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And that was the scene of Terrible Car motown Trip #2. My Mom and Dad had a dog then that they pampered beyond belief. The motown thing was treated like a hound-prince, to the point where it might make a less-secure person feel a little jealous. <ahem> motown They didn't even feed him dog food. Oh no, they cooked meals for him. He was always scarfing down perfectly prepared turkey franks, hamburgers, and various other quality meats. Huh. It might've just been my imagination, but I was certain that the dog walked past me a few times, after polishing off a steak dinner or shrimp scampi or whatever, and threw me a smug look that said, "That's right pal, you've been replaced." Eventually he developed some sort of gastrointestinal disorder and, near the end, began shooting great jets of coal-black shit for impressive distances. Once, when my parents were camping somewhere in their Shania Twain tour bus, they went out to dinner one evening, and when they returned they found that the dog had fired off another of his rectal salutes, from one end of the long, long trailer to the other.
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