Hunter S. Thompson introduced me to the word “FunHog,” several years ago in a taproom in Aspen, Colorado. I don’t remember the exact context, but I believe the Good Doctor used the word in reference to people in the entertainment business – actors, producers, directors, hookers and whatnot.
Up until that point, I figured the most interesting thing Thompson had said was “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.” But the night I heard him mumble something about the Hollywood jet-set being a bunch of decadent funhogs, I thought to myself, “Well, hot-damn, that’s just flat-out genius.”
So I stole Thompson’s word. And that’s just one of many reasons why he won’t return my phone calls anymore. Along with my habit of dropping his name to every single person I meet. But more on that later.
It was around the period I was hanging with Hunter S. Thompson (Drop!) in Aspen that I met Tina and – to filch from yet another scribe – those were undoubtedly the best of times, and the worst of times. In a dizzying three-month span, I’d met and befriended my literary hero AND the woman of my dreams. Both relationships would bring me profound joy … and both would eventually shatter my brittle psyche like a midget tossed through a plate-glass window.
Ever since I left Aspen five years ago, I’ve gone to great lengths to purge the pain. I tried therapy, yoga, Tony Robbins tapes … I even dabbled with self-medication – or, as my probation officer refers to it, “drug and alcohol abuse.” And progress was made, friends. PROGRESS WAS MADE! Hell, up until a few days ago, I thought I was “pretty much over it” – which is safer than claiming to be “completely over it,” because then you’d KNOW I’m entirely full of shit.
So, yeah, I was doing good, all right, and then someone chucked the Midget of Heartache through the glass again. And if you’re wondering whodunnit, well, allow me to give you a hint… “So,” Tina said – trying to break five years worth of ice at the Some Young Moon Saloon, while I attempted to quell my exquisite inner pain with copious amounts of Johnnie Walker – “I read in the paper that some screenwriter was just paid lots of money to adapt one of Hunter Thompson’s books into a movie … weren’t you gonna do that? You know, before you two had that fight?”
I nodded numbly. “That would have been great – all that money. If, you know, you two hadn’t have had that fight.”
I suppressed the urge to vomit. “Thompson hates ‘Hog now,” Bottomfeeder interjected. “Left a couple of crazed messages on the machine a while back, threatening to sue him … or shoot him … or, maybe both. Something to do with selling out to The Man.”
Tina produced a newspaper clipping from her purse. “Yep,” she said, reading, “the writer got a couple hundred grand to adapt that book.” “’Hog pissed Hunter off because he’s got some rich Republican friends, and cuz he drops Hunter’s name everywhere,” Bottomfeeder continued. “Wait … did you just say a couple hundred grand?”
“Yep.” “Wow.” “Damn.” Then I did vomit. *** “Now might not be the best time for this,” Tina said, wiping the puke from my chin in the alley behind the bar, “but the reason I came back after all these years is that I’ve got something to tell you …”
You know that moment in a horror movie when the eerie music kicks in? Right before someone gets his head hacked off by a guy in a hockey mask or something nasty like that? Well … EXT. ALLEY BEHIND BAR – NIGHT Tina, wiping the vomit from Funhog’s chin, is about to tell him something. She puts on a hockey mask.
CUE EERIE MUSIC. TINA: I’m getting married, ‘Hog … to Tommy … you know, your former best friend.
SFX: An ominous sting. The FunHog bites his lower lip. Completely off.
TINA: I know this might be a bit of a shocker, but believe me, Tommy and I want nothing more than for you to be okay with this. In fact, we very much want to have your blessing. Which is why Tommy would like you … FunHog -- lower-lipless, bleeding and covered in his own waste – tries to throw himself under a PASSING BUS. He misses, and lands in a puddle of MOTOR OIL. Tina continues assaulting him with RAZOR-SHARP VERBAL DAGGERS.
TINA (cont’d): … to be his best man. FunHog, inexplicably, begins laughing. Only it doesn’t sound much like laughing because of the MISSING LOWER LIP AND THE BLOOD AND THE MOTOR OIL.
Tina is perplexed. TINA: Are … are you okay? More hysterical laughter. TINA: FunHog? Laugh, laugh, laugh! Blood and motor oil spewing everywhere.
TINA: Honey, will you … will you be Tommy’s best man?
He suddenly stops laughing, cocks his head, and eyes her suspiciously.
TINA: FunHog? Will you? Funhog reaches to the ground, picks up his lower lip and miraculously reattaches it.
FUNHOG: Funny you should ask, babe … (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more Funhog fun, log onto thefunhog.com)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 24, 2002. Read the original PDF.