#47 - "Sheriff Found" by Joyee Flynn

Whiny Cynanthropes And Clichéd Insipid-Tropes

(2.7/10)

by Peartree

(book requested by some reddit user)

Peartree's note: I know we've done erotica quite a bit in the past and it's such low hanging fruit it's spoiled on the ground, but this review was started months ago as it was a request outside of the normal betting scheme and had no timeline, so I planned on finishing it. Besides, this one has a shape shifting beagle in it. 

Editor's note: Pssshh, Peartree is one to talk when to comes to low-hanging fruits. Know what I'm saying? Yeeaaaahh you do. High-five, up here. Nice.

Shapeshifter mythology has been around for a long time. From neolithic cave drawings in the Pyrénées to parts of ancient literary works like The Epic Of Gilgamesh and The Iliad, from bad ass wizard duels in the 1960's (you can't fuck with Merlin, Madam Mim) to the wonderful allegorical retelling of the Book of Mormon, Twilight, it is almost universallly found in mythologies across the globe. So it only makes sense to infuse homoerotic novels with such lore. 

That being said, it is still a bit unsettling reading erotic sentences like this:

“Now, fuck your pup until I can’t walk for days and you have to carry me everywhere.”

Especially when you know it's a beagle pup getting his Harry Partch reamed by a six foot two beefcake with a sexual dominance fetish.

You may ask yourself 'Why a beagle?' and to that I answer it was the only logical choice for a shapeshifting 'sub' when you think about it. They are cute without being prissy like poodles, small but not chihuahua-small, excitable but not yappy like pomeranians, they aren't jerks like jack russells, ugly like english bull dogs or pugs, or 'mongoloid' like chow chows. So don't overthink it. Lord knows the author never did.

This story has a lot going for it: therianthropy, beagles, homosexual encounters. Pretty much something for everyone. Nonetheless, Flynn still somehow manages to miss the mark. I can accept that most readers aren't looking for a grand, developed plot with these kinds of books, but how about making the characters at least somewhat interesting and multidimensional.

On the the plot: Toby, our cutsie-wootsie cynanthrope, urinates on Randall, the sheriff of a small town. This marks him as his mate. Instantly, they are destined to be together for the rest of their lives. They begin to share each other's thoughts and feelings in a magical telepathic link, and Randall suddenly develops the "strength of twenty men" if he's trying to defend Toby.

Randall first gets a tingly feeling from his new beagle moments after Toby had pee'd on him. Well before he even knew this dog was a shapeshifter.

"He had a feeling this dog had wiggled into more than just his shirt."

What. the. fuck. The guy is so strung up on getting laid he's looking at dogs and having to actualize feelings of lust with himself. That's some fucked up foreshadowing. But thankfully we're solaced before things go too far into straight up bestiality.

"His sex life was bad, but not bad enough to push him into crazy world yet."

No, it's only after he sees Toby the beagle's "sweet little ass" that he can't help but be thrust into that world. Thrusted over and over and over again. For the next 72 pages, these two shoot off more man milk than Dan White, but once they finally get their Kermit Love out of their system, they get to the real meat of the story: the problem that forced Toby to come down from his pack in the mountains in the first place. 

Toby and his pack have some disease, I can't remember what it was but it was probably made up, like gonorrhea, and it's killing them. It has killed, sorry, a few members of his pack. He went down for help but found his mate Randall instead. He gets some medicine from a vet and they bang for a few days while others are still dying up in the mountains. Then they decide to go up there with a truck load of medicine for everyone. Toby paid for all the medicine because he is "very smart" and started a web design company by himself at the age of 22 or something and makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. He even has over half a million sitting in his bank account when we first meet him. Randall hit that jackpot hard with this one. Like, "kneeling on the bed with restraints and a bottle of lube" hard.

Once they get back to the village they find out the pack leader was stealing money from Toby for himself (he seemed to have just been keeping it and doing nothing with it) and they have to kick him out. And the book ends with them fleshing out a plan to guard the pack from other larger shapeshifting packs, getting the other members to quit cam whoring themselves for money, and the veterinarian, also a homosexual, getting banged by some sex crazed exhibitionist shapeshifter. All before Randall sinks into Toby's cinnamon star one final time, of course.

So that's the story, aside from some revisiting of Randall's orphaned childhood being beaten by foster parents and other such clichéd tropes. All in all I've read much worse. The thing that really gets this book down is the whiny -- fucking -- attitude of everyone. The first time they have a Herman Bang Toby declares his virgin love and says they'll be mates for life. That should set off some warning bells for ol' Randy, but instead he's excited by it.

