This time last year I received a mysteriously damp letter from a woman named Matilda claiming that I had inherited a female dog breeding business in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky. Evidently, my distant cousin Sue-Anne had passed away after a botched tattoo job that November. On her deathbed, while the wound from her Chris Meloni tattoo was oozing blood, she muttered the name “Sophia.” The will executor, Matilda, who walked in right when my name was mentioned, jotted down Sue-Anne’s final words on a Moleskine notebook and wrote me a letter.
Initially I was lost. Everything I knew about Sue-Anne was from brief conversations at family get-togethers and concerning Facebook posts urging the “Liberal Hollyweirds” to “surgically remove the sticks from their asses” through a procedure she called “CPAC Asscrack Reconstruction.” In summary, she seemed like a wacky character, so you can imagine how puzzled I was when I learned from Matilda’s letter that I now owned “Sue-Anne’s Lady Dog Barn.”
Here’s what I found out later: Sue-Anne was watching Bridge to Terabithia as she was fading into the light and Matilda walked in right when Sue-Anne was saying the second half of AnnaSophia Robb’s name. Do you see how our girl Matilda could have been confused? Still, my name was on the will and I had a job to do.
I wasn’t immediately on board with the idea of ditching everything to carry on Sue-Anne’s legacy. I know, it’s hard to believe. You see, two days before I received the letter, I was granted admission into the prestigious Hamburger University in Chicago. I was ready to pursue my dream of managing the HPV distribution center that is my local McDonald’s. It wasn’t until my therapist/dentist, Clyde Hannigan, urged me to take on Sue-Anne’s work that I considered shifting career paths. I’d later learn that Clyde and Sue-Anne had an affair in 1978 that involved a lot of aerial sex stuff. Supposedly carnal pleasure was the only thing Sue-Anne liked more than Chris Meloni and female dogs. This explains why I receive a happy ending whenever I visit the dentist. Clyde you dirty, dirty dog!
Before I knew it, I was on the phone with Hamburger University apologizing for dropping out before I could even enroll. They were distraught because my gpa was the highest they had ever seen. The registrar actually quit over the phone after she heard about my situation. I hope you’re absolutely killing it at your new gig, girlfriend! I can’t think of a more qualified person to be the bathroom monitor at Whataburger! Sending you love and light!
Anyway, I packed my bags, hugged Clyde Hannigan goodbye, and drove to Kentucky in my 2004 Ford Taurus—the dolphin of cars. I was ready to revive my cousin’s bitch business.
When I arrived in Kentucky I was met with a dilapidated farm and a basement filled to the brim with perfectly-groomed female barbets, a medium-sized French water dog used for hunting waterfowl, but I don’t have to tell you all that! Boobsa Winterberg, Sue-Anne’s farm hand, was also on the property. She lived in the outhouse and until I got there, was only allowed to visit the dogs at night for “story time.” Boobsa is bilingual, meaning that she’s bisexual and speaks sometimes. This fact is not important to the story, but I felt like sharing her story. Boy, am I bonkers for Boobsa! She’s so mysterious and quiet!
After dedicating three weeks to repairing and revamping the farm, I was finally able to reopen for business…or at least I thought I was. You see, reader, in order to make more female dogs, you need some male dogs. I didn’t know this until Boobsa pulled up a very concerning Wikipedia page for dog sex. No wonder Sue-Anne’s business was failing when she was alive, she was inadvertently running a dog brothel without male visitors! She didn’t have the resources to make any new female dogs! All the basement barbets were old hags! Ah!
And so I did what I needed to do. I interviewed a few qualified candidates (male barbets) for the position of “resident sex god.” After a series of conversations, I was able to narrow the pool down to five candidates. I hired them all, would you believe it? I hope you believe it because I just wrote it down and everything on the internet is true.
Soon enough, I had hundreds of female baby barbets running around the farm. Gee whiz, those guys could fuck! They really understood the assignment.
Business was booming, Boobsa and I shared a weird moonlight kiss, and Clyde came down to purchase a female barbet of his own. He joined in with Boobsa and I one night and it was extremely unsatisfactory. He named his new dog Sue-Anne, which is a little weird, but I didn’t question it because I’m a NPC.
Today, as I sit on my new porch smoking some herb (tarragon), I’m surrounded by thousands of bitches. Sure, it’s not the splendor derived from a place like Hamburger University, but it’s an honest living. I’m making upwards of 5 million dollars a year because these dogs cost the same as a Tesla, and I’m less problematic than Elon Musk so choosing between the two is an easy decision for my customers.
Anyway, rest in peace, Sue-Anne! If all dogs go to heaven, I hope you’re up there with some bitches. Or hell! Wherever God sent you! ❤️
XOXO, Boobsa and Me!
P.S. Clyde misses your touch…