Every now and then I get requests to do guest posts for other bloggers.

I don’t do many of these; time simply doesn’t allow me to post on my own damn blog often enough let alone others, but the odd time the cosmos align and I find myself able to spew my magic in places I never thought I’d have access to.

Today, the planets aligned, Mercury must be in retrograde or the moon started spinning sideways.

In other words, I have a guest post up over at Karl’s blog.

You should go read it.

I talk about boobs. A lot.

There may or may not be pictures of boobs included in the post.

Perhaps my own.

In the mean time, because I tricked you all into thinking this is a real post and not just some giant advertisement to go read someone else’s blog whom I graffitti’d with my wisdom, I present to you gratuitous pictures of PUPPIES!

Everyone, meet the puppy who couldn’t find a home (I may or may not have looked very hard…shhh, don’t judge me) who was once named after a certain blogger.

He has since been christened Roosevelt.

I have a thing for dead American Presidents. (Well hello CIA and FBI! Please don’t add my name to any watchlists just because I have a fondness for naming my pets after your politicians.)

Meet Roosevelt (or as my husband still insists on calling him when ever he shits on the floor, Shawn.)

He’s kinda cute, eh? Don’t ask him what kind a dog he is. He’s sensitive about his lineage. I think that may have something to do with his mother’s whorish ways. And the fact that his grandfather may be his father. Incest is best, you know.

I like to cheer Roosevelt up by telling him there is always the possibility that the ugly little dog next door could be his daddy-o, but that only reinforces the fact his mother is a tramp and he tends to get all depressed and shit.

Roosevelt is a sensitive soul like that.

He’s a pretty little thing, though, isn’t he? And wee. Right now he’s about six inches tall and about 10 inches long.

He adores Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, EVER. Nixon, however, doesn’t exactly harbor feelings of reciprocation.

He will tolerate the little dude for small periods of time. I think Nixon is still holding on to some feelings of hostility and aggression from the time little Roosevelt mistook Nixon’s willy as his mother’s milk maker.

Nixon hasn’t forgiven Roosevelt yet for that itty bitty mistake.

Roosevelt is a good kisser. But the first time I catch him licking his arse or eating someone’s crap, he will never again taste the nectar that is my lips.

It’s tough work being this pretty yo.

It’s a family affair. Note that Mommy-Dearest, my darling dopey Diera, is not kissing my lips. Because she is not only a whore, she’s a certified asslicker.

I do have some boundaries people.

So there you go. Two posts for the price of one.

Go forth and be merry.