“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.” Whoever said this does not know my left hand. Source
“What the hell are we going to do? Huh? What?” Kurt Simonson vented in a near whisper.
Alice Simonson-Carroll, his wife of twelve years, was visibly nervous and unusually silent.
Kurt tightened his fist and shook it. “We can’t live like this anymore. We are not slaves.”
If you’re not careful, the common ground beetle can kill you. It is the second most embarrassing way to die. First being the daring selfie death.
The first words that came out of Jimmy Fitzpatrick’s mouth this gloomy morning were, “What the ding dong fuck?” His tone was part belligerent; part frustrated and mostly bewildered. Oddly, it was not a direct response to the camel in the bedroom, which it should have been. Instead, he was overreacting to a large beetle crawling luxuriously on the wall.
To best understand rabies, this is a dog in paralytic post-furious stage, like Bruce Banner moments before he turns into The Incredible Hulk.
Tyke was born the runt of a litter of beagles. He was lucky to have survived. He was partially eaten by his mother, thus he only had three legs. If not for the timely intervention of a vet, he could have easily been a paraplegic or worse.
With a whole lotta gratitude, he said, “I love how it’s snowing today after a week of beautiful spring days.” He concluded with a loud snort, and rolled over to fall back asleep.
And now a mash up.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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