So motherfucking Paul the Octopus went a perfect 8 for 8 in the World Cup. 8 for 8 with his cephalopod Mortal Locks. Meena the Green Parakeet was flying all over the place picking the winner of the championship game. Meanwhile I flushed like $500 down the toilet trying to bet on soccer because you know who’s too goddam stupid? My dog. I’m hanging all sorts of flags all over the apartment and asking him shit like “hey Jax, if the Spaniards are gonna win go eat that bowl of paella and if the Netherlands is gonna win, I dunno, rip ass and Dutch oven me or something.” You know what that little fucker did? Nothing.
Just go ahead and lay there like the horrible gambling dog you’ve been for the first fifteen years of your life. Just sleep for 20 hours a day and then eat and lick your dick and go back to sleep. Don’t worry about pulling your weight around this joint. Like maybe take some pride in yourself as a canine? Paul the Octopus just made his owner like a zillion dollars. M.C. Mohan is probably rolling in the dough because his parakeet knows whats up. But your Master Jon is probably gonna have to pick up a night shift at the 7-11 because you kept all your soccer tips to yourself. Man’s best friend my ass.
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