Oh my stars, Diary. You know how I hate to be catty. I find that very unbecoming a proper Wienerdog as myself. BUT, that little trollop of Bogart, has sunk to levels I never thought a Wiener could sink. And coming from animals with less than one inch ground clearance, this is REALLY saying something. Trollop's name is Dolly. Ridiculous. Dolly wrote me a letter via Mother Person's Bookface page. Facebook? Whatever. On the internet super high way her words come careening towards my already broken heart. Here is the attached photo and her text:
Dear Beans-- whose soft terry cloth "Oprah's favorite thing" robe am I sitting, you may stop licking your lack of balls to ask yourself? That's right. Sam's. And what's that in the background? No, it's not a 4x3 ft linai you can barely fit a pee pad on. It's a yard. And who pray tell is sniffing my gorgeous arese? The BUBS and he loves it-- jealous?? In respond to your delightful literature in which you so sadly pretend you are some sort of Ariana Woofington, may I just say this: no one cares what you have to say. Despite your clever phrasing and alliteration. Save it for your memoir. Which I'm sure will be titled: Diary of a Mad Black Weenie. To that-- I give you this coy side glance. Interpret how you will. And stay away from my man. Signed, Dolly
SACRED BLEU! It's worse than I thought. She must be holding our Bogart, aka "The Bubs" hostage. It's like the Hunger Games *SPOILER ALERT UNLESS YOU HAVE READ PAST PAGE 148 IN BOOK 3* when Peeta goes all goofy. Bogart, my simple little mutt, you just don't know what's happened to you. Forcing you into early marriage. Silly clothes. No devil pigs. I can't help but think of this Dolly as our Yoko. Oh misery. Terrible misery. Like a sock just out of reach... Or a chicken bone on the street that I'm forbidden to eat. (Why do people eat bone in chicken on the street, btw?!?) It's all unfair. And those words... oh how they cut me... But come on, of COURSE people want to know what I have to say. That's just ridiculous to think otherwise. Clearly, she is delusional. With a very long snout.
I do admit, I miss her Man Person, Sam, and his exceptionally soft robe. That Oprah knows a thing or two about comfort... and I don't think a chicken bone has ever been out of HER reach, know what i'm saying? That's right, a fat joke. That Dolly has shaken me to the core and I'm reduced to making FAT JOKES. About OPRAH. Where is my fainting couch?? I must rest. I need a lime seltzer and a nap. Maybe then, this will all stop.
Beans A. Wienerdog