There are many things in Life I have a hard time believing. For instance, despite years of institutionalized instruction on the American system of government, I don’t buy that ours is a government BY the people and FOR the people — at least not any people I know.
Of course, most everyone I know resides in what are commonly referred to as the LOWER (read: “of no consequence”) tax brackets. Knowing this, I’ve dedicated my life to the shameless pursuit of wealth and power.
Additionally, not only do I not believe that professional wrestling is real, I’m convinced that ALL major professional sports are 100 percent bogus. Especially baseball.
And finally, despite numerous reports to the contrary, I BELIEVE that Britney Spears’ boobs actually contain more silicone than the stuff plumbers use to grout bathrooms. And I would bet my right arm that on more than one occasion, Justin Timberlake has ridden her harder than Laffit Pincay on Swale at the ‘84 Derby.
But what happened at Fonzo’s Knuckle Lounge and Strip-A-Torium — with Tina’s fiancé and my former best friend Tommy falling in love and running off with Glenda the Dirty Ho, the most infamous call girl in all of Southern California — well, that … that I had a lot of trouble believing. That is, until I knocked back a few drinks with Bottomfeeder.
“I think the J. Geils Band really nailed it when they sang, ‘Love Stinks.’ Man, ain’t that the truth, ‘Hog?” Bottomfeeder mumbled through a mouthful of pretzels and beer.
Yeah, and ain’t that the first J. Geils Band reference I’ve heard in about, oh, 15 years. And hey, Fonzo, could you pour me another shot of Jim Beam please?
“Here’s what I think you should do when Tina gets here …” he continued.
Oh, boy! “You see, Hog, there are all kinds of farters in the world. There are the honest ones who admit they farted, but offer good medical reasons. The dishonest kind fart and then blame the dog. Then there’s the strategic farters who conceal their farts with loud coughing. And finally the unfortunate ones who try awfully hard to fart but crap themselves instead … you see what I’m getting at?”
“No! No! No! No! No! No! WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU GETTING AT, MAN?!!” If there’s a more cryptic person in the universe, I haven’t met him.
“What I’m getting at is, if you’re a dishonest farter, you’re gonna get caught in a stinkin’ lie,” Bottomfeeder said coolly. “This whole business with Tommy and Glenda the Dirty Ho is like a nasty fart — it stinks. But you gotta tell Tina the truth, no matter how bad it is.”
And somehow, some way, that malodorous riddle of Bottomfeeder’s made perfect sense.
FOUR HOURS LATER … “Sometimes, I think it would be great to be a man,” Tina slurred, her lips numbed by one too many pain-killing sloe gin fizzes. “You can open all your own jars, people never stare at your chest when you're talking to them, wrinkles add character, the same hairstyle lasts for years — maybe decades — and best of all you can quietly watch a game with a buddy for hours without thinking ‘he must be mad at me.’”
“Um, Tina … are, are you okay?” I asked apprehensively.
“You mean, besides the fact that my fiancé just ran off with something called Bimbo the Whore …”
“Glenda the Dirty Ho,” I corrected her. “Yeah, whatever … well, besides that I guess I’m … I’m … WAAAAAAAA!!!!!!”
I hugged her tightly, muffling her cries. Not out of concern, necessarily — I was reveling in her pain — it was just that any loud noise in Fonzo’s usually lead to trouble.
“Ohhhh, I hate that Tommy,” Tina wailed. “He’s such a … a … piece of … foreskin!”
Foreskin? Well, I gotta admit, that’s a new one.
“You ever wonder what happens to the foreskin after a circumcision?” Bottomfeeder mused. “Do they just throw it away?”
I always figured it would be cool if, like, they kept it for later. You know, so someday when the guys are sitting around drinking beers, playing poker and comparing battle scars a guy would be like “Yeah, so I got this scar on my leg playing rugby in college.” Then another guy would go “That’s nothing, I busted all ten of my fingers at an underground fight club.” Finally, another one could whip out his foreskin, slap it on the table and say “Back off, chumps! When I was a baby some dude lopped off half my schwantz … and I barely cried.”
But instead, I said, “Jesus, man! Show a little sensitivity! Poor Tina here just had to call off her wedding, for chrissakes!” And then I had to fight hard to suppress a grin.
It was done. The wedding was off. Tommy was gone. Tina was back. And I was … I was … oh … no … I WAS STUCK WITH HER … AGAIN!!!!! (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more FunHog fun check out thefun-hog.com.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on July 15, 2002. Read the original PDF.