I believe it's time to babble. I'm sick of morning breath. There isn't much that tops the overwhelming sensation of cat feces that seems to protrude into my mouth every morning. And worse yet, don't try kissing me when you wake up feeling frisky. As if my own stench isn't enough, I don't need some skank with tongue herpes wanting to toss some of her throat farts my way. Go brush or smoke a menthol, then come talk to me. The other day, I actually started getting pissed at my dog because I thought she was hovering over me, panting in my face. You see, like most dogs, mine has no qualms with throwing her cute little muzzle into some litter box and scarfing down on some apparently bodacious cat turds. Well, as it turns out, Roxie was no where near me. I was actually catching the echo of my own breath bouncing off my pillow. Yuck. Poor dog. I was actually ready to deliver a karate chop to my dog in hopes of giving Roxie her very own JCVD knot. Fans of martial arts movies will know what I'm talking about. That huge tumor on Jean-Claude Van Damme's forehead? Yes, THE very one. I offered an apology. She gladly accepted. Why wouldn't she? If not for me, she would still have worms crawling in her poop. I'm sure she appreciates that little extra effort I put in. Like the time I laughed when Dusty got mad because she took a peepee on his sneaker. "Yeah, don't punish her or anything." Sorry, dude. You shouldn't have put your foot where she was wanting to spill lemonade. I'm sure she didn't mean to interrupt the epic beer pong match that was occuring at the moment. Give her a break. If she had thumbs, I bet she would let herself out to go drop a deuce in my mexican neighbor's yard. Hopefully she would be polite enough to say "Gracias" once she got it pinched off. I love my dog.