Most popular dog names are now hippy bullshit

DOGS that do not know any better are being called Luna, Milo and Bella instead of good honest dog names like Rover, Rex and Tyson. 

Owners of dogs are shirking their clear responsibility to give a dog the name of a dog and are instead giving them not only human names but poncey human names.

Francesca Johnson of the RSPCA said: “What kind of fuzz-headed fool would call a Staffordshire bull terrier Bella? And yet numerous dickheads have.

“Your dog is not an influencer, nor is an influencer someone to aspire to be. But otherwise responsible owners are out here calling their Jack Russells Lola, Poppy, and Daisy when those are Love Island contestants at best and most likely have an OnlyFans.

“If your dog could choose his name, would he go with Teddy? No. If he knew you were calling him that, would he deliberately shit on the carpet? Yes. So stop your skunk-addled naming policies and get serious.

“Acceptable names are Lucky, Patch, Spot, Fido, Lassie, or Whiskey. If you’re talking about your dog in the workplace and people think you’re referring to a child or a sexual partner, you f**ked up.”

Four-year-old Rottweiler Tyson said: “Mine’s a proper dog’s name. That boxer bloke? Named after me.”

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Hen party's a-brewin'

A STOICAL man gazing at the clouds has grimly warned that a hen party is approaching.

Sitting in his rocking chair, old timer Norman Steele has predicted that dozens of drunken women will soon be heading in his direction so everyone should hunker down before it strikes.

Steele, who has not been the same since the hen do of 2012, said: “They’re doing pre-drinks in an Airbnb right now, but they’re a-comin’. They’re a-comin’.

“If you listen closely, you can hear their maniacal cackling on the wind. Within the hour they’ll start blaring Single Ladies and Wannabe, and that’s when the nightmare truly begins.

“First you’ll see their penis-shaped deely boppers on the horizon as they stagger from one cocktail bar to the other. Then they’ll rip through the streets in a flurry of personalised sashes, wreaking havoc on traffic and pedestrians alike. Nobody will be safe.

“You can only tell the strength of a hen party by the damage it leaves in its wake, but this one feels like a biggie. Come the morning, expect to see hundreds of shattered pitchers and the bodies of broken waiting staff littering the pavement.

“I’m off to hide in my hen party cellar, and I suggest you do the same. May God have mercy on us all.”