Monthly Archives: January 2014

All Things Profound and Profane


There have been quite a few people as of late that feel the need to point out to me that even though I sometimes write beautiful, profound poetry, I tend to ruin all that profundity with articles about doggy poop and farts and such things. Even though on the surface that might seem to be a logical assessment (that my spiritual side is compromised by my gutterish observations), I think my critics are missing a vital truth into their equation: it’s ok to talk about profane things, as long as I don’t step on God’s good toes.

I mean, think about it. We all have to expel feces from our anus, right? Sometimes it comes out normal, sometimes you need a shoehorn, and sometimes you need some duct tape and a cork. That’s a part of life. I’m just voicing what every one of you experience on a daily basis, but are too modest to chat about it. Here’s an example: It was so cold this morning that when I was outside I felt something roll down my leg. When I took it inside and warmed it up, it was a fart. Now, we all fart, right? I know, some of you ladies think you fart fairy glitter and it sounds like rainbow laughter. I’m just taking the obvious and setting it on a platter for anyone to see. The very fact you’re reading this tells me there’s a part of you that can’t wait until I drag out my next ribalderism (I just made that word up – you may use it sparingly). I don’t care how prudish and Puritanical we are, there’s still a little child within us yearning for a little potty talk.

There’s nothing wrong with having a sense of humor, especially if you’re a religious or spiritual sort. God has a sense of humor, so you can, too. Look at the duckbill platypus. Look at men. God gives him hair, then takes it away. God once told Abraham and Sara that they were going to have a baby and Abraham fell on his face laughing because he was over one hundred and she was over ninety years old (Genesis 17:15-19). The laugh was on then, though. They even named their son Isaac, which means “He laughs”. Did you know that God sometimes sits on His throne in Heaven and laughs at us? (Psalm 59:9) Why not? We do some pretty stupid things. Once while living in Michigan I went out to get the morning paper in my bathrobe but when I tried to get back in I found the door locked. Well, of course it was winter and below zero. I actually heard God laugh. Well, it may have been my wife or my dog or the neighbors, but I definitely heard laughter.

I think what tweaks some folks’ nose out of joint is the nature of my humor. Evidently it’s believed that toiletry matters should be kept in the water closet. It’s kind of hard to do when the minister is wearing a microphone and goes to the bathroom before the service without turning it off. I never knew such sounds could come out of a human being. That must have been the proverbial ‘Holy Shit’. And don’t look at me all righteous because I used the word ‘shit’. Paul used it in Philippians 3:8. If you read it you’ll probably see the word ‘dung’ or ‘rubbish,’ but the original word he used was ‘skubala,’ which is Greek for ‘shit.’ Look it up if you don’t believe me. And there’s nothing wrong in using it either. If you’ve ever change a six month old’s diaper, you’re liable to find something that can only be called shit. If you’ve ever been in a car wreck, you’ve probably used the Holy version of it, too, right before the collision. It’s commonly known in automobile accident circles that first you say it, then you do it.

I could go on forever on the subject of profanity and profundity. I might even make it a Master’s degree thesis. I don’t know what field that would be in, other than English or Biology, but it would make for a fascinating read. The fact of the matter is that you can’t have extremes unless someone actually goes out there and pushes the envelope. You may even thank me for bringing up turds, boogers, cat butts and armpit sweat. It’s all part of living, isn’t it? I have to cut this article short because my bladder is the size of Montana, and every time I type the letter ‘P’ I leak (damned water pills). It mixes with my skid marks and makes life very uncomfortable.

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Yet Another Research Debacle Regarding Cats


There’s this doctor going around telling everyone that to cats, human beings are considered bigger cats. Puleeze. I wrote an article years ago called The Cat’s Meow that pretty much put the subject to rest. We are nothing more than minions created to do their bidding. They don’t consider us big cats at all. I asked my kitty Mr. Jack if he thought I was a big cat and now every time he sees me he laughs. It’s not easy getting a cat to laugh. It sounds like the combination of a lawnmower in sand and passing a kidney stone the size of New Jersey. It still doesn’t stop him from sitting in my cereal box, either.

