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Hot Damn

HOT DAMN #3 — Corgis


In an effort to offer a counterpoint to my usual cynical antics, I’ve decided on a new project:  a weekly, year-long discussion of those things in my life that I enjoy.  For those keeping count, that’s one new thing every week.  But, never one for the more traditional approaches, I intend to keep things a little off side, a tad outlandish, and always one foot outside of polite company.

For a full list of all HOT DAMNs, click here.


Much like cocaine, corgis are an addictive bunch of canine howlers, finding their way sneakily into one’s short list of “Absolute Needs,” right next to water, food, and beefy bowel parades. Yes, in case you’re wondering, it is entirely possible to become high as balls on these fury little fiends. And therein lies the addiction.

This is my pup, my legion of doom.

This is my pup, my legion of doom.

I know what you’re thinking: But, sir, cocaine can kill you; do you mean to suggest that your wee wiggle farm of a dog, all nineteen burly pounds of her, could ever stoop to such skullduggery?

Yes, dear friend, this is exactly what I mean. It is with growing trepidation that I retire to bed each night, as on more than one occasion have I been woken in the midst of slumber to find my petite prowler standing on my chest, staring at me with the kind of animal amusement a timber wolf might bestow upon a lost elk who’s wondered unknowingly into its den.

And yet despite such misgivings (and clear signs of impending consumption), I can do little to divert or even diminish my addiction. A corgi’s small, dwarfish frame is just far too damn cute. It is impolite of me to say so, true, but it is also impolite of me to carry on and not admit to my problem.

I need help. Desperately.

My name is Zac Roe, and I am a corgi addict.


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