French bulldogs, rottweilers, chow chows, lend me your floppy ears, cuz gone are the days of lonesome ramblin’. I’m itchin’ with fleas to guide you around my turf, the fenceless dogyard where i roam, the digital colosseum where our gladiavatars are crowned and wined and dined and chewed up and shat out, the new new york of the dubya dubya dubya where the rags to riches hopeful strut their wuff for their 15 million hits of fame, the electronic jungle with ten thousand talkers whose tongues are all dangling, the betweenthenet bedsheets where there’s ten thousand whisperin’ with nobody listenin.’ Just follow your fido, yo, and he’ll open doors for you where there were only walls. We’ll go snout to snout with sweet cottonball biatches in the poodle chatroom, sniff some bums on fecebook—that’s fessebook for you ma chère bulldog francaise—cruise around to our favorite dogblogs, leave our marks in the comments sandbox under raised legs, pad down password protected pages, crack codes to the crypt, set off viral wildfires. Just don’t misread my hacker’s heart and pimped out prose cuz under my faux fur coat is a saint bernard’s soul. Enough yappin’ bro, i gotta go. Hidden bones in the matrix are callin’ fido.