"You’re saying I’m the only man who’s ever going to be in this sweet ass?”

Toby says "Yes" and talks about these books he's read on mating and how it's destiny and he starts to feel Randall's emotions and thoughts. Yet somehow Toby bitches out over everything Randall says and is convinced that he is going to leave him. Ejaculate prematurely and feel embarrassed? Turn into a dog and hide under the couch because you think your lover is disappointed and hates you. Tell him you love him after 24 hours and a few shit-fucks and he doesn't say it back? Turn into a dog and run away. God damn it you emotional train wreck Toby. Put away your Long John Baldry for a second and just talk about your insecurities.

Not that Randall is any better. He constantly needs to be protective and is jealous of the thought of anyone else even touching Toby's booty clam.

“Whose ass is this, Toby?”

“My ass,” I answered, glancing at him over my shoulder, completely confused. When I saw the feral look on his face as he raised an eyebrow at me, I caught on to his meaning. “Your ass, Randall. My ass belongs to you.”

I won't go on quoting but suffice to say it goes like this for the whole book. Maybe it's about a passion that I know nothing of so can't relate. Something which burns so deeply inside of you that it makes you irrational. Maybe that's why these books are so popular. So people can get away from their mediocre relationships and imagine a world where guys will throw caution to the wind and just fuck each other stupid and lose themselves in their lust. Personally that doesn't sound too appealing though. It's been my experience that when you lose yourself in lust you wake up with an Omega Mu and an empty bottle of whiskey. Next time I'm definitely trying out Randall's dirty talk though.

“You look even better with my cock in your mouth than I’d imagined.”

 - Peartree

#31 - "What if You Were a Horse in Human Form?" by Jason the Horse

If Wishes Were Horses

(7/10)

By Beau Dashington

(book chosen by Admiral Fartmore)

Editor's Note: What if all these bad books are great books in Piece-of-Shit form?

ATTENTION: To ensure you are in tune with the metaphysical nature of this review, please be sure to play this shamanistic chant as you begin your spiritual journey.

There’s a lot about this world that we simply don’t understand. The moon goes round the sun, a baby is born as if by magic, tide goes in tide goes out… The list of things that science can’t explain is endless. And in spite of the godless atheists trying to convince us otherwise, the spiritual among us know that there is something more to this old world of ours. This book tackles these issues head-on, and poses a question that those of us stuck in the rat-race rarely have time to ask: what if you were a horse and you didn’t realize it?

What if You Are a Horse in Human Form? is written by Jason the Horse, a man who woke up one day and realized he was a horse trapped in a human body. All of Jason’s life, he felt an odd connection to horses, until one day the truth dawned on him that he really was a horse after all.  As such, Jason realized he was forced to “come out of the stall” and tell his family that trapped inside this normal boy was a horse trying to come out. And after finally admitting to himself he was a horse, he was hot to trot.

If you Google Image Search "coming out of the stall", this is the first image you get.

But, I hear you asking, how did he know he was a horse? What about us? How would we know if we were actually horses? Jason the Horse gives us a few indicators to look for, including the following:

1. An ineffable but powerful knowing that one is a horse
2. Having trouble using your thumbs
3. Walking continuously on all fours
4. “Having a strange combination of medical conditions that, taken together, point to one’s being a horse.”
5. The feeling of having a “phantom tail” that you can never see
6. Finding yourself trying to canter
7. Getting an eerie feeling every time you visit “horse country”
8. Being “propositioned” by stallions or mares

So basically, if you act like a horse, then you might be one. Also, if other horses think you’re hot and they want fuck you, that’s a good sign. Well, it’s a good sign if you want to be a horse. If not, this might cause you some problems. But Jason the Horse isn’t all about horse fucking. Rest assured; this is not one of those books where the author fucks a wild beast. Jason the Horse’s love for horses is purely platonic and legit. He isn't here to horse around.

To explore his horsehood, Jason began working with Deborah (a human horse-psychologist). Through using ancient shamanistic rituals, they discovered that there were actually horse-humans all over the place, and that they were sent there by the Horse Ancestors. And why were they sent? The answer is, of course, “horse espionage”, or as I prefer; horse-pionage. But this is a good kind of horse-pionage, so don't be scared. Its perfectly innocent. The horses just want to know what we’re up to.

