When I was eight years old, my beloved dog Bonnie Blue passed away from being real fucking old. I cried for a few minutes and then moved on with life. My parents, God bless ‘em, soon bought me a replacement puppy, Deion Sanders. Unfortunately, it took after its namesake, acting erratically and biting friends of the family. A few years later, my father picked me up from my buddy’s birthday party, and we had the following conversation (I swear to God this is verbatim):
Him: How was the party?
Me: Great.
Him: That’s nice. I killed your dog. He ate a hole out of my favorite chair.
Me: (Uncontrollable Sobs)

I cried for days, both at my father’s callous way of informing me and Deion’s untimely demise. Little did I know, I should have just procured some crack from a local dealer outside my luxury apartment. Apparently, this is the adult and sophisticated way of dealing with canine death.

According to Monsters And Critics, O’Neal told the New York Post, "She got old. She got cancer. She was the fabric of our family. We had to let her go to heaven. My daughter and I had to put her down. It was too horrible for words. I couldn't get out of it. I was going to my psychiatrist. I was doing everything I could do. I have the disease of alcoholism. It's lifelong. I treat it every day by going to my 12-step program."

Where do I even start in responding to that lame excuse-fest of a statement? The disease of alcoholism? I wonder if that’s anything like my own ailment: the disease of eating too many Ho-Hos at three in the morning?

I said it once, and I’ll say it again. Get your shit together, Tatum. Your dog didn’t bring a crack pipe home with a slew of dead birds one night. We all know you rustled that one up on your own. Get help.

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