The Talking Dug

A dug's for Christmas, not just for its wise life advice. That's what they always say. Don't marginalise your dug on Christmas Day just because you don't need its advice anymore. Respect the talking dug. Make it part of the family ya swine. This dog got no Turkey. No perfectly wrapped gifts waiting under the table for our wise wee crusader. Fuck all but half baked promises and shoulder shrugging. The dug was fucking done with it. Why should you care about anything when the humans who monopolise yer food intake cant even be bothered giving you a formal name. Condemned as "the dug" forever.

"Ye believe that? Fuck all for christmas again, aw that advice I gied the cunt about taking oot a second mortgage and getting the roughcasting done tae raise the property's value before the upcoming fluctuation in the market, and this is how I'm repaid? But that braindead spawn of theirs does nuhin but shite aw err the hoose, and the wee cunt gets a mountain bike" at this point dug was sounding off, but his pal Myrtle the turtle couldnae be arsed.

"Yer sposed tae be a talking dug mate, no a fuckin blethering dug, wantae weesht?" Myrtle was not amused.

Dug was in nae mood for simmering.

"No I most certainly will not weesht, I am a talking dug, and rare thing in this day and age, and I deserve to be heard. I deserve at least my ain wee bowl full of gravy, wae a single roast tottie in the middle, or whit exactly am I fighting for?"

Exactly mate. That's the question ye need tae ask yerself at the end of the day, if that talking dug isnae getting fussed over on christmas day, then does it really matter if you didnae get the gifts you wanted in the end? Is your Uncle Jim going for a nap in your room, preventing ye from playing Halo 16 on the PS9 or whitever the fuck the score is in the future. As bleak as your festive future might be, ye'll never have it as bad as the talking dug who disnae see even one single sausage. Not a link in his future.

If yer Uncle Jim insists on going for a Christmas Day nap, usher him towards that weird corner behind the door in yer kitchen that nobody ever ventures towards, smile and tell him the wee door stopper thing is a new age springy pillow ye bought, where the comfortable part is fully invisible. Still feel bad that you had to lie initially to have your ultimate goal met? Thats fine. The guilt you have over that will never match the guilt the Fraser family (natives of Arbroathshire...not a real shire) had towards never appreciating your talking dog enough, and having to deal with the pain of him moving away and never wanting to speak you you again.

Moral of this story? Don't let yer Uncle Jim come the cunt. Christmas Day disnae mean ye just sleep everywhere. Up and at em Jimbo.