Dear Diary.
Now Listen. I’m a tough guy. I do not let people walk all over me – in fact, I’m notorious for being a real grump who puts up with no shit. I pride myself on being an asshole. There. I said it.
Mom calls me a “Cranky Old Man” but I just think that it is my right as head dog to be respected. If I want to sniff some snatch, then damnit I’m going to sniff some snatch. If I want to growl at Chad, then I’m GOING to growl at Chad. I don’t need a reason. I’m head dog. That’s my reason. This is my house and people fear ME.
The Shark, on the other hand, is a different story. There is nothing more horrifying than those bright LED eyes coming at me while he sucks up all of my individually placed hairs that I spread out, marking this territory as my own. Every week I have to re-spread my crop because THAT asshole sucks them all up. No shame in his game – he brings the term asshole to a whole ‘nother level.
And as if that isn’t’ enough, sometimes he charges after me while I fail to defend myself, leaving me no where to run. Just for shits and giggles. Or he’ll use one of his robot arms to taunt me while threatening to suck up my beef curtains – or worse – my goods. Dad laughs and then has the nerve to yell at ME when I get a wild hair to get a jab in here or there. Why the Shark is superior to me I will never know.
I HATE the Shark. More than I hate Chad. At least I can attack Chad if prompted.
That Shark? He wins every time.
Dear Diary. 