No Essa, you’re not being honest – you’re being an asshole

I use this blog a lot to call other people out on their behavior. Whether they’re complaining about not being addressed by their chosen pronouns, or anti-vax bullshitting on Jonas Salk being worse than Hitler, I’m always quick to put people on blast when they’re being stupid. But like most humans, I tend to treat myself like I’m somehow infallible. Somehow, I’m immune to my own objective opinion, no matter how stupid I act or how shitty some of the things I say are. But if I’m truly, truly an honest person, that means looking at myself. It means holding myself accountable for my own actions. And doing that is uncomfortable because it forces me to look myself in the eye and say “you know what, Essa? You’re kind of an asshole.”

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Tonight, I took the opportunity to look back at some of my old writing, at some of my blog posts and saw myself being incredibly mean. I said many intentionally offensive things in the past and I brushed those things off with a phrase that makes me cringe.

“I’m not being mean. I’m just being honest.”

I had this idea that somehow, me being brutally (and I mean brutally) honest all the time made it ok to also be an asshole all the time. To explain how I feel about it now, I’m going to quote from the finest movie ever to grace the silver screen – “The Shawshank Redemption”.

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try to talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone, and this old man is all that’s left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It’s just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time. Because to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit.

OK, so not all that applies but I love that damn speech and couldn’t bear to cut a single bit of it. Seriously, I have never wanted to bang Morgan Freeman as hard as I did during that particular moment.

Now that’s a good example of honesty because in that statement, I was being honest without simply using honesty as an excuse to be cruel. Sure, it’s a cringy statement. No one wants to think of my chubby ass going to town on Morgan Freeman, but it was honest in a good way. It was me admitting a vulnerability without shaming someone else for it.

Because that’s the problem with the “I’m just being honest” statement. You’re shaming someone else and then acting like they’re wrong for being offended. When I used to say it, it was because somehow, I got this idea in my head that being honest and being cruel were mutually exclusive. If you were being honest, it meant people couldn’t call you out on being cruel.

That’s a stupid, stupid thing to think.

If you honestly tell your mother she’s fat, it’s not going to make her lose weight. It’s going to make her cry. If you honestly tell your partner you want to fuck their brother, it’s not going to make them feel more connected to you. It’s going to make them worry about you fucking their brother. If you honestly admit to committing a felony, you’re not getting away with it. If anything, it’s more likely to send you to jail.

Honesty doesn’t undo the bad you do with your actions. The statement “I’m just being honest” is, ironically, you lying to yourself. You’re trying to convince yourself that being honest means you’re not a complete fucking asshole.

My point, past self, is sometimes you need to say, “fuck being honest” and keep your opinion to yourself. You’re not so god damn important that everyone needs to hear your honest, useless opinion 100% of the time – especially when that opinion will hurt them unnecessarily. There is a way to say things without being a dick. If there wasn’t, diplomats wouldn’t exist.

Past Essa, this is future, wiser and slightly less intoxicated Essa saying to you, you’re not “just being honest.” You’re just being an asshole. Stop it and grow up.

Welcome to Hurricane season

I wasn’t born and raised in Florida. I’ve only been here about nine years and only weathered a few named storms. Despite my complete lack of experience, I still manage to be prepared when the season comes, so I’m not one of those a-holes racing out to the stores at the last minute to stock up on canned food and water.

I’m one of those last-minute a-holes stocking up on beer and gummy bears.

But despite my inexperience, I need to call out more than a few of you Floridians based off what I’ve seen of you on the news. So let me cover this list-like, because people are stupid and will only listen when you make a list. Also, call me crazy, but I have a bad feeling about this season and feel this information may be useful for the 2018 season.

#1. If you abandon your pets or leave them outside you will go to prison

A new Florida law has established if you leave your pets outside and helpless during a hurricane, you will receive a felony charge. My Floridian opinion is you deserve it.

I don’t even understand the people that do this, but it needs to be said. It’s not cool to just leave your dog or cat alone on your property, to wander all by itself in the terrifying storm as you travel on down to Jacksonville to hang out with family.

Your pet is your family. The moment you decided to get a cat or dog, you became responsible for them and you have no right to leave them behind. There is a special place in hell for people who abandon their pets during a storm and you deserve to be there. As their natural instincts tell them to flee, your selfishness keeps them trapped and they sit there, lonely, scared and wonder where their fur mommy or daddy went until the storm kills them.

