I love my dog, but holy mother of buddha there must be something wrong because he’s letting some ungodly stink bombs fly, let me tell you. I think it’s time for professional intervention.

I’m talking the kind of bomb that forces you to your feet no matter what you’re doing (I’m talking even brain surgery or nuclear bomb defusing) so that you can kick down the door SWAT style and run outside screaming and waving your arms like a swarm of killer bees is chasing you.

I’m talking the kind of bomb that combined with open flame would cause a whump and then a lingering rain of shingles on the neighbors.

I’m talking the kind of bomb that kills cactus, the most hearty plant known to man.

Friend, that’s a lot of stank.

These stink bombs take twenty minutes to clear and causes the dog to become overly excited, wagging his tail and running around in tight circles, his back arched and his back legs passing his front legs, leaving a rooster tail of chopped lawn like a ocean racing cigarette boat. He’s excited because everyone is running around and opening doors, and he thinks he’s going on a car ride or walk, but the last thing you want it this mortar cannon following you around. So all you can do is run, and run, and run, and hope the wood floors will take him out (he spins out like a race car on a frozen lake), and you hope you can make it to the safe house, the oasis, the hermetically sealed escaped pod, but you hear the ffffsssssssssstt, and you yell “incoming”, dive head first into your foxhole, and grab that gas mask even though you know it’s too late for you, the bell has tolled for thee.

“ffffssssssssstttt!”