I first came across this guy, an Anthrozoologist by the name of John Bradshaw (I am impressed by his title, even if it does sound made up), yesterday when I came across a magazine article written by Chelsea Karnash entitled “Research Claims Your Cat Thinks You’re Just Another (Big!) Cat.” Now, if the article is an Op-Ed all is forgiven, but if Dr. Bradshaw sanctioned it, we have issues. It seems he wrote a book – Cat Sense – in which he states that cats “tend to think of humans as big, lazy, overgrown fellow cats”. Jack says I am indeed big (he used the word ‘morbidly obese’ which I’m taking to mean ‘big’ – he’s too smart for his own good, I think) and lazy, but I am definitely NOT a fellow cat. He’s pointing to pictures of lions and tigers right now for some reason, then looking at me and laughing. Please make him stop.

Dr. Bradshaw obviously hasn’t gone into the mind and soul of a cat like I have. Among felines I am known as “Catmando.” I’m providing a link to the article I wrote of the same name. Some say it’s the most disturbing piece of writing they’ve ever experienced. I tend to agree. Let’s just say my reputation precedes me. If the good doctor has bothered to understand the cat language (catese), he would have no doubt heard of me. Obviously he hasn’t, so I won’t hold his 30 years of research against him, although as it turn out, was a total waste of time. He just doesn’t know squat about cats.

For instance, he states that cats were never bred for companionship. First of all, it implies someone forgot to put the ‘play-well-with-others’ gene in the cat. This is downright insulting. Cats consider themselves perfect beings who were created to lord over the entire world. The Egyptians had a rudimentary understanding of this, but now the only ones who truly grasp the truth of catkind’s superiority are considered outcasts in society. They are found in the ranks of those who own five or more cats. The ‘Cat Lady’ will tell you right away that she is their willing slave. Cat’s aren’t looking for companionship. They seek world domination.

Dr. Bradshaw’s lack of insight is no more evident than when he claims that “when a cat rubs against you with its tail straight in the air, it is checking to make sure you are not hostile.” Pure malarkey. Whenever a cat rubs against you, he is actually drooling on your leg and marking you as his chattel. Do you suppose your kitty is making sure a table leg is not hostile when he rubs against it?  He’s just laying claim. As I write this Jack has gotten in front of the monitor and is licking his butthole with one leg stuck up in the air, and I have to distort myself just to see.  He’s reminding me that whenever his tail is straight up, he’s telling me to do what he’s doing right now. There are some places I won’t go, and that’s one of them. Now, maybe if I could reach my own…

I’m sure Dr. Bradshaw’s book “Cat Sense” will be a smash hit – anything cat related is big these days – but don’t be fooled by all the technobabble. If there is a cat living in your home, he is your Master, and he allows you to share his space only so you can serve him. Don’t tell your kitty that you’re just a bigger version of him. When he stops laughing he’ll pretend your coffee cup is a litter box when you’re not looking. You won’t know it until you get to the bottom, because cat poop doesn’t float. Now be a good slave and bring out the catnip. It’s time to make the Boss happy.

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Where There’s Smoke


Without looking up from her dinner, my wife said to me, “I heard you belched in the choir Sunday. I’m mortified.”

This came as a surprise, as she didn’t go to church with me Sunday, and we live a dozen miles away from the chapel. I was afraid to ask her how she was able to hear me from that distance. I mean, it was kind of loud, but certainly not twelve miles loud. She must have some sort of supernatural connection to me. She knows everything. Just last month I was in my study and she was next door in the bedroom. I farted, and immediately she confirmed it. “You just farted. How disgusting.” She didn’t even wait for the smell to waft in there.

I immediately became defensive. “How do you know it was me that farted? It could have been the dog.” I do blame the dog for everything.

“Because I can tell your fart in a crowd, that’s why.” All those times, and she knew it was me.

Well, that got me thinking. I am the world’s foremost amateur scatologist, and farts, although not technically scat, are definitely part of the terminal digestion cycle. You know, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Sometimes after eating Mexican food I believe I could take a blanket and use my farts as smoke signals to recite the Gettysburg Address. But back to the story at hand. (AT hand, not IN hand) I wondered if wives actually can tell their husband’s farts in a crowd of men. They certainly all sound the same to me. This calls for a scientific study, don’t you think?