This is the bad kind of horse-pionage

According to Jason and Deborah, this is what you need if you want to get in touch with the Horse Ancestors: Firstly, get a crystal. Purple crystals work the best, for some reason that Jason and Deborah forgot to mention. Second, put on a “cassette tape of shamanistic chants.” Use the one above if you find yourself in the twenty-first century and don’t know where to get cassettes. Jason advises that you should “keep the mind centered on horse-imagery, horse-ideas, [and] horse-emotions.” Heed the advice of the Horse Ancestors and do as they say; don’t look your gift horse in the mouth. Trust in them, and you will run free like the stallions of old.

Like Jason, I too feel the pains of being surrounded by people who don’t understand and being trapped in a labyrinthine society of indifference. The simple life of a country work horse seems appealing compared to this 9-to-5 rat race. Is time for me to “come out of the stall” like Jason suggested? I think the answer is clear: yes.

So I decided to talk the bold walk (or trot) out of the stall. My first step was to contact my family and tell them the news. I emailed my mother and father.

My mother was the first to respond.

My father was confused but supportive.

The second step was to tell my friends; to go public and let the world know that I was discovering my inner horse-human. They weren't as accepting as my family after I announced publicly that I was a horse.

Of course, not everyone is receptive to people who are different. The road that we horse-humans must trot is a difficult one, strewn with potholes of ignorance that can break your horse-shoes of virtue. Some people, especially these former “friends,” are simply uneducated and ignorant about equine ways. But don’t let these nay-sayers get you down; because in this world there are many true neigh-sayers like me and Jason to support you on your canter to spiritual release.

Jason’s last message in the book finalizes for the reader Jason’s quest. He reveals that he has lost much of his family, and that he is burdened by disability. Life sucks sometimes. Our bodies break and hold us back, those we care about disappoint or die, and the world itself seems callous and indifferent. And if, for Jason, deciding to be a horse every now and then makes the existential pain of life go away for a while, then who the fuck am I to say he is wrong?

As Jason says, “We horses have our work cut out for us, but we do not struggle alone, for the Horse Ancestors watch over us and guide us. “

Neigh-men, brother. Neigh-men.

Beau the Horse

11-04-2015

#26 - "A Street Cat Named Bob: How One Man and His Cat Found Hope on The Streets" by James Bowen and Garry Jenkins

A Cash-grab Named Bob

(3/10)

By Admiral Fartmore

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note: I can't think of a half-decent pun about the word 'pussy', so lets just pretend I did. Something along the lines of "that homeless guy sure has a nice pussy" or "maybe the author wouldn't be homeless if they sold their pussy" or something like that.

I cry very easily when it comes to sentimentalist bullshit. I don’t really know why, because I’m not especially teary at weddings or funerals or any other significantly emotion real-life event - but if you put on a Thai insurance commercial, I’ll be weeping in minutes.  I know better, but I can’t help myself: the cheaper the story is, the harder it gets me. And so when my eyes welled up about halfway through “A Street Cat named Bob,” I knew I had a real piece of shit on my hands.

A Street Cat Named Bob is the biographical story of former heroin addict James Bowen, who adopted a stray cat while going through a recovery program. The book begins with Bowen working as a busker and going through methadone treatment, when he finds a cat (Bob) outside of his apartment. From that point onward, Bowen’s life gradually improves as he completes the recovery program, learns responsibility through caring for Bob, reconnects with his family, and gets lots of attention for taking a cute cat on leash with him wherever he goes. During this period, the cat gains mild internet celebrity. As a result, Bowen is approached by a publisher who thinks that his story could sell very well. The end.

And sell very well it did.

I will start by saying that Bowen’s full recovery from his heroin addiction is admirable. I dunno if you’ve heard, but it is not an easy thing to do. He also seems like a fairly responsible pet owner. I respect him for that. I am glad he has found success.

But I have a hard time really having much respect for this book. It’s awkwardly-written, shallow, and far too long – even at 170 pages. Routine trips to the vet take up dozens of pages, as does Bowen’s constant speculation on “where Bob came from” or “what kind of life he had before we met” (which, by the way, all builds up to absolutely nothing. You never find out where Bob came from.) There is no real suspense, no challenges, and hardly any character growth or meaningful self-reflection. Bowen repeats himself a lot, mostly with mundane filler. If you were to cleave out about 80% of the book and have the remainder rewritten as a short story, this could probably be an interesting main piece in a magazine, but in its current form it just drags and drags and drags.

