Match Story Game: "It's so weird: every time I take out the garbage, the dog ______ it."

Fill in the blank with a phrase or story of at least ten words.

Good luck on your writing! The more creative, the better.

exhibit jealousy in that the dog wishes I would take her out rather than it.

sure that no bums will go rooting for food by taking a a giant shit on

Excellent Leona Helmsley reference and insult.

Some people should forever be mocked, and she's one of them.

eharmony.com a try and go for

It's so weird: every time I take out the garbage, the dog

thinks he has to follow me and critique my garbage handling abilities. Needless to say, this irks me to no end. I finally yelled at him, "Why are you constantly ragging on me when I take out the garbage?" The dog responded with, "It's ohiosmith's fault. He put me up to

it."

locks me out of the house and leaves me standing by the alley in my bathrobe while he looks out the kitchen window and laughs in his slobbery doggy way; and I'm sure he does it only because the cats put him up to it, since he's not very bright and the cats, who are impishly clever, are always talking him into some dumb stunt, like the times last summer when they convinced him it would be fun to run around the neighborhood pooping on the neighbors' front steps and then ringing their doorbells -- actually, the dog would poop and the cats would jump up and ring the doorbells and then they'd hide in the bushes laughing their little furry asses off when the neighbor came out and stepped in the poop and then yelled at the dog, who would just stand their wagging his tail and panting with his foot-long tongue hanging out, hahr-hahr-hahr, and he never got it that the cats were pimping him, but the game would continue until the dog ran out of poop or the neighbors phoned me, "Hey, Rabrrrrrr, that fucking dog of yours just crapped on my porch again!" whichever occurred first -- and I'm starting to see a pattern here, because every time the dog locks me out of the house when I take out the garbage, it seems like the cats get into my E-Trade account, and there's something vaguely disturbing about the fact that a couple of cats are day-trading on my computer while I stand out in the alley in my bathrobe, and even though they've been making money, it's embarrassing and I'm going to put a stop to it.

Cats are so much more intelligent and crafty than dogs could ever hope to be.

:thumbsup:

:7

and I just KNOW hes up to something really freaky while I cant see him - and where did that TV remote go anyway? - but by the time I get back inside he's right back where I left him but giving me that stupid half grin that says "yeah, I'm messing with you, but you'll never figure out what I did until its too late", I swear he's trying to kill me but I just can't prove ___ it.

"It's so weird: every time I take out the garbage, the dog, whose name is Karen Hughes, thinks it is GW Bush and starts humping ______ it" :woohoo: :hi:

logs on to DU under my username and starts rude, offensive and sexually orientated threads that get me in trouble with the mods and piss off any number of other DUers. I've spoken with the dog about her unacceptable behavior but she refuses to take responsibility for her actions and just sits there staring at me like I'm some kind of nut. Damn it."

the dog brings back it right back. I've tried to explain to the dog numerous times that I have no further need for that old can of whipped cream, the autographed picture of Rush Limbaugh, the 3 disc collection of Billy Joel "music", and the large cache of boner pills.

I tell the dog that I have a girlfriend now. I tell the dog that I am in a healthy relationship. I tell the dog that I'm done with those dirty needs. But the dog doesn't listen.

The dog knows me too well.


On edit: I would like to dedicate this story to the fine folks at Free Republic.

never from the bottom or the top shelf, always a second shelf unopened bottle of Perrier, which he then opens with his teeth, leaving the side of his mouth bloody and cut up from the metal of the cap and the jagged, sharp glass that results from his angry gnawing and tossing about of the bottle in his rage.

