Dogs Are Tough Critics

I’m sitting here at my computer listening to my jams, when David Bowie suddenly decides it is time for me to dance. So of course I’m all like, Check out my Fly Girl shimmy, yo.—because it’s freakin’ David Bowie, right? I’m in the process of transitioning to my most advanced moves, when all of a sudden Little White Dog—who, by the way, is a TOTAL asshole—freaks out and runs to the other room like he’s being chased by a syringe-toting veterinarian.

Then I’m all like, WTF Little White Dog? You perform your Capoeira-ass ninja moves every time I walk in the goddamn door, but once in a blue moon the dance gods speak through me, and you act like I’ve been possessed by Elaine from Seinfeld. How do you think that makes me feel? You are a cold-hearted bastard, Little White Dog, but you shall never contain my inner dancer. Never.

Mom, your dance moves are freaking me out.


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