Dear humans of Portland,
As the elected ambassador for the city’s dog population, let me state our position as plainly as possible: You are fucking killing us with your fireworks.
Walk a mile on our paws: On a normal day, your time would be spent begging for food, napping on an ottoman, and licking your genitals. But today something is different: The family leaves the house without warning, and as darkness falls, there is a brief silence... before World War Fucking III breaks out.
Explosions pierce your highly attuned eardrums. Burning, rancid smoke permeates your nostrils. The high-pitched whistling of rockets flies past your window. And you? You are alone—frantically trying to take cover beneath a mid-century-style IKEA sideboard. You cry, shake uncontrollably, and beg for a quick, merciful death.
THE FEAR IS SO INTENSE, EVEN GENITALIA LICKING OFFERS LITTLE SOLACE.
Oh sure, the humans act upset when they return home to find you in this humiliated state... but that doesn’t stop them from conveniently repeating this patriotic PET CRIME year after year!
So... yeah, dummy. Your fucking stupid fireworks are fucking killing us. But instead of lodging futile complaints, here’s what’s going to happen this July 4.
If we’re once again forced to face this apocalypse alone, expect the following acts of retribution: shitting on your duvet. Eviscerating a 12-pack of Charmin bath tissue. Scooting our asses across your Snuggle-Pedic Ultra Luxury Bamboo Shredded Memory Foam pillow. Tipping over your stupid craft brewing project. Smothering the cat. Regurgitating into your underwear drawer. Seeking out and destroying your first-edition vinyl copy of The Velvet Underground & Nico. Emptying and scattering the contents of every cereal box in the house. Urinating in your TOMS. Feasting on your leftovers from Tasty n Alder—and then, once again, shitting on your duvet.
We did not ask for this war. You brought the war to us. So stop killing us with your fucking fireworks. We’re not circling twice and lying down for it any more.