My Master Holds Me Inappropriately

A confession from the personal diary of Grungus Hornswallow III
*the following diary was found buried in a hole in Crayg's backyard some time ago*

Crayg, my crap hole master, is a new-millennium ramrod. Look at this piss faucet. He adopted me from St. Grutch's dog jail last week and I wish he'd take me back. I'd rather eat cowflesh flavored corn balls and piss all over myself in jail than be stuck with this starch-collared dickroger. At least in there I could smell some good old fashioned bibblers.

But yeah, Crayg thinks wearing these stupid buttons and dungarees while getting photographed holding me on his front porch is going to help him get attention from longhairs on the people screen! HAW! Look at the way he's holding me!!! Hey, longhairs! Is that the kind of guy you'd want trying to hold you with those slippery margarine-hands on your engagement photos? He'd get yellow stains all over your dress and probably blame me.

Third-generation roughhairs like me are sick and tired of mushy potato-heads like this. Classic-time roughies like me are only interested in three things: "blasting crotch," eating rats whole and street fighting other tail-gangs near the trash bags.

All I can really do is rage-lick my darkzone and look Crayg dead in the eye while he drinks his craft beers and updates his stupid computer date jam machine. He doesn't care. He keeps me around like a cactus to spruce up his new-millennium "ram pad." I guess I do more than that. When he goes to sleep I wake up and eat his old Nachos out of the fridge and rub my back door squinter all over his apples.

When he's gone visiting his starchy parents, he leaves me here with house sitter, Brynda. She's pretty cool and I sniff her darkzone and it sends me to a magical palace of roughhair feelings. I think she doesn't use darkzone wipers and just leaves her crumbles on her blaster because she knows I love that deep dark tingle in my smell tunnels.

I plan on digging my way out of this shitbarge tomorrow when Crayg goes to work. I'm going to bury this diary and take a big smokey beef-log all over the top of it in case Crayg tries to find it.

GRUNGUS OUT!