First of all, I’d like to thank all the anonymous contributors who wrote for WFYE today. I appreciate you guys/gals taking the time to write something original for the site.
Secondly — here is who wrote which post:
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#1)
Written by MJ
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#2)
Written by William
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#3)
Written by Pauly D
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#4)
Written by Chase
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#5)
Written by Steve
I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#6)
Written by Andrea
Dogs just canâ€™t be dogs anymore.
What happened to the normal dog? The real manâ€™s dog that hikes itâ€™s leg on fire hydrants. Or maybe the beer-drinking pit bull from the 80s. Or the annoyingly cute taco-eating chihuahua from the 90s. Theyâ€™ve all gone the way of the buffalo.
Normal dogs have been replaced by virtually metrosexual dogs. Dogs who have forgotten what itâ€™s like to be a real dog. Now, itâ€™s all about the right color bows in your fur. The right sassy side-to-side walk. The right rhythmic wag of your tail. The right cornflower blue Gucci collar. The right handler with the right obnoxiously loud sundress. Whoâ€™s to blame for this travesty?
Six months after my dog Jack was born he and I began to do the dog-show circuit. Oh sureâ€¦ he had fun at first. He got to meet new dogs. He got to dress up. His hair was done. Extensions were added. The thrill of victory was all new to him. One time he even said, â€œRuff…Ruff…RUUUUFFA.â€ (In Terrier that means â€˜this is greatâ€™). I guess I didnâ€™t notice that somewhere along the line his enthusiasm gave way to obligation.
Competition brings out the WORST in people. But if “worstest” was a word in Webster’s Dictionary, competition would bring that out in dogs.
It’s a common misconception that the world famous Westminster Dog Show held every year is a prim and proper event. Full of prestige. An honor to even be included. Divine festivities touched by the hand of the Pope himself. Not the current one but the one that had a dog. I think it was Pope III. No matter. If you believe any of the preceding paragraph, I have a small Ziploc baggy full of doggy poo to sell to you as well.
Yes, it’s all a ruse. And I know the secret. Come close. Closer. Closer still. (whispering) Westminster is a literal dog-eat-dog competition.
Oh, how I spit on you, you Westminster Dog Show, you.
Never before on the face of the Earth (prior to your existence) has man sought out to trim and cut, comb and frizz, shave and primp a dirty old dog. Never before have humans judged how they walk, how things hang and how dogs prance. Never before have I felt my saliva glands so full in preparation of a loogie the likes of which no mere mortal has ever seen.
Dogs lick their genitals. Dogs chase their tails. Dogs rip apart mail that shoots through mail slots. Yes, oh boy, they can learn 200 words. They have the intelligence of a 3 year old. Is that any reason to host some kind of a dog Olympics around them? Giving out medals and causing normal adults to enter into a world of OCD’s where the length of an eyebrow hair is worth their life?