Alright, now, a lot of you already know this,
but when I was a kid,
I got attacked by my neighbor's gigantic Rottweiler.
And it was a pretty traumatizing experience, I have to say.
I mean, one minute you're sitting there and watching Rush Hour on VHS,
and the next minute you're getting manhandled
by a 130-pound German Rottweiler.
It's a memory, that sticks with you throughout your life.
You definitely don't forget it.
But you see, my wife doesn't care about any of my past dog trauma,
or the nightmares that I have.
Or my Vietnam flashbacks of Rottweilers in the trees.
No.
She said, "To hell with all that!"
And adopted our very own Rottweiler, named Otis.
And this is what Otis looks like.
Or excuse me, this is what he used to look like a yeah ago.
But now he's big as hell.
I mean, look at him, he's the size of goddamn seventh-grader.
Jesus Christ.
Now, I have to say, there's a few drawbacks in having a dog that size.
For one, Otis doesn't even realize how big he is.
His 110-pound ass thinks that he can just jump up in your lap still.
"Get your ass down, you're murdering my wife!
Stop it!"
And for two, it's hard to get your Amazon packages delivered,
because every delivery driver is intimidated by his big ass.
"Holy hell, look at the triceps on that dog!
Oh, here you go!
(Glass shatters)
I didn't sign up to hand deliver packages to fucking Cujo!
Now you would think, that Otis would make a pretty good Guard dog,
but the truth is,
Otis is a big old 110-pound wuss.
I mean, the dog is afraid of limes, for Christ's sake.
He hates them, he can't stand the sight of them.
What kind of guard dog is afraid of a fucking fruit?
Look at him running away from it, like it's the goddamn Grim Reaper.
I mean, sure, he likes to pretend to be tough,
when he barks, it's kind of scary.
But God forbid you bark back at him,
"
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"RR
"RRR
"RRRA
"RRRAA
"RRRAAA
"RRRAAAA
"RRRAAAAA
"RRRAAAAAA
"RRRAAAAAAA
"RRRAAAAAAAA
"RRRAAAAAAAAA
"RRRAAAAAAAAAH
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHH
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHHHH
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHH
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!
"RRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
Wow, how scary!
So how am I supposed to believe that Otis is gonna protect us,
when, God forbid, somebody breaks into our house?
Hell, I'm sure they can just give his ass a pack of hotdogs,
and he'd just tap dance his ass right outside the room.
It wouldn't matter, who was breaking into our house,
it could be the Devil himself, holding the goddamn bloody sickle.
And Otis would be like,
"Hey, hey you, you wanna pet me? I'm a dog."
"Uh, actually, I was here to murder your entire family."
"Oh, okay, come on in! I'll show you to their bedroom!"
(Whistling)
Otis' ass isn't gonna bit anybody.
Hell, if anything, his ass is more of a threat than his teeth are.
Because this dog farts like a fucking stepdad, I'll tell you what.
You'd be sitting on a couch, and all of a sudden,
(Pfrrt!)
"What the hell was that?!"
"I don't know, why does it smell like a burnt hot pocket, dipped in gasoline?"
(Pfrrt!)
"Oh, God damn it, it's the dog!"
"Otis, would you please control that loose asshole of yours?"
(Pfrrt!)
Hell, he'd be a better guard dog,
if he used his ass as a weapon instead.
"I'll do it, I'll make the smelly stuff come out!
I'll do it, I swear to God!"
Now, all of this would come to a head late one night,
when me and my wife are watching TV.
And we were watching some show about people doing a mock break-in
just to see if their dog would react and save them.
"Special report,
would your mean-ass Dalmatian jump in and save you,
when the shit hits the fan?
Find out after these messages!"
"I bet Otis would protect me,
'cause he's Mama's babyyyy!"
"That's right, I'm mean,
I'm a mean big bad boy!"
So naturally, we get the brilliant idea
to try this little experiment ourself!
You know, see if Otis really has our back or not.
So I'm outside in the dark with a ski mask on,
ready to break into my own house, like an idiot.
I have to say, I'm a little nervous.
I mean, there is still a chance that Otis was gonna snap
and I get mauled by a Rottweiler for the second time in my life.
Then what am I gonna do?
Hell, I don't even have a fucking lime wedge to protect myself.
So I burst into my living room,
and do my best murderer impersonation.
"HA! I'M A MURDERER, I'M GONNA MURDER MY WIFE!
Or... I mean, this woman on the couch."
And it takes Otis all but 2.5 seconds to be like,
"Ah, to hell with this! I'm getting the hell out of here!"
And he bolts out of the fucking living room, like the house is on fire,
leaving my wife to certain death.
Now, we took a video of what happened that night,
but it happened so quick, I'm gonna have to play it in slow motion.
So here we have Otis, the big bad mean Rottweiler,
and here I am, playing the robber/murderer,
boom, just like that!
Otis leaps forward and he's looking mean as hell,
maybe there's hope for him yet.
But then, all of a sudden,
boink, nope, not today, bye!
"Cya later, have fun getting murdered!
I'm getting the fuck out of here!"
And if that's not enough,
the entire time Otis is running for his life,
he's shitting on the carpet.
(Plop - plop - plop - plop!)
When everything's all said and done,
there's an entire shit trail throughout the whole house.
Oh my God, we literally scared the shit out of our dog.
So now we feel like assholes,
because we didn't mean to traumatize the poor dog,
I mean, hell, I thought I was gonna be the nervous one in this whole situation.
Had I known it was gonna be this shit show fiasco,
we would have never tried this thing in the first place.
So clearly, the conclusion to this little experiment
is that Otis is not a guard dog.
And even though he abandoned my wife and left her for dead,
we got him an ice cream cone to say that we're sorry.
The end.
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