Bob, like other cats, is cute.

As for Bob himself, he’s a cat and cats are cute. I like cats, I’ve lived with literally dozens. I'm not some animal hater like Peartree. But I don’t think there’s anything particularly special about Bob. He’s very close with his owner, which is sweet, but it’s not like he went to space or something. But the love for this cat is crazy.

After reading this, I’m mostly frustrated with the publisher and co-author Garry Jenkins, who I’m willing to bet had most of the creative control over this project. The accounts of life on the streets are simplistic and censored, like a children’s version of Oliver Twist. Despite Bowen’s recovery from a heroin addiction ostensibly being one of the central story arcs, its use is hardly mentioned. The same goes for the methadone which he used while undergoing treatment. Bowen is a heavy smoker in real life, but the book doesn't make one reference to his smoking. Only bad guys swear, and the words are actually starred out (are you f****** kidding me?) Bowen's run-ins with the law are ambiguous and absolve his character of all guilt or wrongdoing. All in all, the whole thing just really feels like it’s pandering to an audience that wants a feel-good book with a cute cat in it.

What frustrates me most about this is how it seems to mirror one of the main challenges Bowen faced while living on the street: people were repulsed by his lifestyle, and most of the public preferred to pretend that he did not exist. It’s oddly fitting that in his account of those times, so much information is censored for the sake of making the story digestible for people that buy books at grocery stores. While professing to break down stigmas, the book helps reaffirm them by reminding us that we just shouldn't talk about some things. It’s a window into a heroin addict’s life, sure, but it’s been tinted rose so that you don’t hurt your eyes.

But this book is a beloved best seller, and I guess I’m in the minority for disliking it. So in the interest of providing a fair and balanced report, I've decided to also lend a voice to some people who really enjoyed the book. Here are some quotes from 5-star Amazon reviews:

“I purchased this book after seeing a short about Bob on Icanhazcheesburger.”

- Binkz85

 “Sometimes you get the feeling that you are going thru this life by yourself and no one gets it. Nice to know...Someone gets it. Kinda funny it's a Cat.“

- SD Gillespie

“A great light read. No sad part or ending. Distracting from the ills of the day.”

- Curtis Ewing

“I checked this book out at our library when I saw the picture of the cat on the cover”

- Letta Meinen

“Unputdownable”

- Muse of Time and Science

So there you are. If you frequent "icanhazcheesburger" and are looking for an unputdownable light read with no sad parts and a picture of a cat on the cover, "A Street Cat Named Bob" is for you. And if you are curious about what part of the book made me cry, it was the part where Bowen reconnects with his mother and she breaks down and says everything was her fault. The maternal love and self-sacrifice just got to me. The fact that she was willing to take all the blame despite not writing one word of this Piece of Shit - it was moving. Incredible.

#25. "The Dog Who Couldn't Stop Loving: How Dogs Have Captured Our Hearts For Thousands Of Years" by Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson

Anthropomorphic Conceit -- Or, All Dogs Are Retards.

(2.23/10)

By Peartree

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Editor's Note:  When dogs get boners the dink looks all pink and weird. If you poke it with a stick it will shrivel back into the body.

"If you believe as I do—that Benji represents a certain kind of mutation, and that he is pure love—then this is merely one more expression of that most delightful of genetic mishaps: a creature entirely benign and wishing only to express the immense love he feels inside."

Imagine, if you will, a race of super intelligent extraterrestrials. They come to earth and realise we could be useful to them in some way, some menial task they could do themselves but are lazy. We fight their oppression for a while so instead they just kidnap thousands of our infant children and take them back to their home world.

They raise the humans to be obedient and find that their own alien children are rather fond of these dumb wild beasts. So they start selective breeding. At first simply making us more docile. But over generations they realise they like the features of one such human more than another so start focusing in on more and more birth defects they find endearing. Fast forward 40,000 years and the humans on that planet are no closer to us than the aliens themselves. They've been bred by specific characteristics which make us unsuitable for our original purpose but are now 'adorable' in their eyes. Extreme achondroplasia, hydrocephalus/microcephaly, brachycephaly, hypertrichosis, achromia, progeria, or maybe they've even been able to keep anencephalic humans alive, or any number of defects, but most importantly neoteny has been taken to the extreme and they are unable to develop the mental capacities past that of a seven year old. All of the cognitive abilities which give us our spirit to do more is lost. They are content, and as such cannot fathom any world beyond the one they've grown into. They love their masters unconditionally.