You must be a special kind of sociopath to do that to an innocent dog or cat. There are plenty of pet-friendly shelters in Florida, plenty of things you could do for those little dudes aside from letting them face the wrath of Mother Nature by themselves. Even the Hemingway House in Key West is somehow capable of keeping 36 cats alive hurricane after hurricane. You have no excuse for not being able to handle one dog or cat.

If you abandon them because you’re fucking lazy, you deserve spot one in Dante’s Inferno, getting eaten and shit out by the devil over and over again, just like Judas and Brutus. Because you’re a fucking traitor. You told that pet you’d protect them, then you turned your back on them.

Fuck you.

#2. When they say mandatory evacuations and you decide to stay – you’re on your own

Your right to emergency medical assistance in your area ends the moment the newscaster says “Governor Whoeverthefuck has issued an emergency, mandatory evacuation” and names your area. That’s all there is to it. After that, if you decide to stay, you are on your own.

Deal with it. Do not call 911 as the floodwaters rise, demanding they send out a bunch of paramedics to drown with you because they won’t. Mandatory evacuation status is not given willy nilly. It’s given when it’s fully established, based on FEMA standards, that remaining in the area will cause an immediate threat to life. As such, once a mandatory evacuation is given, 911 services shut down. If you live in Florida, you know that you’ve seen this commercial.

This was during Ivan. I checked out the verifiability of the commercial. Those voices you heard, those desperate calls for help? They didn’t make it.

They play this commercial often during hurricane season and they do it for a reason. It’s to make you understand it’s not brave to stay when they tell you to evacuate. It’s foolish.  You cannot ride the storm. You are not the old man and the sea, staring down an unforgiving ocean. You are a silly little civilian who forgot that nature’s wrath pertains to you too. This commercial is not dramatized. They make it very, very clear that once a mandatory evacuation is issued, they cannot help you.

They share this message – as a warning– on as many public access channels as they can. The best that FLA 911 services can do for you if you call them after you’ve been told to evacuate is tell you to write your social security number on your torso so the National Guard can identify your body.

Florida emergency services workers are not superheroes. They’re just people and there comes a point where they cannot help you because they will not risk further lives to help a hopeless cause. Those ambulance drivers, firefighters and paramedics are just as human as you. They have families that love them just like you and they are not going to risk their lives because you did something incredibly stupid.

When someone says mandatory evacuation either do it or drink yourself to death (leaving Las Vegas style) but do not expect the world to come back and pick you up. It’s not that they don’t want to. It’s that they can’t without risking their own lives too.

#3. Get your supplies ahead of time.

I created my first Amazon wishlist the other day. It’s not so much a wishlist as it is a package of items I purchase for hurricanes. MREs, flashlights, batteries, a hand crank radio – now is the time to buy them, not later. If you want the full list, IM me. But do it now, not one day before the storm. You need to live your life like every day is the day before a hurricane. Then, come what may, you’ll always be prepared.

Anyway, welcome to hurricane season. I also don’t usually do this, because I hate dealing with comments, but the issue is important enough to spread. I welcome you to share your own hurricane preparedness ideas (or complaints) in the comments. With any luck, we’ll all ride the storms together.

If you are disabled or feel that you are incapable of evacuating or protecting yourself in the event of a hurricane and currently live in Florida, please check out the following available resources.

https://www.floridadisaster.org/

https://trac.floridadisaster.org/trac/loginform.aspx

http://www.floridahealth.gov/

https://www.fema.gov/individual-disaster-assistance

 

 

 

If you have to say you are …you aren’t

Back in the day when I worked in insurance investigations, I had this supervisor who gave me some good advice. Specifically, he said the following;

“If they tell you they’re nice, they’re a dick. If they tell you they’re religious, they haven’t seen the inside of a church since the last time their mom made them go. If they tell you they’re honest, they’ve already started lying.”

At the time, I had a good laugh about it. He was a jaded dude who’d been in the insurance industry far too long, so he was used to people sucking. But as time went on, I realized he was right. If you have to tell someone you are something, it’s because you aren’t.

As an example, let’s take a look at the following message.

