The Sweet Science of Boxers

Beck is puppy-sitting his sister’s boxer. I laughed right out loud reading his first morning:

Let me only say that I am far from accustomed to waking up to a three year-old eighty-pound Boxer jumping-ass up in my bed and whining in my face. The horrible beast.

Hilarious.

Look; I really have nothing against this animal. She’s really not bad at heart, at all. I just don’t understand why she has to be so… enthusiastic about everydamned thing. She hasn’t been taught how to be cool yet.

(emphasis his)

I have bad news for Uncle Billy. Boxers aren’t cool. They love life with unbridled passion. When you walk out to get the mail and come back, you will be greeted as if you were a long-lost brother. Every moment for them is TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!

I try to live that way, to make every moment TFA. Fortunately, for the sake of productivity, I’m still not flexible enough to lick my own balls.

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