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Slim-Dog-C tells it like it is. Slim-Dog-C is quite the character: edgy, direct, funny, urban. SDC is an original personality created by Pretentious Pooch.
Slim-Dog-C would like you to know that Slim celebrates diversity and loves everyone, because of their quirks. Sometimes, if you don't laugh, you'll cry!
So I'm trottin' around Mt. Vernon, Baltimore, and I find myself sniffing around West Read Street. Coming at me is a human with giant sunglasses, shorty-shorts, and a t-shirt tied into a halter-top strutting like I haven't seen since the Edmondson High-Steppers in the Preakness Parade. So, anyway, he's singing Mariah Carey in a bad falsetto that would make Randy Jackson's eyes open wider than this boy's stride. All I can think is...............
I'm minding my own business, chewing on a toy while laying on the sidewalk. It's hotter than a chicken wing, alright? Yes, that's important to the story. Ok so chew, chew, squeak squeak, chew, pull, rip, pant (you get the picture). What's that coming toward me? A creature from Night of the Living Dead? No it isn't moaning, "Brains. MORE BRAINS!" It's dragging itself closer. It sees me. It's coming closer. I'm on guard but it's really too hot for much movement. I'm thinking, as long as this creature doesn't want my toy and doesn't eat my brains, I should be ok. It's close enough now that I can see it's not the walking dead; it's a bum-legged, winter coat-wearing, mumbling weirdo coming back from his 5th trip of the day to Eddies of Mt. Vernon. It's all-a-go up there at the Chase House. All I could think was....... |
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| The other night I was left alone. No big deal; I just chill out on the couch - it's me time. But here's the thing, I get lots of rest so that when my family get's back I'm not too tiered to play. So anyway, they come home and I wag a lot, get excited, and sniff fingers (yes they ate something while they were gone). I'm expecting a piece of the steak I smell, right? Wrong. I get a friggin' stale dog biscuit, a quick walk outside, and great big invitation to sleep again...well whooppeee goldberg. I'm thinking................. |
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Every night, it seems, on goes the boob tube. Sure, I spent the morning at Druid Hill Park chasing sticks; sure I was able to clear the grove of those pesty little fuzz tailed squirrels with one mighty bark; but that was ages ago and I'm bored now. I try delivering various toys to the laps of my people but I just don't seem to have the right one. Out of frustration, I collapse on the rug. Is it my fault if the air leaving my sinus cavity makes a faint whistly-cry of despair? Why isn't anyone playing with me? Why O why O why?
Ahh, the joy of tearing a stuffed toy to shreds. It let's me exercise my primal instincts in a safe, vegan - friendly manner. Just like a wolf, I go for the jugular first. Then, my attention turns to the hear (squeaker) and the guts (stuffing). I rip, tear, toss, and shake until there is no more left in my toy. I love when I tear a hole and get to the guts. I burry my nose in real good and pull the fuzzy organs from my prey like I was born to do. Sometimes I get a good hole and shake my toy violently and stuffing goes everywhere. My dad says, "Who make this mess?" At that I duck low, head down, and give him the look: me? |
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