Damn that dog stinks

The people wasted a lot of valuable time and couch space yesterday worshipping their big box - some kind of asinine sporting event. Whatever. The problem is, they were eating some seriously wrong food, and then sharing it with the Big Rodent. People! Do you not know what oily salt-potato wafers and breaded cheese tubes will do to that boy?!

And then, get this, the Man pours some of his nasty yellow fizz-water into a small glass and lets Ol' Lowrider try it! I'm dealing with morons.

Sure enough, about an hour later the fun begins. The Woman clutches her nose while her eyes tear up, and the Man has to move to the far end of the couch and breathe into his shirt. Even the dog seems worried about what's coming out his caboose.

And look at him. He's built like a wind tunnel. Like he was designed for maximum exhaust efficiency.

I'd find this all very amusing if it weren't for my keen, battle-honed sense of smell, and the fact that my nose occupies the same elevation as the offending vent. And--here's the icing--these people call ME the smelly one.

Of course, Fabio also managed to scrounge a few bites from their greasy fingers, but that doesn't really matter--I'm pretty sure whatever goes into Fabio stays in Fabio.