I’m drafting up an abstract for a study proposal to distribute around the leading Universities in hope of nailing a grant. I also intend on submitting it to Kickstarter, too. The key to success is proliferation. Well, that’s not entirely true. I had the key to success once but dropped it in the toilet. I wasn’t about to arm wrestle the other things in there for it. Anyway, I’m preparing a proposal on the subject, but I’m not waiting for acceptance and funding. There are thinkers and there are doers. Another scatology joke.

I put an ad in the paper: “Men married over twenty years needed for scientific study. Contact Dr. Harding at 256-349-8992.” Hey, if I can become a minister in the Church of the Latter-Day Dude, I can call myself a doctor. I immediately began getting phone calls from guys asking what the study was and what they would get out of it. I cryptically explained that it was a fart study and they would be rewarded in good food. Before long I had the crowd I needed.

My plan was to feed them one at a time and then record their farts. Could you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if I fed them all at once? I’ve seen a single fart melt plastic. I shudder to think what would happen if a crowd of men farted all at once. So I made appointments for each of them to come in, and then began preparing the fart-inducing foods they would need to ingest. I made beans of all kinds: baked, butter, black-eyed, garbanzo – you name it. I just had to make sure they were the kind that carried the sugar raffinose, the ingredient in beans that brings out the gassiness. I’ve done my homework, y’all. Raw cauliflower and broccoli have the same ingredient, so I made sure to include lots of ranch dressing. Thank you, Hidden Valley, for the free samples, btw. All in the name of science. I prepared every conceivable kind of dairy product because lactose makes for great farts. I had cottage cheese running out of my ears. Literally. Carbonated drinks also cause tons of gas, so I picked up two liters of everything. Meat also aids in the fart process because it slows digestion, giving fart-rich bacteria time to grow, and meat also produces sulfur, which makes farts smell worse. That’s just a bonus. To top it off I included pickled eggs and beer, two food items that always seem to work for me.

Well, these guys started coming in for their appointments, and they ate large quantities of the food I had laid out like a smorgasbord (note the word ‘gas’ in ‘smorgasbord’). And I recorded their farts. Every last one. I may never recover, but at least I will have given my life to science. Then I made a compilation of all their farts (it is actually quite soothing to the ears) and took the recording to each of their wives. You know what the outcome was. I was beaten severely by rolling pins, vacuum cleaners, sharp-fanged Chihuahuas and a wide array of household items. Women can be so cruel.

I consider this a minor setback, though. Once my study is funded, I think I’ll be able to bribe the wives into actually listening to the tape. If not, at least I can mass produce the recording and sell it as Swiss whale calls. It certainly puts me to sleep.

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Sleeping on the Job


There is this guy – a burglar – in Santa Ana California who went to sleep while robbing a couple.  He really needs to get a real job, because I don’t think he’s cut out to be a thief. Maybe he could work for Sealy as a mattress tester .  How tired does a guy have to be? He was thinking “The open window is right in front of me, and I’ve got this bag of stuff, but I think I’ll take a little nap first.” Yeah. He must have had a little too much of Puff the Magic Dragon, if you know what I mean. I wonder if he raided the fridge first. I always get drowsy after a big meal.

I think it takes a pretty brave person to break into somebody’s home while they’re in it. I’d probably crap myself. My gut is rumbling right now just thinking about doing something like that. My neighbor went on a weeklong vacation once, gave me her house key, and asked me to put her daily mail on the kitchen counter. I felt nervous just going in there every day. I mean, I wasn’t able to steal more than a couple pieces of silverware and a “Fiddler on the Roof” DVD (great movie, btw) without having an acute attack of IBS, and she was thousands of miles away in Hawaii! I just don’t know how burglars can muster the courage needed to pull off a job. This guy in Santa Ana must have nerves of steel!

The most interesting part of this story is that when the homeowner woke up next to his wife the next morning, he found this thief at the foot of his bed sleeping. The burglar actually decided to go to sleep on the victim’s bed! He doesn’t have nerves of steel; that guy must have Kevlar cojones! Ok, I admit, the fellow was obviously missing a large portion of his brain. I would have been happy on the couch. Who wants to smell feet all night? The man of the house said he recognized the thief as someone from the neighborhood. Well, that explains everything. The burglar obviously felt comfortable enough to sleep with people he knew from the block. The story doesn’t say whether the homeowner’s wife was awakened. Probably for the best that she just be allowed to sleep through the whole thing. Who wants to hear a woman screaming her guts out first thing in the morning?

