A man comes home to his overbearing, overweight, under-educated wife, who, as usual, is planted in front of her afternoon soap operas sucking down bon-bons and sipping a cup of herbal tea in her housecoat. She gives him a baleful glance and notices a small, bug-eyed rat dog following him around, shivering.
“What the hell is that?” she snarled.
“It’s a watchdog, honey!” he says, and his excitement is obvious.
“THAT little roach is a watchdog?! What good is that little turd going to do?”
“Oh, don’t be fooled by his size, beloved! He’s a karate dog!”
“A karate dog. He knows karate!”
“Gimme a break, you moron. You let someone sell you a dog because they said it knows karate? You’re dumber than you look.”
“No no, really! Watch this!”
The man turns to the dog, points at a small end table, and says, “Karate table!”
The dog becomes a cyclonic blur, growling and gnashing in a blinding flash of teeth and claws and spit. A horrific buzz-saw shredding fills the room and the dog leaps aside, leaving a pile of toothpick-sized chunks where the table used to be.
“See?” the man exclaimed. “Isn’t that amazing?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Want more proof? Okay – karate file cabinet!”
The dog again leaps into a fury of flying fur and teeth, and the sound of a circular saw cutting through sheet metal fills the house. A second later, the dog again leaps aside and there is a pile of steel wool where the file cabinet stood. The man beams.
“You see? Karate dog.”
The woman huffs a huge, exasperated sigh and folds her ham-arms over her mountainous bosom. She glared at the man and sneered.
“Karate, my ass,” she said.
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