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Yes, a dude who claimed to have an IQ on par with Einstein’s was incapable of spelling ‘biology’—or holding a conversation without resorting to that obnoxious role play thing that 11-year-old weeaboos do.

Also, before you tell me it’s satire – if you have to tell someone it’s satire, it’s not. It’s you saying something stupid, getting called out and then trying to backpedal by calling it satire.

I bring this up because I think we need to start calling people out on their bullshit. I see a lot of these “my IQ is (insert some ridiculous number)” posts online but what I don’t see is people calling them out on it. Just a simple “no, it isn’t” would satisfy me.

Because no, that’s not your IQ. It’s a number that you made up to sound impressive or one given to you by one of those scam online degree sites. Either way, the fact that you drop the whole “my IQ is (insert some ridiculous number)” statement is actually what convinces me you’re an idiot. Smart people don’t have to tell the world how smart they are. They just do smart things like inventing nuclear energy or curing polio.

Same goes for being nice. If you have to tell someone you’re nice, it’s because you’ve never actually done anything nice to convince them you are. Doing the bare minimum to maintain your status in society does not qualify as being nice. For example, no, I would not punch a baby. This is not because I’m a nice person. It’s because it’s what people expect of me to maintain my space in a civilized society. Otherwise, yes, I probably would have punched at least one baby. To that baby — you know what you did.

On the other hand, I once knew a dude who gave up a well-paying career as a police detective so he could move himself and his entire family to the Ukraine to open an orphanage. During the entire process, he never once mentioned how nice he was.

Weird how that works.

Also, while we’re at it, stop trying to give yourselves degrees you haven’t earned. I once had a Walmart cashier tell me “I have a PhD level vocabulary” with a completely straight face.

You know how you know you have a Masters or PhD level knowledge?   You spend $90,000 and 200 classroom hours learning it. If you think that your life experience is transferrable as college credit, then there’s something called DANTES that you can use to get that credit.

Unless you actually have a degree from an accredited university, you don’t have a Masters or PhD level anything. Stop saying you do. It just makes you look stupid and it undermines the hard work of those who have actually spent the time and the money getting those degrees. It’s like me saying I’m a forensic psychologist because I like to watch “Criminal Minds.”

So before you tell someone you’re smart, or religious, or nice, ask yourself this. “Have I actually done anything that proves what I’m about to say?” Most often, the answer is no.

Because if you have to say you are, you aren’t. Those that are, they just do.

You Are the Problem

 

The Harvard Business Review published an interesting study recently. In it, they actually isolated a ‘drama’ gene, proving that certain people are more prone to drama than others. These individuals tended to blow minor slights out of proportion, view any criticism as a personal attack, and stay bitter about minor incidents for years afterwards. But the thing that struck me the most about these drama lovers was their most common trait.

The locus of control. The locus of control is simply a fancy psychosocial way of describing how you view your impact on the world. I have an internal locus of control, in that I believe that my actions change the world. On the flip, a person with an external locus of control would believe that the world changes their actions.

Just to give examples;

Internal locus of control: “Wow, my choice to tweet Holocaust jokes on Hitler’s birthday sure pissed a lot of people off.”

External locus of control: “Why is everyone attacking my political opinion about how the Holocaust never happened? Twitter is just filled with crazy liberals.”

Now me, I always thought that my own internal locus of control was the worse one to have because it seems narcissistic to think that the entire world changes because of you. But now that I think about it, coming at the world from an ‘everyone is against me’ standpoint is far more narcissistic.

I mean, how important do you think you are that people would actually seek you out to discredit you? Isn’t it possible that someone just thinks you’re an asshole? And Harvard backed me up because it turns out people with an external locus of control report higher levels of conflict in their personal lives.

Let me try to explain with an anecdote. I have this friend Gina. Gina is a lightening bolt when it comes to relationships. What I mean is that Gina goes on a date with a dude and ZAP; his relationship status on Facebook is updated and she’s moved half her shit into his place, while waiting to see if the pregnancy test was just a false alarm. She barely knows these dudes, moves in with them, and suddenly gets all shocked when it falls apart after three months.

Then, she calls them the psychos. She never recognizes her own culpability, nor her ENTIRE responsibility, for the situation. It’s always the world doing shit to her. I mean, she decides to let a jobless loser live with her after the third date, and three months after she’s surprised when he’s still a jobless loser? The girl who hates drama is causing her own drama.

I’ve found that to be the truth about a lot of people who claim to hate drama. They’ll talk all day about being above it all, but then, after a while you notice, that’s all they talk about. They are never responsible in their own heads, but entirely responsible in real life.   They’re just incapable of connecting the two.

So what that Harvard study taught me is if you spend a fuckton of time talking about all the drama that other people cause in your life, its not just statistically likely, it’s a scientific fact that YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.

Let’s look at it from a scientific point of view.

    • About 87% of computer viruses start as a form of human error. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • 78% of adult-onset diabetes cases are a direct result of the nutritional choices of the individual with diabetes. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • Only 1% of identity theft claims are valid cases of criminal hacking. The other 99% are a result of individuals giving out their credit card information irresponsibly. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • Warnings about internet scams have existed for twenty years, but despite that, about 300,000 people fall victim to internet scams annually because they elect not to seek out advice. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • If everyone in your life treats you badly, your friends don’t like you and everyone seems to talk shit about you all the time…YOU ARE THE PROBLEM!!! Consider the fact that you might, just might, be a complete asshole who no one wants to be around

Look people, dickish behavior doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I know a lot of people who have a lot of drama in their lives and they all have one thing in common. They’re the kind of people who consider “you call me a bitch like it’s a bad thing” their catch phrase. Here’s the deal. It is bad to be a bitch. Bitches are mean. They’re rude, thoughtless and unpleasant to be around. They think niceness is a sign of weakness, when real strong people know that niceness is an asset.

It costs nothing yet gains you everything.

Dramatic individuals don’t get that. If you don’t, there is a very good chance that you have a lot of drama in your life. You think you’re not causing it, but you are. The world is not controlling you. You’re trying to passively aggressively control the world. But the world doesn’t react to passive aggression. So either embrace aggression, or reject it entirely, but don’t claim to be a victim of it. Because deep down, we all know one thing, and it’s been scientifically proven.

You are the problem.

 

Drinking Round the World

 

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This is what Epcot looks like when you pass out in the parking lot

Epcot is one of the few Disney establishments I like. It’s got nothing to do with what they offer. Nope, when you pay the $100 cover charge to get into Epcot, you’re mainly paying to get into a bunch of gift shops with equally overpriced crap. It’s not their rides. The one I did go on managed to combine my two most hated things; Martin Short and Canada.

It was like the “It’s a small world” ride at Disney, only far more boring and twice as annoying.

So despite the annoying merchandizing, shitty rides and foreign tourists, I still manage to like Epcot. Know why?

Drinking around the world, motherfuckers.

See Epcot has cashed in on the one thing adults like when they’re forced to go to a Disney Park. Alcohol. No joke, I will tolerate endless amounts of Jasmine and Nemo, provided I’m allowed to get loaded in the process. And in Epcot, they offer something amazing.

The ability to drink in every last country that they’ve created based on an Americanized stereotype.

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So the opportunity to both get super wasted and be offensive to foreigners in one fell swoop? Consider me in. Well played Epcot. Well played.

Anywho, we started off in Canada. As I’d been drinking heavily the night before, my brother became concerned as I developed the sweats while chugging a very heavy Moosehead Ale. But he had no idea. I was simply getting my early second wind.

See, me and my brother, we’re about as different as two people could be. He’s a republican. I’m a paranoid libertarian. He has a real job where he’s important and takes phone calls on the weekend. I would be both shocked and horrified if any one of my clients called me on the weekend. He’s a clean freak and I’m pretty sure I’ve grown a new form of bacteria in my toilet. He’s a health nut who regularly goes to the gym.

The last time I went to the gym was March of 2013. I needed to use their vitamin water machine to get something to mix with my booze.

So being the healthy, trim dude he is, it’s completely reasonable that he thought he’d be able to out drink me through 13 countries. What he didn’t get was 13 drinks isn’t really a challenge to me.

I call that Tuesday.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I treat my body like a temple. And by temple, I mean one of those wild, drunken orgy bathhouses in ancient Rome. I can’t remember the last time I actually ate solid food.   When I did, I assume it was some kind of fried meat. I don’t do vegetables. As far as I’m concerned, vegetables are nothing more than the product I use to lure my meat into a fryer.

As a result, my body adapts. My shriveled, probably green liver, isn’t even part of the process anymore. The booze goes right to my stomach, then slides its way into my bladder thanks to a heavy coating of cholesterol.

It’s important to have a system.

Anyway, we made it through all the countries in Epcot before passing out on the ground near the giant golf ball. At that point, I led him out to the parking lot to find our mom’s car.

You ever heard of the blind leading the blind? Well, this was the drunk leading the drunk. My brother passed out in a parking spot as I wandered like Mad Max leaving Thuderdome until I wound up in a Wet & Wild Parking lot about 4 miles away…where I led a small nation of people who had also lost their cars forever.

After about two hours of drunk wandering, I finally found our car…about 3 spaces from where my brother passed out in the first place.

So I did the reasonable thing. I loaded his ass into the back seat, peed behind the back tire, and called our mom to take us home.

Because drinking around the world is no joke. It’s hard. Going in there unprepared is a bit like attempting to run the Boston Marathon after one spinning class.

You can’t just jump into that shit. Your body needs practice. You need to know if you’re ready

Here’s a test to help you decide;

  1. Have you ever drunk mouthwash after you ran out of beer?
    1. Yes
    2. No
  2. Do you consume more than four drinks a week?
    1. Yes
    2. No
  3. After a heavy night of drinking, have you ever woken up and used more alcohol as any ‘eye opener”?
    1. Yes
    2. No

Ok, so those questions? Copied off of a “do you need AA” website. If you answered all yesses, I’ve got good news and bad news. Bad news first; you’re probably an alcoholic.

Good news? You can totally handle drinking around the world.

Rock on Epcot, rock on.

 

 

 

 

 

How to Fix a Bike…From a Girl Who Knows Sh*t About Bikes

So recently, I decided to get my video game addicted son a bike. I had a deep-rooted fear of him spending his life sitting in front of a computer, typing away, his breath labored from the effort it took to just sit there, as he pounded beers and ignored his skin turning slightly green from a mixture of jaundice and lack of sunlight.

In short, I was afraid he was going to turn into me.

Now we Alrocs, we don’t do sports. We don’t do nature. We are an indoor, tech dependent bred.

No joke, my plan for zombie apocalypse? Suicide. I have no desire to live in a world with no air conditioning or microwavable burritos.   That, and a Kirk Cameron ‘pray away the gay’ camp are two perfect settings for my own individual hell.

So yeah, I decided to get Logan a bike, in the hopes that he might actually enjoy it. But as I lack a large SUV and any knowledge of bikes at all, I did what I always do. I ordered the bitch online with the intention of putting it together myself.

Surprisingly I can be pretty handy when it comes to tools. It comes with being a chick who hates leaving the house. Seriously, I get Christmas cards from my pizza boy. So I order everything online, some assembly required to avoid those outdoor trips. I figured that building a bike would be just as easy as many of the stationary things I’ve built in the past.

Turns out, shit gets a lot more complicated when you add wheels.

But I’m a determined chick with too much time on my hands, so I got it done. Now, let me share my knowledge with you.

Step # 1.

That owner’s manual, the one that’s filled with words that sound like you need an advanced degree in bike technology to understand (what the fuck is a valve stem neck shaft?)? Yeah, rip that bitch in half. Use one side as a coaster, and the other to roll yourself a nice fat joint*. You’re going to want to be high for this.

Step #2.

Chances are, the manual gave you a listing of tools you’ll need. That’s crap. You only need two tools.

Tool 1: Fingers

Tool 2: One of them metal L things that came included with the bedframe you ordered off Amazon six months ago.

Step #3.

Assemble everything in a way that looks bike like and start screwing. Ignore the ameneties.

Adjustable seat? Fuck that. Ten speeds? Completely unnecessary. When I was a kid, adjustable seat meant that your dad just wrapped the seat in extra duct tape, and bikes only had two speeds. Stop and go.

Step #4.

Cover bike in the tarp from your barbeque and let sit for three months.

Bike riding in a flat state is way harder than I remember bike riding being when I grew up in the white mountains of New Hampshire. Then again, I don’t think I ever pedaled in New Hampshire. I just went to the top of the hill and coasted.

As a result, the bike I assembled remains in pristine condition, after being ridden once and walked home. Which leads me to the final step in my guide to bike assembly.

Step #5.

Buy a bus pass.

 

 

 

*Please note you should not smoke the joint if the manual came from a foreign country, as lax regulation virtually guarantees that manual is made of equal parts asbestos and lead.

A few signs you’re not ready for a giant dog

The littleness of my dog makes me live in fear every time we go outside. I fear hawks mistaking her for a rabbit. I fear her getting her tiny dog legs stuck in a sewer grate. But most of all, I fear giant dogs thinking she’s a chew toy.

sophia

 

Now, I didn’t get a little dog because I have a preference for little dogs. I got a little dog because I don’t have the time, energy and resources to care for a big dog. As a responsible pet owner, I think the first step to that responsibility is recognizing your limitations when it comes to buying a pet.

And there are a fuckton of people out there who don’t take that first step.

So, in my ongoing crusade to help everyone do everything better all of the time, here are some signs that you can’t handle a big dog.

You live in a one bedroom apartment

If your dog takes up more than 25% of the square footage of your living space, you’ve gone too big. No joke people, that’s like putting a yacht into a swimming pool. Of course shit is going to get ripped up! The solution is not to compact his space even further by leaving him on your fucking porch all day while you’re at work. That’s just a dick move, not just to the dog, but to the neighbor next door who has to listen to him whimper all day.

I can’t handle that. I’m one of those assholes who cries at those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials.

The dog outweighs you by 100 pounds or more

I have a rule that I never date or own anything capable of kicking my ass in a fight. That’s a good rule as it saves me from regularly getting my ass kicked.

What can I say? I’m very annoying.

This morning I saw a tiny Asian woman trying to walk something that looked like a hybrid between a sheepdog and a moose. Only it didn’t look like she was walking him. It looked like the dog was flying a kite shaped like a small Asian woman. This bitch was flapping in the breeze, clinging to the leash for dear life as her dog dragged her down the street, running faster than the top speed of your average Prius.

This is not a good way to show your pet who the alpha is.

You’ve never owned anything that actually requires training

If you’re upgrading from a turtle to a Leonberger, you’re doing it wrong.

Look, I’m going to openly admit that my little dog, she’s not trained. Sure, she’s housebroken, but she ignores anything I tell her to do, begs for food, watches me pee, and regularly tries to have sex with my pillow.

But that’s no big deal because she weighs 9 pounds. Even though plan A failed, and she’s completely untrainable, I still have a plan B.

Pick her up.

That’s it. All I have to do to get her to stop doing what she’s doing is pick her up. This strategy works whether she’s tossing licentious looks at my body pillow, all the way to if I think she’s about to bite someone.

You can’t do that with a big dog.

So when we’re at the dog park, and you, for some inexplicable reason, have decided to let your untrained 170 pound Siberian Fucking Moosehound run wild, all your assurances in the world that “he doesn’t always listen, but he’s friendly!” mean shit to me when he’s sizing up my Sophia like she’s a god damn chew toy.

In short, if your big dog does not immediately stop what it’s doing when you say the words ‘sit’ or ‘stay’ it is your responsibility to society to keep them away from other people (and adorable little dogs — especially mine) until they do.

Recognize the fact that there have been 325 dog related fatalities in the US in the last ten years, and 350,000 people visit emergency rooms for dog bites annually. My point is that the vast majority of those owners whose dog attacked someone probably thought their dog was friendly too.

But then it wasn’t.

If you must have a dog, but don’t have even a remote understanding of training, go small. You never hear of a five pound Yorkie ripping someone’s throat out.  Sure, they might eat their owner’s face after they’re already dead, but there’s a difference.

But if you don’t want to go little, and choose to have a large dog, or a vicious breed, you have a responsibility to society to ensure that dog is trained. That is all there is to it.

I guess my point to this whole post is dogs aren’t god damn impulse buys. They’re not a keychain you can pick up at the convenience store and then return when they don’t suit you. They’re a major adjustment and that adjustment goes up with every single pound the dog gains. So before you head on out and get a giant dog, consider your limitations. Because that kind of responsibility weighs on you.

Literally.