And over the course of that 40,000 years the aliens themselves have unexpectedly evolved with their human pets. By just being around the human spirit, no matter how stunted, they have evolved to be more loving, more hopeful, more empathetic. The aliens never knew of love before. Had never experienced a companionship unbridled with a pure sense of adoration. Never felt an intimacy and devotion void of conditions and stipulations. 

'But Peartree', you object, 'humans are monsters. They are the only species in existence known for atrocities such as war and genocide'. Yes, this is true I admit. But no 'retarded' person ever wanted a war (with the possible exception of Feodor I of Russia in the Russo-Swedish War of 1590-95) and that's what these neo-human-pets have invariably come to be, 'retards'. The aliens now see these poor, broken humans as creatures who only love because they are too stupid to comprehend their own lamentable existence.

This is what Masson is asserting in his book. That dogs, once domesticated, domesticated us and gave us the ability to feel empathy for all other species and beings -- "Without the wolf, would we have become a different species? I think it is very likely". That we never felt these emotions, truly, before dogs entered our lives. Because sure, it's not like dogs were ever seen as unclean and rejected from any society.... He even states "I would go so far as to suggest that we are no longer two entirely separate species. There is a sense in which we have merged."

Almost all of his ideas are represented by personal accounts of his own dog Benjy, who couldn't stop loving obviously. The flowery, nauseating prose ("the only thing dogs steal is our hearts") he uses to describe his own love of dogs is cut short before, what I can only surmise would be to follow, his interspecies boudoir episodes. But the amount of times the term 'dog love' is used in this book makes me doubt his abstention in confusing lust and love -- "Dog love is unlike that of any other species—even that of humans."

But I suppose Masson would be OK in my imagined scenario though, because he certainly finds the best in situations -- "many people misunderstand neoteny, even animal behavior specialists." True. Animal behavior specialists are fucking stupid yo. I mean who spends years getting a degree in animal behavior? Masson certainly didn't. And neither did I. But I didn't write a book about it. I had the decency to just write a shitty review on a blog which isn't charging anyone to read my nonsense. So quit having sexual relations with animals and show some decorum to your readers Masson, start spouting off your codswallop for free.

- Peartee

PS. There seems to be a pattern in which I write reviews about books based on dogs while drunk so I come off a bit more irritable. I do like dogs... but the way these people write about them is fucking asinine.

#6: "Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover" by Malcom J. Brenner

So Long, And Thanks for All the Fucks (2/10)

by Admiral Fartmore

(book selected by WildCard)

Editors Note: I feel it important to state for the record that I did not complete this book review before the deadline, and as such, I'll be forced to buy dinner for Beau Dashington, Peartree and LoganLodez. Why did I join this god damn club?

Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover is the semi-fictitious memoir of a man who fucked a dolphin. It chronicles Malcom J. Brenner’s experience working as a photographer at a dolphin exhibit, a period during which he manages to fall in love with – and fuck – one of the show dolphins. In addition to the dolphin banging, the book also details Brenner’s difficulty maintaining relationships with female humans, his far-out­ experiences getting stoned and transcending the physical plane, and finally, his academic rejection by the scientists who are ethical enough to study dolphins without fucking them. There’s also a shower scene where he reminisces about fucking his parent’s poodle when he was 13. I don't know.

The book opens with an always-promising apology its his poor-quality writing. “I am sure that almost anybody could write a better novel than this,” Brenner states, and I am inclined to agree with him. It’s a curious thing that he chose to apologize for his writing rather than for fucking a caged animal, but after suffering through 350 pages of his rambling, I’m honestly not sure which was Brenner’s worse crime. Sentences like this: “I was the smoked turkey in a student hoagie, eleven layers of meat and cheesiness sandwiched in a crunchy old station wagon, marijuana mayo, hold the onion, rumbling down Orange Avenue toward the Gulf Beaches of Siesta Key” made me wish he’d just hurry up and get to the dolphin-banging part - until he did.

And so the majority of the book is simply a nostalgic, burnt-out old fuck trying to wax poetic paragraph, Brenner details rolling up a joint on the beach as such: “And suddenly – I was [watching a nature documentary]! My hands became alien arachnoid appendages, grotesque white crabs going about their business, detached from the mind observing them. That mind didn’t speak, but it was keen, and if its thoughts could have been put into words…” blah blah blah, weed is pretty far out, dig it, man? The book is basically a case-in-point for why the revelations you have while tripping balls do not a good story make.

