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.