As his blood oozes onto the floor, onto the expensive rug that I bought from the child-laborer who wove it in Turkey for a too-generous $25 while I gave his mother American-style Herpes and Chlamydia so she'd never be able to churn out another brownskin towel-headed parasite, I come back in from the end of the driveway where I left the trash for the beligerently ignorant trashman to pick up in the morning, the only constructive thing he does with his life other than produce massive piles of empty bottles of cheap mass-produced beer, bottles I would love to smash and break and force up his anal canal as punishment for never aspiring to be anything more than a commoner, a common day-laboring tool, a common day-laboring SOMA-addicted wife-beater-wearing weekend-football-watching at-child-screaming verminous worm, and I see the blood on the rug and the gash in the dog's mouth and I see the future, a future of my shopping-addicted screaming wife seeing the blood and throwing a tantrum, her Prada bags arcing up into the air, an arc that carves out the path of my life, the upward swing of my college years with a future full of hope and glory until at the top of the arc I get married to the bitch and all hopes and dreams get further and further away as I slowly decay toward the arcly terminus of nothingness, a beaten man, a man kept down by a controlling, vindictive wife. She'll demand in her hellishly cackling voice that I clean the mess up, that I be the one to get on his knees and scrub the blood out of the rug and take care of her awful, yippy ugly fucking dog, but I won't, choosing instead to pretend I hear nothing because I don't hear anything over 20KHz as she screams and tantrums and stomps her corn-riddled foot on the fake veneer of the faux-wood floor, a floor that represents not only our marriage but her soul and my hope, and she stomps and stamps and parades around and prances in her irrhythmic house-shaking rage, berating my manhood and my work ethic, her blood boiling over and her heart pounding ever harder and ever harder in her six-hundred pound wheezing body until she collapses in a chair, which collapsing has no effect on the battery of verbal abuse being slung from her overfed, disgusting craw, but I continue to ignore her, resolved to never bend again, to save what little bit of manhood I have left, while her loggorhea spills from her like last night's dinner of eight pounds of turkey meat and chocolate spilled through the canyon of her filthy ass-crack this morning, filling the house with malodorous evil and wall-shaking thunderous shit-on-water high-pressure-through-small-sphincter high-pitched soundscape of pure evil and stomach-churning disgust, forcing me to vomit, to relieve myself in the only way left to me, to try, through emptying my stomach, to rid my soul of the deadweight, the sinker, the cement shoes of her existence.

She keeps thinking that I will get up and clean the mess, but I ignore her, for not only do I despise her for making my life a living hell, for her termagant fishwife behavior that embarrasses me in front of my friends, causing them to decide years ago that they would never enter my house again so long as that emasculating, abusive lumbering blubberous mass of hate and bile remains my wife, but also I ignore her because I know that in her type-A impatient obsessive compulsive bitch behavior that has destroyed my soul, she'll eventually tire out and angrily mutter to her obnoxious soul-sucking mephitic self, "Oh, never mind you jackass, I'll get

Still funny, though. :thumbsup:

:patriot:

and then he invariably takes off down the road, so I've got to set the garbage down and take off after him, and the last time he did it, he ran into the apartment complex across the way -- you know, the one complex in the neighborhood that has yet to be gentrified, so there's still hookers and hopheads out front -- and I push my way past the dope fiends and loose needles and some woman with no teeth offering to "gum me" for $5 and I can't find the dog anywhere, when suddenly sirens go off and the cops are there and they want to arrest me for solicitation and I can't deal with this shit right now -- I'm looking for my dog, after all -- so I duck down an alley while they arrest the hooker and Tase some poor hophead who has the lack of sense to get in their way; and right in the alley, there's my dog, peeing on a vagrant! I'm overjoyed upon seeing my pooch, so I don't reprimand him for pissing all over the passed out person with no permanent home, dodge po-po by heading around the back of the apartment complex, and get back to my own house only to find that the garbage I left out has been consumed and strewn by rats and cats and brats, so I abandon it to the elements, and take my dog inside. Next time I take out the trash, I think I'll just set the garbage down in front of my door, then turn around and close...

Rex is really just having flashbacks of the time I was hired to put Lakshmi Tatma in a trashcan and take it to the dump. All those little legs and arms started like the cat trying not to get put in the toilet for its weekly de-fleaing. They grabbed and thrashed at anything those stubby little toes could latch on and hold. I even went to try push her in with a thick blanket, but when I turned to grab one from the other room, she leapt up to the ceiling and crawled down through the open kitchen window and on to the roof. If I had just one more leg and arm, I'm sure I could have kept up as we hurtled through the trees. Fortunately, I had a frozen samosa in my pocket, and much like a Hindu Dundee, I knocked her out cold with a very well-aimed toss. Long story short, after finally getting her in the trashcan, I felt sorry for the girl. I put the samosa in with her, and left the can by the highway. I had sure been looking forward to that samosa, dang

Watch dog in the background... :rofl:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aq58Ze2fWKs

There, feel better?

after this was almost killed off

Did I miss something?

And thanks for the kick!

so I was afraid it had been killed off

and a couple forgot to end it with "it", but, oh, well - this has been one of the more creative and joined-in ones so far, so I'm happy!

Hypocrite bluetooth phone-wearing Tom Hanks movie-loving Dane Cook enjoying shittardbag!

It's okay to rail against lax standards such as wearing sweatpants on airliners, and not sending out "Thank you" cards written in Calligraphic ink, or failing to achieve proper phone etiquette, unless it makes you happy? You fucking sellout. Here's a new one:

"It's so weird: every time I take out the garbage, the dog sniffs around to make sure we didn't leave any unburned pieces of Rabrrrrrr in it."

I hate you.

:eyes:

Maybe you'd like to incorporate Adam Sandler's Longest Yard with your mob movie craptacular special and make an even more fucked up version of Grease 4. Starring You.

lost

it.