Superbowl play by play with yer pals, team small dog.

Here is a commercial for the rock quarry. We just go to the rock quarry for the commercials.


OK. We really went there because, Miner Fortyniners, they were miners and my darling Clementine. Miner. Rock quarry. Loads and loads of rocks. Where else are you going to walk for the Superbowl?


Tidy, witchcrafty stoners and such go in and stack them up. If your dogs run around in the rock quarry, you gotta pick up all the rocks they knock down. It's the polite thing to do. Then, right when they are about to make the touchdown, scream really loud, "DOUCHEBAGS!!!"


Gustavo climbed a tree. He does that sometimes. He's never gotten stuck.


Pretty much the only other thing to do in the rock quarry is just sit around with rocks.


Usually this is the springbox of quiet, zen-like meditation. Also last week I walked in on some people having sex with clothes on there, right where Rocket's back legs are. The big dogs all had a swim in the springbox and scared the fish really bad. This was before Beyonce appeared in the fern grotto and then there were some more commercials. Word has it the Niners lost. We shall weep for you, another time.