Local Hour: Darla, The Cool-Ass Dog (feat. Dominican Blade)

I limped in after our company party like I’d just crawled across the finish line, the game of the year blasting behind me while I talked with Trista and, yes, her dog. I’m still baffled that someone two days into the job brought a dog to the holiday party, but here we are.

I’m new and have brutal social anxiety, which is why Oli’s a service dog, and honestly he helped people approach without crowding me. Everyone petted him, everyone smiled, and it made the room feel less weird.

Whatever we did last night was light compared to Vegas, where at least I didn’t torch a fortune at a slot machine. Let’s just say I’ve known worse nights.

Greg Cody ran the bar like a logistics pro, ordering from different servers so there was always another beer inbound. He ended up with a full one, then another arrived, then another, and he swore he didn’t ask for it.

Also, Frankie pulled up in full Dominican Blade—vest with no shirt, blazer over it, hat tight. A plus fit, and the photos prove it.

Secret Santa got feral—a rotisserie chicken sat under the tree for hours like it was a normal gift. Put it on the poll: is a grocery chicken ever an acceptable holiday present?

Someone accused a thumb drive-by on me at the bar and I got told, you don’t want to know where that thumb’s been. That was before we all slid toward four in the morning.

People keep saying bringing a dog to a work party is odd, but in the moment they were baby-talking him and lining up for scratches. Afterward they act shocked; during, it was pure love.

That’s what we call fake. Also, White Tamra was a hit—gracious, funny, the kind of person who makes a room better.

Roy not drinking at an open bar short-circuited my brain until he said they’re trying for a baby. I learned alcohol can ding the count, the dog barked mid-show, and we briefly debated which dogs are cool at work—Darla stays cool.

Quick content question for my birthday weekend: how many seats do we buy for tonight’s Jake Paul fight, and who represents us ringside to make the dumbest possible splash? We’re talking a spaghetti-in-a-bag bit for the broadcast, purely to underline how ridiculous the whole thing is.

We’ve got friends in the building who’ll put it on screen if someone shows with the bag. I can’t make it at that hour, but we could still pull it off if a brave soul goes and leans all the way in.

You don’t need the main event to get shown—arrive early and they’ll cut to you during the lull. Fork, spoon, Ziploc, spaghetti, done.

On the fake pregame open, I asked for something bigger than our old Sunday bit, and some of you balked. Be honest: were you dodging because you feared it might come off corny?

I make music, and the Latin vibe wasn’t my lane; that’s all. I thought Rose and the crew did well, but if I don’t feel it, I won’t fake it.

I didn’t ghost; I delegated. I put Ethan in as Santa, had Rose on the hook, and kept the train moving. The only thing I skipped was tanking my cool for something that wasn’t me.

Think about when Drake leaned Caribbean and people said he had no connection; that’s what Juju was avoiding. Respect the fit if it isn’t yours.

For the record, I liked the song and wish we’d all been in it, and yes, we botched not inviting Yeti to the party. The Ron McGill charity thing got awkward with the league change, and feelings were hurt.

You pinged me for an open right as I was leaving for the party, so I grabbed work parts afterwards. I literally recorded my dad whispering lines in an Uber and stitched it into a fake pregame intro.

Greg’s beer operation was Navy SEAL precise—orders coming from every angle, including his wife and me. Meanwhile, Erline, a boss in every sense, kept humoring the mission while wearing a career Rolex.

Erline’s the coolest—funny, sharp, and unfazed. White Tamra brought the same energy. The women were carrying the room.

Game talk: I think this is Miami’s toughest opponent up front, but also their best matchup in the trenches. Marcel Reed’s legs worry me more than any quarterback they’ve seen, but the Canes’ lines can expose an SEC that looks top-heavy and fragile.

Mario in big moments makes choices that haunt you; I lived through Oregon–Stanford. I fear a game-management mistake shows up at the worst time.

They mashed Notre Dame with a nine-minute sledgehammer drive, and the defense has dudes like Rueben Bain who wreck plans one-on-one. The real test is containing Reed once he breaks the pocket.

This is the biggest stage Miami’s seen all year and the best team on the schedule, but A&M beat the SEC’s lower tier and got handled by Texas after halftime. I think Miami moves the ball.

I’ve got Canes by double digits. Call it twelve and clear the runway.

Trista’s on an island, everyone else is full homer, and we’re ending on shrugs. Perfect tone before the biggest Miami game in twenty years.