You know how it works: you’re famous. Everyone wants to know if you wear underwear or not. You’re often climbing out of cars and staggering toward red carpets and – more often than one would ever imagine considering the circumstances of your life – you’re very infrequently wearing panties. This isn’t your fault. You were too busy rolling around on a bed covered in money and getting high on cocaine to worry about such mundane things as putting on some skivvies.

This is all understandable.

Sometimes it honestly feels like this.

What I don’t understand is the dog paparazzi who plague my dog: the Japanese, the French, the Brits, the Southerners, the Indian girl I was almost kind of hoping he’d bite… The whole lot of them can kiss my ass.

I’m glad you like dogs. That’s fantastic. You’re obviously a super person, and I wish you great happiness and abundant success. But is it really necessary that you approach my dog without even glancing at the lady holding the leash and proceed to love on him for five minutes? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have something better to do than stand there while you indulge your freaky canine fetish? What about you super breeders who have actually arranged your four kids in photos with him while he’s trying to find a good spot to crap in the park? Really? REALLY? What if he was a vicious killer with a handsome face? You remember Ted Bundy: it happens.

How about those of you that drop to your knees and wrap your arms around his neck without even once asking me if you can pet my dog, let alone checking if he’s friendly. Okay, well, yes, he’s friendly dammit. He’s insanely, stupidly, devoid-of-a-shred-of-self-respect friendly…but does that mean it’s a good idea to put a strange 100-pound dog into a bear hug? No, it is not. And if you were just eating Slim Jims or smell like Spam and he – for some unforeseen reason – decided to bite your lower lip off, guess whose fault that would probably be? Mine, I imagine, you stupid idiot. I hope you enjoy going through life with a bottom lip made out of skin from your nether regions.

Ready for his fifteen minutes.

I realize the paparazzo are unhindered by any laws while in a public space: they can take any pictures they want of Madonna because she’s famous and she’s drinking a non-fat latte while wearing latex. I don’t know that this is entirely fair, and I imagine it’s rather annoying, but the primary difference is that Madonna is FAMOUS. She’s RICH. She can have her people go and get that latte if she preferred. Or she can afford incredible disguises the likes not seen outside of Mission Impossible movies. Or she can get her other people to do her hair and makeup so that she can be certain she looks incredible while rocking said latex and fetching said latte.

Me?

I’m walking a 100-pound beast – usually in the rain – in order for him to pee upon everything and eventually drop an elephant-sized turd somewhere. To add insult to injury, it turns out I’m also carrying a plastic bag in my pocket so that I can get up close and personal with said fecal matter, pick it up, and carry the steaming mess around like a lowly servant.

“Who’s walking who?” people often like to crack.

Who’s walking whom, indeed. I think the lady holding the bag of scat is on the bottom rung.

That’s why I wonder why you must commit the worst offense of all, oh tourist paparazzi: why do you include ME in these damn photos half the time? I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I don’t need to be in your family album. It creeps me out when I see your lens pointed towards my face. Correction: it creeps me out and makes me wish I’d done my hair and put on some makeup, for some day when I am important and famous and filthy, stinking rich, but probably not wearing latex, I don’t need old pictures of me in my red bathrobe with my motorcycle jacket over it, half-unconscious on Advil PM and carrying a bag of poop around at 7am because the sky was so dark I got thrown off about the time and thought it was a lot earlier than that, cropping up.

Thus, moving forward, I will be demanding the following price scale and printing a corresponding neck sign for us both so that there’s no confusion:

PET THE DOG: $1.00

PET THE DOG WHILE GETTING YOUR INANE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE DOG ANSWERED: $5.00

PHOTOS OF THE DOG: $10.00

PHOTOS OF YOU AND THE DOG: $20.00

PHOTOS OF ME AND THE DOG: $100,000 and/or DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

ALL UNAUTHORIZED PETTING AND PHOTOGRAPHY WILL RESULT IN A $50.00 FINE AND A VERBAL BEAT DOWN.

Ask me about commemorative mugs, t-shirts, and our annual centerfold calendar! He might be neutered, but he’s still rocking a package. Thanks for shopping with us. Please come again.