This brings me to the next major portion of the book - Brenner’s attempts to rationalize and justify his fucking of a dolphin. He feigns innocence by claiming that the dolphin came on to him, and spends way too much time describing how exactly the dolphin would do so. But the fact that a caged creature, separated from its normal social structures and trained by humans to be affectionate in exchange for fish, may get confused and aroused when its captors play with it doesn’t really justify fucking the thing, does it? Isn’t this justification at best hopelessly cynical and at worst pure evil?

No, you idiot, because the dolphin could communicate with Brenner telepathically. On many nights during his tenure at the aquarium, Brenner would go home, get stoned and naked, and then jerk off while pretending to be a dolphin. During these episodes, the dolphin would enter Brenner’s mind and speak with him – professing love, teaching him about dolphins and learning about humanity. It was only after several mind-sexting sessions that Brenner finally decided he should go fuck the dolphin in person. I couldn’t find telepathy listed as a form of consent under any legal system anywhere in the world, but whatever. Classic case of The Man keeping us down.

Brenner also spends a lot of time taking pot-shots at researchers for rejecting his story as bullshit. It seems that interspecies telepathic communication and plane-transcending love is not a priority for cetologists, or biologists, or anyone, really. And this is where the book gets really depressing, because at the end of the day it’s the tale of a lonely dolphin-fucker who believes in magic. But magic doesn’t exist, and I really wish this book didn’t either.

Admiral Fartmore

09/10/2014

#4: "You Had Me A Woof" by Julie Klam

I Guess I'm Not A Dog Person (1/10)

by Peartree

(book chosen by Beau Dashington)

Lesson One: How to push your neurosis and selfish needs onto your dog. Have a dream about a dog and go out and get one. Take a week off of work to help it adjust to it’s new home. Change careers so you can avoid dealing with your separation anxiety and spend all of your time with it. Keep the dogs you were supposed to foster for only a couple of weeks at a time, even though you do not have the space or the time to take care of them all. But don’t forget to whine about all the extra effort involved. Rename dogs you are only caring for a week at a time because you don’t feel the name suits it or feel it doesn't respond to the name. Get a new dog if yours dies even if you are eight months pregnant and your family, friends, and veterinarian says it isn't a good idea. Lesson Two: How to give into your dog’s every whim and never attempt to train it. Give your dog a buffet of sliced deli meats, yogurt, and cheese in place of dog kibble. Order larger servings at restaurants and let it sit at the table ignoring the ‘snide looks’ of passer-byers. If he has a tummy ache treat it with Pepto-Bismol. Be surprised when your beloved pet dies suddenly and at a much younger age than is normal for the breed. Allow your dog to bite other people and dogs. Rationalize that your dog was provoked and it is not their fault. Do not attempt to train your dog but instead speak to it as if they understood the English language as well as a postgraduate literature student. Please note this will only work if you have spend the necessary $500 on a weekend course at a retreat in up state New York about communicating with animals. ‘Obedience classes’ is a term you are unfamiliar with. Let your dogs go to the bathroom indoors and then simply accept it. Lesson Three: How to learn about emotional growth from your dog. I have no clue. It was supposed to be the premise of the book but it never really came up... Lesson Four: How to feed your self-absorbed contemptuous ego. Volunteer with an organization which gives you a very small amount of power, such as inspect the homes of hopeful pet adopters. It is ok if you have no training or certification. Criticize those who, although have a better home set up to accommodate pets, are just not what you feel are the best fit. Allow yourself to be known as the dog expert to your friends and family even if you only know about your own pets and have never actually researched other breeds. Give advice to those looking for a new pet but see that they are not true ‘dog people’ and accept that they will probably get rid of it and drop it off at the pound eventually, or let it get run over by a car. But it will be negligence when it happens to their dog, not an accident like yours. Lesson Five: How to write a piece of shit book. Do not have any idea about a central theme. Start chapters with lessons which have nothing to do with story in the chapter. Go off on long anecdotes but never conclude them with how they are relevant to anything you have written. Write up a laundry list of events and descriptions of pets for no reason. Forget about pacing. Tell of how strongly a dog influenced your life (but don’t go into how) then jump to him being dead, you being married, pregnant, and have a new dog. Complain a lot, but not in a funny way, just slightly depressed and defeated. Most importantly make sure to make stupid and illogical choices throughout your life using the most moronic reasoning your vacuous fucking brain could muster up so you can unremittingly irritate your readers.