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In This Issue
- Fat Virgin Screws Microsoft
- Fed Talks with Corporate Stooge
- Letters to the Feditor!
- Dirty Terrorists Go Too Far: Now It's Personal
- LilAmber.com: Legal Child Porn for the Masses
- Fed Fun Guide: How Not To Make A Bomb
- Shivering Shit Machines Progeny of Actress Ricci
- The SHIT
- Bollinger: Mixing Business with Leather
- Lashed & Leashed at CV
- 14 Year Olds Do It Best!
- Remember Sept 27th
- Girl of Petite Race Likes Small Place
- The Staff of 19.1
Shivering Shit Machines Progeny of Actress Ricci
New York rat dogs too stupid to unite against the eternal fecal struggle
Tracy Briskit
A New Yorker can be outfitted with any number of accessories. Hipsters in the East Village grab that beaten up pair of converse and aviators before hitting second Ave on a Wednesday night while Columbians never forget to leave their homes without their messenger bag and coal miner conditioned diesel jeans. Yet one accessory that seems to be ubiquitous in Manhattan is the canine, and more specifically the bane of the species, the one and only Chihuahua.
The Chihuahua is a pathetic excuse for an organism, doing little more than shriek excessively, breathe my air, and produce noodley yet pebbley feces that they manage to scatter, at one pooing, over an impressively large area. Nevertheless, Chihuahuas are cherished by their deluded owners who are under the fallacious impression that their pet is a real dog that deserves love and the founding of idiotic organizations like the Southern California Chihuahua Appreciation Club.
The Chihuahua used to live with the Aztecs, where Cortez missed his opportunity to kill a very killable species. I know Ariel Sharon and I are very similar people, because as he hates himself for not killing Arafat when he had the chance, I, too, hate Cortez for not ending this particular species on the shores of Mexico in the sixteenth century. However, through personal in depth anthropology work in recent days, I have arrived at the conclusion that the Chihuahua is actually a mix between the ferret family and Christina Ricci.
New Yorkers take Chihuahuas into their homes because they are the size of baby cheese plants. Yet when taken out of the apartment, like the baby cheese plant, the Chihuahua is the antithesis to the confidence and size of the city, and therefore must be done away with either legally or, better yet, physically. A fun fact, applicable to any small dog for you animal haters out there, is that a hit over the head will cause enough pressure for the dog’s eyes to pop out of its sockets. I swear it. It allegedly happened to Editor Kate’s shitzu.
It might just be me, but my encounters with Taco Bell’s spokes thing have been nothing but trouble. I have mistakenly booted a Chihuahua when walking at a brisk New York pace down 23rd street. I hated apologizing to the appalled owner for something I secretly enjoyed, but I didn’t want to start anything with a Chihuahua-fucking ignoramus.
Walking down 4th street one evening, a Chihuahua and his owner were taking up the whole side walk. The Chihuahua looked much like its male human counterpart: middle aged, decrepit and covered in long gray hair. The man, smoking a cigarette and staring with what seemed to be disappointment not only in his dog but in his own existence, watched as his pet struggled to poo. The dog must have teetered around for ten minutes on his two stick legs, as he struggled to squeeze something, anything, out of his tiny anus. I couldn’t help but be enthralled by the incident as I witnessed the dog, upon finally producing a squirt of what looked to be espresso, topple to his side onto the sidewalk in exhaustion. Now is this anything I want to be taking up the sidewalk after my dinner down in the Village?
As is well known, dogs are amazing companions and can give you the unconditional love that any significant other never will. If you decide to invest in a Chihuahua as your choice of canine, fine. Just make sure they are raised in a secluded colony of shitty-dog lovers somewhere in the Midwest and keep them the hell away from Manhattan, for god’s sake.
The Chihuahua is a pathetic excuse for an organism, doing little more than shriek excessively, breathe my air, and produce noodley yet pebbley feces that they manage to scatter, at one pooing, over an impressively large area. Nevertheless, Chihuahuas are cherished by their deluded owners who are under the fallacious impression that their pet is a real dog that deserves love and the founding of idiotic organizations like the Southern California Chihuahua Appreciation Club.
The Chihuahua used to live with the Aztecs, where Cortez missed his opportunity to kill a very killable species. I know Ariel Sharon and I are very similar people, because as he hates himself for not killing Arafat when he had the chance, I, too, hate Cortez for not ending this particular species on the shores of Mexico in the sixteenth century. However, through personal in depth anthropology work in recent days, I have arrived at the conclusion that the Chihuahua is actually a mix between the ferret family and Christina Ricci.
New Yorkers take Chihuahuas into their homes because they are the size of baby cheese plants. Yet when taken out of the apartment, like the baby cheese plant, the Chihuahua is the antithesis to the confidence and size of the city, and therefore must be done away with either legally or, better yet, physically. A fun fact, applicable to any small dog for you animal haters out there, is that a hit over the head will cause enough pressure for the dog’s eyes to pop out of its sockets. I swear it. It allegedly happened to Editor Kate’s shitzu.
It might just be me, but my encounters with Taco Bell’s spokes thing have been nothing but trouble. I have mistakenly booted a Chihuahua when walking at a brisk New York pace down 23rd street. I hated apologizing to the appalled owner for something I secretly enjoyed, but I didn’t want to start anything with a Chihuahua-fucking ignoramus.
Walking down 4th street one evening, a Chihuahua and his owner were taking up the whole side walk. The Chihuahua looked much like its male human counterpart: middle aged, decrepit and covered in long gray hair. The man, smoking a cigarette and staring with what seemed to be disappointment not only in his dog but in his own existence, watched as his pet struggled to poo. The dog must have teetered around for ten minutes on his two stick legs, as he struggled to squeeze something, anything, out of his tiny anus. I couldn’t help but be enthralled by the incident as I witnessed the dog, upon finally producing a squirt of what looked to be espresso, topple to his side onto the sidewalk in exhaustion. Now is this anything I want to be taking up the sidewalk after my dinner down in the Village?
As is well known, dogs are amazing companions and can give you the unconditional love that any significant other never will. If you decide to invest in a Chihuahua as your choice of canine, fine. Just make sure they are raised in a secluded colony of shitty-dog lovers somewhere in the Midwest and keep them the hell away from Manhattan, for god’s sake.