Wieners.
One day I decided that
I was lacking some serious wien in my life, and set up a meeting with my stock
broker to discuss options.
After an intense
conversation and a long and drawn out round of "Miss Mary Had a
Steamboat", I left his office longing for a little doggy (typical),
And so very shortly
thereafter, I adopted a tiny little wiener dog from an old lady who had to go
to a nursing home, which basically means that I am a good person and marriage
material.
Unfortunately, the
elderly lady carelessly and recklessly named the wiener dog “Jazz” without even
considering the repercussions that could arise from such a stupid ol’ name.
Before making the
decision to change it, I did everything I could to make sure that there wasn't
a legitimate and genuine reason that his name was Jazz. I looked up his birth
records, and learned that his mom was knocked up at a party thrown by the Baha
Men. My guess would be that there was no jazz music playing in the background
to her lovemaking. Unless it was a hipster party, but it was four years ago,
and hipsters only existed in Portland back then. Next, I played some Jazz
music, but he didn't give a shit. Then, I bought him a trumpet, and he pissed
on it. Finally, I showed him my jazz hands, and he shot me in the leg.
Consequently, due to
the nature of myself, and my severe blood loss, I quickly changed his name from
Jazz, to Jazzy Jeff, so that everyone would know that he is, in fact, a badass
mother fucker (but just the right amount of badass mother fuckerness) and NOT a
skittity bap bap bap jazz vocal enthusiast.
So it was just me and
Jazzy Jeff, against the world, chilling out max and relaxing all cool.
But before I continue,
I need to get a few things off my chest.
*Takes off bra*
*Eats popcorn kernel
found in bra*
OK:
1) While my wiener is
a thing liked by me, his wiener is not.
It's massive, and if
he gains any weight, and his back starts to curve, I'll have to rename him
Sparky. I count my blessings daily that I have yet to see his red-rocket, and I
forbid him from doing anything that might make it appear. Therefore, I don't
change in front of him and I blindfold him if mommy is watching Air Bud. I am
the biggest cock block ever, but whatever.
Despite my fear of the
double wiener (or maybe because of it), I also have this uncontrollable need to
talk about my dog's penis with other dog owners, because I don't really know
what else to say to those freaks.
Freak: "Aww, he's
so cute, is he a puppy?"
Me: "No, but how
awkward is it that your dog is way bigger than mine, but they have the same
size penis?"
The conversation
usually ends there because then I make a face like I have no teeth and try to
make my eyes bulge like that lady that always won "America's Funniest Home
Videos". You know the one.
I actually behave the
exact same way on dates. It's only backfired once. Well, twice, if you count
the time I went on that amazing date, but I was sitting at a different table
from him, and in fact, he didn't even know we were on a date together, and come
to think of it, he actually didn't know me at all, and to be honest, we never
talked, and really I was just watching a movie at home, completely alone,
getting distracted every so often by Jazzy Jeff's wiener.
2) My second
confession is that I don't own a single little outfit for him. I know. What the
fuck.
He is totally jealz of
my closet, but I told him that if he wants to wear nice things, maybe he should
just give in and let me turn him into a webcam girl.
3) Finally, whenever I
think I am falling in love with Jazzy Jeff, I remind myself that his
grandparents were probably Nazis.
OK- that's all the
confessing I can do in one night. Let me wash up and nap a little before round
two.
When I told my friends
that I got a dog, they were all pretty surprised. I've never really talked
obsessively about wanting a dog and I don't revert back to my toddler years
when I see one. And yet, those who know me well, know loud and clear that
I SURE AS FUCK love hot dogs*, and so due to the Law of Attraction to Phallic
Items, the new wiener in my life somehow began to make sense to them.
Those who have had the
pleasure of seeing me interact with my wiener, know that there is nothing fake
or insincere about our relationship. And yet, it’s easy to jump to conclusions
and assume that the adoption was based purely on my ability to capitalize on
the amazing wiener and dog jokes that I could tell.
Well, when you assume,
you make me feel like an ass, because you are right.
---
I
could imagine that the pleasure I am getting from playing with my wiener is the
same sense of elation that Chaz Bono feels on the daily.
When
I’m sexually deprived, I think about my dog’s empty sack and then I feel
better. But then I wonder if he DID have balls, would we bang?
Guys love to watch me stroke my wiener in
public.
My
dog took two shits in one walk tonight, which means that he is learning from me
even when I don’t know he is paying attention.
Aggressively stroking my wiener to take the
pain away.
Need
to walk the dog, but don’t want to put on clothes. Excuse me while I conduct a
comparative analysis of Poo on Floor vs. Vag on Cement.
Guys, is there such thing as Shaken Wiener
Syndrome?
---
The other day, my
wiener bit my face. I got semi mad at him, but not fully because sometimes I
squirt mustard on him and nibble, so it’s only fair.
I took Jazzy Jeff to
the dog park, but he squeezed through the gate and ran home. Now when we
walk by the park, and he tries to go in, I remind him, "You lost your
chance, He-Bitch! You lost your goddamned chance!". Hide your kids, hide
your wives.
True story- every time
he runs away from me, I feel the spirit of John Bobbitt's penis lingering in
the air around me. Another true story, don't google John Bobbitt unless you
want to see what looks from far like a torn finger, or at best, a weird kernel
of corn.
Wieners.
Liked by me.
*Legend has it that I once skipped out on
plans as a young adult because my dad was roasting hotdogs in our fireplace. I
don't remember this actually happening, but that's because I usually black out in an
oral-orgasm induced coma whenever that fleshy all-beef meat hits my uvula, so the likelihood of this legend being true, is high.
