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Hanging out at one of Mom’s parties is like dropping acid and watching Teletubbies. All the usual suspects were in full form. Brad Wollack was under an umbrella applying SPF 200. He likes to brag about being a cancer survivor and that his sunscreen has to be specially ordered from Canada. Ben Gleib was busy running the Ping-Pong table, which is appropriately placed between the lesbian quarters and the horse stables. The camera guys were smoking pot somewhere. A topless security guard was playing badminton against himself. And Heather Long Boobs was walking around in a cocktail gown, which was way overdressed for a pool party. Heather’s a real C word—a real cougar.

You get the idea. The party was a traveling circus full of carny-style freaks. You people wonder why I’m a little aloof and antisocial? Take a look at yourselves, you sickos. I’m not like you.

Mom had a new boyfriend at the time. I’ll call him Salami, because his neck was so big it reminded me of a giant tube of salami. Anyway, Salami was some kind of “animal trainer,” and I think he felt he needed to drive that point home by using me as his “animal trainee” all day. I tried telling him, “Look, you aren’t the Dog Whisperer, and I’m not a wild lion from South Africa. So let’s just try to have a normal relationship here and avoid each other.”

Much to my dismay, Salami kept picking me up and walking around the party with me in his arms. It was humiliating. I’m not a lapdog. I’m a big dog, and big dogs don’t get carried around in people’s arms like that. To make matters worse, he carried me into the pool and started wading around the water with me still in his arms. Look, I’m a grown dog. If I want to go swimming, I’ll do what normal dogs do and just jackknife off the diving board.

As I was wading around the pool with Salami, I noticed Jax barking at a bush. He is such a summer bummer. I can’t believe Mom surrounded me with all these weirdos. If I had a cell phone, I would call my Chunk counterpart, Chocolate Chunk Sylvan, to come pick me up and drive me to the Jersey shore or somewhere else tropical. He has a nice big car, and he always drives Mom around when she’s on tour.

Salami was done with our little synchronized swimming routine. Nobody seemed very impressed. He lifted me out of the pool and my wet body felt so naked without all my fur. So I ran inside to find my mom and complain about our new living situation.

That house is like a giant maze. I felt like a rat trying to find Cheese Whiz. I don’t think I’ve even seen every room in the place yet. I cruised through one of the guest rooms and then into the bathroom. Oh shit, I didn’t want to see that.

“Might want to knock,” said some guy.

I had accidentally walked in on Geof, who was changing into a bathing suit.

“I don’t have thumbs,” I told him. “Makes it hard to knock.” And I darted off.

Geof books all the shows for Mom’s tour. I’ve got a few problems with this guy. First of all, he spells his name wrong. Second, he has more hair on his body than I do. Watching him apply sunscreen is like watching someone rub Ranch Dressing into a brown shag carpet. Doesn’t that thick coat of body hair block the sun enough? And finally, since he’s constantly taking Mom on the road, I barely get to see her anymore. In my opinion he overbooks her. I’m worried she’s going to develop comedic fatigue stress syndrome disorder. I don’t know if that’s a real disease, but it sounds pretty serious. Mom’s on tour a lot now. That’s good for Geof, but it’s bad for me. I really don’t care about anybody’s wellbeing other than mine and my mom’s. Remember, people, the only person who’s ever going to have your best interest in your life is yourself and your dog, if you have one. Unless your dog doesn’t like you.

I passed through the kitchen, where Uncle Roy was cooking food for everyone. I think he likes cooking. I just don’t think he likes cooking for all these thankless a-holes. Roy’s head looks like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and his body is like those ropes