Dogs producing a list of seven billion names printed in Courier typeface and striking each name through with confidence and panache, to the effect that the striking through of a name promptly terminates the life of the corresponding individual, and heaving an exhausted, relieved sigh as the planet’s population is reduced to ten terrified people lost in a sea of stinking, rotting corpses, gasping, “FINALLY, MY TOPTEN.”
Dogs groping blindly in a mailbox for the latest issue of Billboard magazine and pulling back only a bloodied, animal-chewed stump, and exclaiming as the ulnar artery offers one final, enthusiastic squirt of blood, “IT’S A MAJORAWARD.”
Dogs crooning, “Brown paper packages tied up with string…” before suddenly the police barge in bearing clubs, shields, flash grenades, and pepper spray, shouting over the clomping of dozens of boots, “BOMB, BOMB!” and “IT’S A BOMB!” while subduing all assembled with hissing chemicals and cracking blows about the head and limbs, tearing apart the furniture, ripping paper from the walls, setting fire to the curtains, and marching out as quickly as they came, leaving an unholy, smoldering silence now filled by slow, off-key notes from an overturned music box and a haunting, disembodied voice, singing sweetly, “These are a few of my favorite things…”
Dogs wading through rising waters to report a hull breach, and gasping as the submarine lists and slowly begins barrel rolling toward the ocean floor, sputtering into a distress radio, “WE’RE ROLLING IN THEDEEP.”
Dogs shredding Santa Claus’s NAUGHTY list and screaming into the gagged face of a simpering elf, “HELLLIESEMPTY.”
Dogs standing eagerly over the printing press set to spit out TIME Magazine’s top 100 hardcore pornographic screenplays, and stammering repeatedly as the inked pages fly past, “Too long. Didn’t read.”
Dogs hiccuping and slurring, “The tree of life,” before slumping over the steering wheel in a gin-soaked stupor and slamming into the median, and later admitting during the DVD commentary to a demon wearing James Lipton’s skin, in between gasps and screams, “This was not my finest work.”
Dogs watching the scene in The Social Network where Mark Zuckerberg gazes into the camera and describes in intimate detail the viewer’s most egregious personal faults and failings, in order from least to most humiliating.
Dogs coming to a full-blown moment of aesthetic realization and staring off slacked-jawed into middle distance as cosmic supertitles blink ALBUM OF THEYEAR on-and-off, on-and-off, and continue to blink ALBUM OF THEYEAR on-and-off, on-and-off, long, long, long after the universe has reached a total state of entropy and all original frames of reference are irrevocably lost forever.
Dogs giving a long, dramatic eye-roll after an emotionally fragile deity recites with thunderous fanfare the all-important everlasting moral dictates, groaning: “Sooooo predictable.”