A Warning to my Master

My name is Sergei.  I am a 12 year-old, Husky-Mastiff-Malamute hybrid, recently dispatched by my owner in an ‘error of mercy’, to clean up the tears of American 7th huskygraders – sorry, I mean – college students, following the Democratic Party shit-storm implosion.  My short story is a Luciferian nightmare compared to my normal daily activities like sniffing things, chasing un-catchable ‘tree-rats’ and sculpting the likeness of Barrack Obama in my poop.

My horrid experience began last week, when two high-strung Cocker Spaniels, a lactose-intolerant Dachshund and me were sent by our masters to comfort and console the Princeton University, Interracial/Trans-Gender Rugby Team after the devastating loss of forward-thinking, Presidential-hopeful/nightmare, Hellary Clinton.

My highly intelligent smart-nose sniffed out the rancid wet-fart we were about to encounter when we were ushered into the sanctum of depression, hate and woe – the ‘Women/Ze/Men After-Yoga Room’.  Here, me and my fellow canines in captivity were assaulted by an offensive wall of forced emotion, fake tears, pungent stench and underdeveloped private parts. It was all we could do to keep our castrated testicles from imploding while keeping our sphincters tight – all the while struggling to not regurgitate our evening kibble – as we were groped, fondled and caressed by clueless ass-clowns, who mistake the ‘electoral college’ as the ‘electoral collage’.  Wow, f-me and my Husky-Mastiff mother!

As these brain-washed douches, twits and possible Ze’s leaned their sobbing, bloated faces towards me, all that would save me was to imagine myself standing with my hind-legs on grieving student’s shoulders, unloading my bowels on every man-bun, dread-lock, flat-brimmed, hip-hop hat, that I could handle.  Instead these ass bastards are pulling my ears, head and neck towards their bloated, blood-rushed faces, conjuring up a fake love that I and my counterparts were forced to endure. This made it even harder not to use the 400 pound pressure-slam of my 69 highly sharpened canines and incisors to give them the proper, gentle, caring, tender, inclusive, therapeutic treatment that they so desperately needed.

A warning to my master:  If you force me into a gig like this one or anything to do with this ugly and unsavory group of people again, there will be blood, and it will flow through the streets like wine!  You have no idea of the dank and foul air we were forced to gasp on during those three hours of darkness –  and the final and most degrading humiliation of all was the one chick who started braiding my fur in corn-rolls and tying friendship bracelets to all four of my wrists and ankles.

Degrade me no more, shit-stain master!  Never again. NEVER AGAIN!!!


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