't get mad at that asshole, I got even. I had four "accidents" over the course of the evening, even though I am fully capable of getting my big boned ass outside to take a shit or a piss. After two accident-free days, I'm pretty sure that Sarah got the message that I need my evening walk.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

I'm a Mon Grel

When Sarah (the Asshole) takes me out for a walk or to the pet store or whatever, people are always asking her what kind of dog I am. Like the asshole that she is, Sarah always says, "Oh, she's just a mutt."

First, asshole, I am not "just" anything. I am 15 pounds of awesomeness and cuteness, and there is no need for any sort of qualifier on that.

Second, and more importantly, the correct term for my breed is not mutt, it's Mon Grel. Calling me a mutt just makes me sound like a bitch who doesn't aspire to something better out of life. And here's a newsflash for you, Sarah. You're a mutt, too. You just call yourself an American to make it sound better. If you're going to come up with a flowery lie about your own ancestry and blow smoke up your own asshole, the least you can do is grant me the same chance.

Got it? Next time, Mon Grel. I'll be listening.

Friday, March 13, 2009

I'm Not Going Out in the Rain

Do you see what she is making me wear now? It's a fucking rain coat.

I have news for you, asshole. I don't need a rain coat. And do you know why? It's not because I'm a dog, it's because there is no fucking way I am going outside while it's raining. I don't see your pansy ass going outside while it's raining. I am perfectly happy to piss and shit in the house until it stops raining, thank you very much.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

People Who Should Have Their Balls Cut Off: Bob Barker Edition

Welcome to a regular feature here at Choppy's Dog House, called "People Who Should Have Their Balls Cut Off." It turns out, Sarah isn't the only asshole out there. Today, for the inaugural edition, I will appropriately look at a man who has caused many balls to be cut off, Bob Barker.

Bob Barker, you should have your balls cut off.

Bob, let me tell you a story about a dog. To protect the innocent (and adorable), let's call her "Shoppy." Now, Shoppy used to have a uterus and ovaries. But, about 10 days ago, a certain asshole named Sarah (I'm not protecting her. She's definitely not fucking innocent on this one) decided that Shoppy wasn't using those ovaries and that uterus, and had someone cut Shoppy open and pull out her reproductive organs. ASSHOLE! Just because Shoppy was not using them right now doesn't mean that she wasn't going to use them in the future! Think of all the fucking cute puppies that could be populating the future. But Nooo. Someone had to go and have Shoppy spayed.

Now, as big an asshole Sarah is for having had Shoppy spayed, it turns out that there is another asshole that spent years and years of his life encouraging people all over the United States to spay and neuter their dogs. The name of this asshole? Bob Barker.

It's bad enough that Sarah had me . . . I mean, Shoppy . . . spayed, but this man, this Bob Barker asshole, he is single-handedly responsible for the spaying and neutering of thousands and thousands of otherwise virile dogs. This is serious asshole behavior. And I've sniffed a lot of assholes in my life, so I know what I'm talking about here.

Of course, because he also encouraged people to spay and neuter their cats, he's still less of an asshole than Sarah, who Bob has a message for in Number Three here:

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I Hate Puppy Training Class

So, Sarah seems to have decided that my charms could use some refining. Evidently, her idea of charm and refinement requires me to demean myself by doing things like sitting on command. How this makes me more charming I have no fucking clue. If you ask me (which Sarah obviously didn't), it makes me someone's bitch, and not just in the female dog sense.

However, as you can see from this picture, Sarah seems to think that this is all quite fun and cute, and made me sit there while she took my picture. Asshole.

The worst part about puppy training class is that there are a bunch of other asshole dogs there. Sarah seriously couldn't spring for the private lessons? She's a fucking lawyer, and I know that lawyers make serious bank. The least she could do if she is going to demean me through these lessons is to keep them private, but Nooooo. Instead of getting me private lessons, she had to have two new pairs of shoes last week, as if someone who has 63 other pairs of shoes needs two new pairs. Bitch, please. Shoes aren't snagging you any mans. We all know you aren't going to find a mans until you start lying about what you do for a living. No mans wants to date a lawyer, unless he's a masochist or a retard. Oh, and while we're on the subject, perhaps you should start lying about your age. No mans wants to date a 30 year old when there are nubile young 20-somethings out there. You can probably get away with 28 still, 27 if you start dying your hair. Oh, don't pretend like you haven't seen those gray hairs sneaking in, because I certainly have.

Oh, and do you know the worst part of this whole fucking thing? I have to go back again next week. Sarah is such an asshole.

I'm Choppy the Dog, Bitches (and Dogs)

That's me, Choppy the Dog. God, I'm a cute little bitch.