I ask you sirs, I stand before you and ask you today, who leaves a bag of sheep feet lying on the sidewalk? Who. The fuck. Does that.

I mean, sheep feet are all fun and games until your dog gets a death grip on one and you find yourself locked in a battle of wills right there on Linden Street, outside the kegger house. And then, when you’re finally able to wrench it out, and have attracted the attention of half the neighborhood with your yelling, your confused (but tenacious) dog still has a death grip on your index finger, which he thinks is the sheep’s foot.

I’m speaking abstractly, of course.

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