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Rescue Me

Well, the dirty bastards have really gone and topped the fucking lot this time. What am I on about? Fucking Tommy that's what. We take a nice little ride out into the country on the Bank Holiday Monday. Ace, nice walk down by the river, game of stick, bit of shit rolling, what could possibly go wrong I think (mistakenly). No siree, we are going to some fucking Rescue place or something they call it. Here we meet Tommy, who they say is a 2 year old Border Lakeland Terrier cross. Not only do we have the pleasure of meeting Tommy, we bring the fucking twat home with us. I couldn't fucking believe it. Two? More like two fucking months if you ask me, the brainless twat. Tommy then proceeds to rip all me fucking toys apart. My fucking toys. They're my toys for me to fucking rip apart. The knob-end. Talking of which, he keeps trying to fucking hump me as well. There I am, lying by the fire having a nice little pre-bedtime nap, and the next thing this fucking beast is all over me like Jimmy Savile backstage at the school nativity play. The dirty bastard. A rescue dog? It's me that wants fucking rescuing I can tell you. Which way is Brigg again?

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