Chapter 14: Doggie Bags (6/2)
For The Fur Babies
Lonely Millennial women make up a large percentage of the Boston population. Certainly in South Boston they do, and that means one thing: Lots and lots of dogs, or as they like to call them “Fur babies”—and themselves “Dog Moms.”
“I like dogs more than people,” one of them said to me once (to which I thought reflexively in my head: “Get away from me.”)
Of course the panic from this make-believe disease has sent the dating market into a caterwauling biplane explosion.
(More on that, much more, in Chapter 29).
It has become hook-up culture on hyperdrive.
No one can be on the same page about all this garbage and, besides, as these lonely people suffer in isolation—and without any faith in God—the dog pounds are emptying. Women long for company and attention (and protection!), so it might as well come from a dog, right? A dog-god, if you will. Goddog?
It’s really quite a thing, in the end, because many of these Southie females are smart, fun, and, for sure, attractive. It’s just that they have this immense social (media) pressure to conform, to watch The Real Housewives, to have the same political views, the same valley-girl style accent… and to get a dog.
They might not even want to get a dog! But then they’ll receive messages like: “You don’t like dogs?” or “Are you scared of dogs?” then “What’s wrong with you?” and, inevitably: “Are you a racist bigot?” (Eventually, it will be why they will legalize beastiality—because only racists think you can’t have sex with animals).
Social media turns anyone obsessively using it into a mass of culturally-conformed automatons.
The sad thing is that these women are setting themselves up for a lot of pain and suffering. They most times replace kids with dogs (hence “dog moms”) but children are vastly superior to dogs. Obviously.
But probably foremost in my mind is that the dog will die before you do.
So when you have reached your forties and no longer have the ability to have children, and then your dog dies, you are totally and truly alone. (And once your parent dies, well, you go mental).
We always routinely sold out of doggie bags—but in this case they were flying off the shelves, and there were probably almost as many dogs as women in the neighborhood at this point, as any man with reason and ability and resources (and family) has fled. (Lord knows I would have.)
… There is also the outside chance that people were using them as plastic gloves (see Chapter 12).
Addendum: There are still some old-timers left, probably single and don’t have means to leave town (or just love Boston that much).
I asked one of them how he’s been dealing with the fake pandemic and he says:
“All I know is I’m unfriending a LOT of people on Facebook.”
Aren’t we all.
In fact, I myself was being systematically canceled.
See: Over the last few years, I’ve come to realize how I’ve been brainwashed. I was BIG into the climate-change cult, big time, and I woke up from that (more on that here).
But now people were on a whole ‘nother level of psychopathy, and social media was a disease of the mind. As I posted meme, after meme, after meme, (after meme), I was being defriended left and right. Facebook jail, Twitter pause, Instagram “fact-checks” were almost my only interactions anymore.
Occasionally, someone I used to know would visit me in the store but, for the most part, (and for this entire story, tbqh) I found myself completely alone.
Except for one based friend.
Friday: The “Back Porch” Bros return:
