Listen closely, children, and I'll tell you a tale. Once upon a time there were two nefarious souls, psuedo-glitterati hellbent on taking over the world by tyrannical, jewel-encrusted force and subjecting the masses to their sinister chicdom. The lunar calendar was in the proper cycle; cats began walking on their hind legs and wearing top hats; horses began going insane and galloping off cliffs to their doom. The diabolical plans of this dastardly duo, better known as the singular entity Kohn Sandvig, nearly came to fruition. The seven Ferragamo demons came on their seven gangrenous swans, carrying the severed head of Marc Jacobs and the freshly unearthed remains of Guccio Gucci to be used as a sacrifice toward Kohn Sandvig's success. All seemed lost.
Then a bright line shown from the East, and a pack of glorious black dogs came sprinting from the ether, their beautiful coats shining like holy fire in the moonlight. The pack of savage beasts ripped through Kohn Sandvig's soldiers, their skinny, cocaine-chic bodies open to attack after Kohn mandated that the infantry's armored uniforms be replaced with low-cut v-neck T's and D&G jeans. The massacre was swift and the black dogs retained the majority of their strength, thirsting for the blood of Kohn Sandvig.
They crossed the threshold of the castle gate, past the walls littered with portraits of Queen Harry, Madame Spears, and Lady Gaga, climbed the innumerable steps to the top of the highest tower and leapt through the door of his/her chamber.
"What is this treachery!" It hissed in a high-pitched squeal.
The mad dogs circled their prey, bearing their yellowed teeth and growling with the timbre of an enraged Michael Madsen or a horny Miss Piggy. Kohn attempted to keep the monsters at bay, throwing NARS lipstick by the fistful and twirling like a drunken sailor on shore leave, but then their came a dancing dip, and Kohn's very being was abruptly ripped in twain. They were undone by their own manicured hand. The one called Kara fell to the floor, her outrageously curled hair softening the blow, while the one known as John, his frilly shirt the thing of a "Seinfeld" episode, clutched his lumbar vertebrae and yelled,
"My back!"
The dogs laughed their grizzled laugh. They licked their chops and prepared for the perfumed feast. But then the one called John had an idea. True, his body was frail and decrepit like an octogenarian, but his wits were sharp like... like a... like an octogenarian with a samurai sword. He reached in a nearby cupboard for a bottle of whisky and hurled it at the pack. Their thirst for the pair's blood was strong, but their love of sweet mother liquor was insatiable; it numbed their better judgment, especially that of the alpha male. They lapped at the drink covering the chamber floor while Kara lifted the skinny man-boy into her arms and carried his weeping mass down the castle steps, out into the street where they escaped in a Buick Century. The dogs, having licked the floors clean of whisky, told a few anecdotes about the last time they were inebriated, smashed some shit up, and ate six whole pizzas before they came back to their senses. Sound reasoing restored, they were disappointed that they hadn't destroyed Kohn once and for all. Still, they had driven the evil being from the castle and that was a small victory. The heroic dogs took their guard at the castle walls, readied themselves for the battle that would one day surely come, and bared their fangs into smiles. There would be another sunrise.
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Kara and John have begun blogging again. In response, we here at Da Dawg House have decided, nay, we've been forced by the powers that be, and by the moral responsibility that comes with being this awesome, to restart our blog and combat the evils of karajohn.com. The road is long with many a winding turn. But, as we did in the days of yore, we will expel Kohn Sandvig from this land, and milk and honey will rain from the heavens. This we swear.