The victim chased the thief out of his house, but he didn’t call the police right away. You see, that right there sounds fishy to me. Maybe he’s had other neighbors over for the night. But then, he hadn’t had his first cup of coffee yet. I can barely function without my morning coffee. The article says it wasn’t until a few hours later that the homeowner realized some of his property was missing. Had he been able to get a cup of coffee into his system, he might have noticed the large pillowcase in the thief’s hands as he chased the guy out if his house. Ok, so when he realizes the sleepy bandit stole some of his stuff, does he call the police then? Nope. That means the thief probably took something the homeowner didn’t want the cops to see, like his three foot tall glass bong, his collection of WWII grenades or his Middle Eastern sex doll that blows herself up. You’ve got to be discrete sometimes.  Instead, he went to Rip Van Winkle’s place, confronted the thief and retrieved his stuff. THEN he called the cops. Smart move, finally.

Here’s what the police statement said: “The suspect … admitted to seeing the window in the house open and decided no one was home and went in to see what he could steal,” the statement said. Ortega “said he was crawling out of the house with the property and must have fallen asleep.” Forget about what I said regarding the burglar’s courage. He was just stoned stupid. He was too high to make it out the window.  He had to have been under the influence of some serious ganja.

I just thought of something brilliant. This story could be used as proof that smoking pot reduces crime. Encourage criminals to smoke marijuana and they’ll spend all their time playing video games, watching cartoons and raiding the fridge. If they try to commit a felony, they won’t be able to stay awake long enough to pull it off. I’m getting sleepy just thinking about it. Thank goodness, too. My bowels were in an uproar earlier. Now they just lay around listening to Bob Marley.

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A Lot of Bull


There’s a story out of Denmark that dead cows are washing up on the beaches of their country and Sweden. They admit to being baffled by it. Some folks guess they might have been tossed from a livestock ship (until now I never imagined cows in a boat – well, not since Noah), but I don’t believe it for a second. After all, those kinds of ships have LIVE stock. These bovines were dead, and I think they were murdered, because I know for a fact cows can swim. I used to watch westerns when I was young. Those cowboys sure liked to make cows swim across rivers. Maybe that’s how cows take a bath. I mean, you can hardly find a shower big enough for one.

I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on here. According to the article, most of the cows had their hind legs bound together, which prevented them from swimming. My original reaction to learning about this was to wonder why they didn’t just dog paddle. Stupid, right? Der. They’re not dogs. I mean, they’d have to be trained, and I don’t think their killers wanted to take the time to do it. I think the cows were deliberately killed. And I’m pretty sure I know who’s behind it. The article says the cows were black and white Holsteins. That happens to be the very same type of cow that Chik-fil-A uses in their commercials. You know, the ones that hold signs that say “Eat More Chikin.” That narrows my suspicions down to two possibilities. Either chicken assassins snuffed the cows as a warning to Chik-fil-A to back off the wholesale slaughter of their kind, or it was a not-so-subtle message by the beef industry to intimidate the cows working for Chik-fil-A to quit or else next time it will be their cow relatives. More chikin means less beef, and less beef means the chairman of the beef board doesn’t get to buy that leather couch he’s been wanting for ages.

It’s got to be the Beefers. Look what they did to Oprah. Everyone knows the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association is nothing more than a bunch of sirloin lovers gone bad. They have a long history of violence. They’re the ones that invented T-boning a car. They roasted Dean Martin, for crying out loud.  The Chik-fil-A cows are probably seen as outright traitors to their inherited fate. According to the Beefers, that’s why God made cows: to be eaten. It’s pretty clear that the reason why these poor cows washed up on the shore of Sweden and Denmark. Both those countries are famous for their meatballs. Where do you think Italy gets all their meatballs from? If you’ve never heard of Swedish meatballs you’ve probably lived in a cave all your life. The Danes (Is that what you call the people of Denmark? I would have picked Denmarkies. Sounds friendlier.) are just as famous for their meatballs, too, but more so in Europe, South Africa and Asia. They call their meatballs Frikadellers, and even though they like to call them Denmark’s Most Closely Guarded Secret, the only people that don’t know about them are the average Joes in the US. The Chik-fil-A commercials have probably become so effective I bet the Frikadeller industry made a plea to the big Beefers to save them, and the result was a herd of cattle rotting on the beaches of Demark and Sweden.

