First of all, just looking around in here, I can tell that I’m gonna need the 12-quart stock pot. It will run you about 600 bones, but I don’t want to hear it. Oh, don’t give me that look – I’ll have my sous chef wash out the pot.
Second, what’s with the beans? Don’t get me wrong, I’m brilliant, so I’ll be able to whip up something exquisite for your guests, but where’s the veg? Would something a little leafy in the pantry kill you? And don’t get me started on your electric cook top. I don’t know how you expect me to cook in these conditions.
Heeerrrrrre, birdie, birdie, birdie. At some point, you’re going to need a drink of this niiiice water I brought you. Maybe not in the next minute, maybe not in the next hour. But I’ve got alllllll day, boys, and you’re the only thing on my calendar.
Yeah, I don’t see a canary down there, so it looks like you’ll be OK. But again, that scenario typically applies to coal mines only, so I’d advise you to see a medical professional for a second opinion.
Willard and Wanda Worrywart were, perhaps predictably, two nervous nellies to be begin with. Willard often compulsively paced in circles, while Wanda fretted over the smallest disruptions.
But in recent days, the Worrywarts often found themselves on the verge of suffering full-blown panic attacks. Their mental states were deteriorating, and Willard was especially affected.
It was their new neighbor; he was bizarre, and frankly, terrifying. It was like living in an episode of the Twilight Zone.
They had no one to complain to, so they were forced to endure the daily harassment. Neither Willard nor Wanda knew how long they’d last. But they knew one thing for certain: When they woke up, he would be there.
Herbert recently lost his job as the household doorstop, so when The Dog offered him the opportunity, he couldn’t turn it down. You see, The Cat had recently upped his efforts to sabotage The Dog; and he suspected his Kibble was being poisoned in an attempt to be dethroned as man’s best friend. Frankly, Herbert felt bad for him, because let’s face it, The Dog was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Listen, Dog, I agreed to test your food, but do you have to hover over me like some kind drooly sweater?
I’m putting my neck on the line for you, the least you could’ve done was supply a step ladder.
I’m going to be honest with you: this crap you call food is so disgusting that I wouldn’t know if it was poisoned or not. Here’s an idea, maybe stop being so eager to please everyone and demand a real meal.
Take one step closer to me, Dog, and I’ll go straight to The Cat and tell him that you want to replace his kitty litter with Pop Rocks Candy.
Let me get this straight: You’re trying to offer me that…for this? Oh, honey. If you think I’m letting go of this anytime soon, then you might as well believe that Mensa is gonna be recruiting you. I mean, that’s like me offering you tofu for a Twinkie.
If I were you, I’d back the hell up. Because on top of being highly unpredictable, I’m, like, 8 feet tall and foaming at the mouth with Cheetos dust.
Next time, maybe you won’t offer him a cashew. But on the other hand, look at those adorably clawed prongs, Pea H.
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