We Are Motherfucking Nuts. To Make Up For the Ones He's Missing.

So.

Because we have nothing else going on, we let this Happen:

Yes. We purchased an overpriced piece of foam covered in a piece of material that coordinates with the living room rug.

We are literally what is wrong with this world.

Oh, also though...Bampa. He happened, too. Bampa is...oh jesus christ, if I start in on what exactly Bampa is, you'll A) throw up, and B) lose interest after lapping up your own vomit. Let's just say that he is the reason I was born. That's not sentimental AT ALL.

This dog. You will, in the course of time, learn more about his fatty-benign tumors and ball-less nut sacks than ever you dreamed of, but for now...For now, let's just bask in the fact that he is a heavy breather.

That's right, he's a heavy breather.

If you get a prank call from a pervert this week...you can safely bet it's our new dog. He spent most of his life living on the street, so you'll forgive him his sexual perversity.

Needless to say, Gray is head-over-heels, scary for a dog-man relationship, in love with this dog, and would probably wrap him up in a taco shell and carry him around in his lunch box. You know, if it were practical. He's even moved all his nerdy shit upstairs from the Man Cave to the main level. Into my living room. Nerdy stuff like his PlayStationNeverGetLaid. Gray, who didn't think we wanted to "deal with" a dog right now, is discussing the future of our dog as if this dog were the last of his bloodline. ONLY STEAK FOR HIM, DAMMIT. 

Bampa can't walk well because he is 4,000 years old, and he isn't any good on stairs because his back legs are less like "back legs" than "flat tires". But that doesn't stop him from LOVING FOOD! FOOD IS JESUS, BUT TASTIER! He is so fucking food-motivated that I'm pretty sure we could get him to slit his own throat for a Milk Bone.

Not that we'd ever DO that. You know, because my camera batteries are dead.