Of course, if the Beefers had half a brain in their skulls, they’d realize it doesn’t do any good trying to intimidate the Chik-fil-A cows. They’ve got no sense for that kind of stuff. I can threaten a cow all day and it’ll just stand there chewing its cud. No, they should go after the restaurant itself. It wouldn’t be too hard to hurt their business. Just make fun of Chik-fil-A until they quit and go home. All they’d have to do is camp out in front of their headquarters in College Park, Georgia right outside of Atlanta and start chanting “CHICK-FILL-A WHAT? CAN’T YOU GUYS FINISH A SENTENCE?” It wouldn’t be long before they chicken out. They can’t stand someone having a beef with them.

I should be an international crime investigator. This one was too easy.

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Pigeon on a Stool


There is one phrase that, when spoken, brings an immediate spark of fear within us. There are actually many words that can freeze our heart, such as when our boss walks up to us and says “I want to see you in my office right now,” or when our significant other won’t look us in the eye when they say “We need to talk,” or when we get a phone call from the doctor a couple of days after taking blood from us, saying “Please come to my office as quickly as you can.” Actually, now that I think about it, there are oodles of things that would bring out my inner “Oh, crap, what fresh Hell is this?” But I want to concentrate on one in particular, one that if you  have a brother or sister you heard with some regularity, or even if you weren’t cursed with siblings you were confronted with these words from some obnoxious little twit in the playground. To be honest, I don’t think it invokes fear as much as it stabs you with guilt, whether you did anything or not. (but if you’re anything like me, you’ve always got something to be guilty about). When I tell you the phrase, imagine a little girl with pigtails and a starched dress puckering up her face in front of you and spitting out the words with venom: “I’m telling on you!”

I grew up with two younger sisters, and for some inexplicable reason I developed a penchant for torturing them. One day I took a Coca Cola bottle and poured all kinds of stuff from the kitchen into it (including, of course, hot sauce, pickle juice and vinegar) and then topped it off with some dark food color to make it look legit. I’ll never forget it if I live to be one hundred and forty: I handed it proudly to my sister Beth and she took a huge swig of it. I never knew liquid could shoot out the nose in two huge streams like that. When she recovered, she screamed “I’m telling!” and I instantly regretted it. I must have suffered from some sort of mental illness that prevented me from seeing the consequences of my actions beforehand. I think I was just blinded by my fervent desire to persecute them without mercy. My parents knew I had this sadistic streak in me, and tended to believe whatever horror my sisters told them about me. I wish I had kept track of my beatings, because I’m sure it would have set some kind of record. Once my sisters realized the power of “I’m telling on you,” they used it against me every opportunity they could. “If you don’t give me a dollar I’m telling Dad you tied two cats by their tails and threw them over the clothesline!” “If you don’t let me watch H. R. Pufnstuf I’m telling Mom you drank some of their homemade wine!” “If you tell mom I drank some of their homemade wine I’ll tell your friends you watch H. R. Pufnstuf!” I was damned. So, being doomed to an eternity of punishment, I redoubled my efforts to make their life miserable. I stopped torturing my baby sister, though, after she threw a heavy glass ashtray at me once and it pushed my eyeball out the back of my head. Here’s the puzzling part: whenever I told on my sisters my folks called me a tattletale and ignored my claim. I was indeed damned.

Eventually I grew up and joined the Army. The term ‘Tattletale’ was replaced with the word ‘snitch.’  There was no worse label. Once branded, the soldier was mistrusted and shunned. Gone were the days of face-to-face “You’re going to be in trouble when I tell!” That would have insured a melee. Instead, snitches typically slithered secretly to the Sergeant with their accusations. If the Sergeant was worth his salt, the snitch would regret his decision for the rest of his stay there. I’ve seen snitches hung on telephone poles by their tongues. We learned quickly in the military that if we saw another soldier doing something wrong, it was handled within the ranks and never spoken of afterwards. But this is where it became interesting for me. No matter where I was stationed I quickly came to be known as the company comedian. It was kind of like being a court jester. I could say anything, no matter how outrageous or disrespectful, and as long as I made it a joke people laughed. I discovered that if I used my sister’s nasally, accusing whine “I’m telling!” everyone would laugh nervously, because there was a part of them that, even for a moment, thought I knew what their dirty little secret was. Like I said, we all have something to feel guilty about.

