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The Next Son of Sam? Some of the Stuff This Dog Has Been Saying Is Starting To Make a Lot of Sense

From 1976 to 1977 David Berkowitz held the city of New York in a grip of terror with a seemingly random series of shootings and cryptic messages to law enforcement and members of the media. Berkowitz’s reign of terror was all in the service of a 3000-year-old satanic ghost, which he claimed communicated with him through the pet dog of his neighbor, Sam, the inspiration for his self-appointed moniker, Son of Sam.

Berkowitz is alive and well, but given his remorseful attitude and penchant for protesting his own parole hearings, he is unlikely to reclaim the Son of Sam mantle. So, who will take up his baton and terrorize our nation’s major cities with senseless violence going forward? Look no further than me, a guy whose dog has been telling him some pretty wacky things that are actually starting to make a lot of god damned sense.

Two years ago I adopted Bacon, a 4-year-old lab/shepherd mix. His love and vibrant energy helped lift me out of a bad place, and I didn’t mind that he occasionally chewed up my shoes or said really weird things that only I could hear. When he would tell me things like “This world must be cleansed by fire” and “You are the right hand of change” I would just roll my eyes and give him a big ol’ belly rub.

I don’t know if the world has gotten crazier or Bacon has just worn me down but lately, I have found my dog’s rhetoric to be on point as fuck.

Sure shooting random pedestrians seems like a mean thing to do on the surface, but if you’re doing it to raise awareness of the evil and contradiction that our society forces us to fester in every day of our lives, isn’t it actually, like, being nice? And who better to implement cleansing through means of terror than me, the guy who is special enough to hear his dog telling him to do things? It just makes sense.

Some people may find my dog’s point of view to be antiquated and deranged, but Bacon has assured me that our wrath together will be very inclusive. He doesn’t just want me killing brunette women with shoulder-length hair, he wants me to kill “them all.” When you look at it that way, we’re the ghost dog/murderer team that gen Z has been fighting for.

The only real problem is the name. Bacon is my dog, not my neighbor’s, and I got him from the Sunny Wags animal shelter, so my choices are The Son Of Bacon or The Son Of Sunny Wags Animal Shelter, neither of which carries the desired weight. But as Bacon is fond of telling me, when he isn’t busy pontificating about the need for bloodshed and destruction as a form of creation, “Kid, ya gotta play the hand ya been dealt.”

To the police, the media, and all of you out there living your lives of sin and apathy: I am The Son Of Bacon, and I have come to visit upon you the wrath of God. You are not safe in the streets, you are not safe in your homes, and your pleading for mercy will fall onto my ears like drops of rain on cold glass for the time of blood is nigh. Either that or Bacon needs a walk, he’s sort of hard to understand sometimes.