Do me a favor and try it today. You pick the moment. I don’t care if you catch someone doing something wrong or not. Just blurt it out like you mean it and watch the reactions. Hey, even if they look at you funny the rest of their life, you can be sure there’s some little voice inside of them wondering if you will indeed tell on them. Who knows, it might even make someone fly right.

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Poodle Doodle


The three devoted readers of my articles know at least two consistent things about me: I have a proclivity toward unusual scientific studies, and I am one of the foremost amateur scatologists in the world. So when I came across the following link, you can imagine how excited I was:–study-184949050.html.  Seems a bunch of Czech and German scientists have discovered that the ‘poop walk’ dogs do (going around in circles and sniffing the ground for just that right spot to pinch a few doggie loaves) is because they “prefer to excrete with the body being aligned along the north-south axis under calm magnetic field conditions.” After all these years examining dog doodies you think I would have been the one to figure this out. Yes, I was excited, but I was jealous, too. You see, I have been trying to prove that the dog’s poop walk was the vestige behavior of ancient dog dancing rituals. I was so close, too. Did you know that if you do the Hokey Pokie with a pile of dog crap right behind you, the chances of stepping in it is the exact same as an airplane pilot accidently stepping out for fresh air while flying? Now all I have to show for it are reams of research data and a closet full of poopy shoes.

I have to hand it to those guys, though. They were extremely thorough in their own research. The article says “To test their theory, scientists had 70 dogs, from 37 breeds, observed over a two-year span. The orientation of the dogs during defecation was cataloged 1,893 times and during urination 5,582 times.” You know that took a lot of dedication. I can see one of the scientists coming home in the evening, and his little child tugging on his pants leg until he pays attention to hear the wee one ask “Daddy, what did you do today?” “Well, sweet pea, daddy followed a Great Dane, a Rat Terrier and a Labrador Retriever around today so he could study their whoopsies. I brought one home with me if you’d like to play with it awhile before dinner.” Why, O why did I not have a daddy like that?

I love what the researcher said when asked if they had to coax the dogs to poop: “This is certainly not a confounder in our study because the dogs do not have to fulfill a certain task, but perform everyday routine behavior. The study was truly blind.” I wonder if they worked by sense of smell, considering they were blind. Such brave souls! I hoped they washed their hands often.

See how smart these guys were. I mean, they covered every base (or was it the dogs that covered the bases?). Aware that other scatologists might consider the dog’s alignment with the sun (I myself have pondered that very thing), the scientists preemptively stated “The argument that the dogs might orient with regard to sun position so that they turn with their back to the sun in order to avoid dazzling by sunshine during such a sensitive and vulnerable act as excretion can be questioned. This argument is not plausible for urine marking, which is a brief act.” Wow. Am I impressed, or what?

Well, you know what I did. I went right out and started marking the latitude and longitude of every pooch pile in the neighborhood, and then compared their locations to a map of the Earth’s magnetic lines. In every single instance, the dog poop lined up exactly! Well, once I recovered from the rush of adrenalin over these findings, I went about trying to determine WHY this happens! It didn’t take very long to find out, either. Frankly, I’m shocked those foreign scientists never came to the logical conclusion I discovered. All those brains, and not one of them thought of it. I guess that’s what makes me one of the world’s leading amateur scatologists. I scooped and bagged all 941 dog pile specimens, rolled up my sleeves (it’s no fun having to scrub dog doodie off your sleeves) and set about analyzing every log with the spare spectrometer I have stashed in my garage. Without exception, every sample had tiny little bits of metal in them! So dogs have no choice but to crap on the magnetic line, or face having their poochy rectums shredded as the poop is inevitably drawn to the nearest line.

I’m currently working on my own research paper documenting these exciting – and potentially dangerous (at least to the dogs) – findings. It is certain to make a splash in scatology circles. Dog owners should know not to force their pets to defecate anywhere else but along the magnetic lines, not if they value their dog’s buttholes. Let the dog be drawn naturally to his or her ‘spot’. Do me a favor and take a photo of your dog’s business and upload it to my scat site along with its exact location. I’ll find it using Google maps and then log it in. Or would that be logging it out? Either way, anyone giving a crap will be appreciated.

Now I just need to find out who’s feeding metal to our dogs.

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