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# The old girlfriend catches FunHog with pants down
- URL: https://www.smdp.com/the-old-girlfriend-catches-funhog-with-pants-down/
- Published: 2002-06-17T15:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-23T00:20:27.000Z
- Author: Dan Dunn
- Tags: Opinion, Santa Monica, #archive-import

There was a knock on my door. It sounded like any other knock … the sort you’d expect from a FedEx guy or a neighbor wanting to borrow some sugar. But as I was about to discover, the knock that occurred on Super Bowl Sunday at 12:27 p.m. was no ordinary knock. Looking back, it would have been better had I heard the shrill yelping of the Hounds of Hell.

It was a Knock from the Other Side! “Who in a rat’s ass could that be?” Bottomfeeder screamed from the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” I yelled back from the bathroom. “Why don’t you answer it and find out?”

“Cuz I’m making the Deviled Eggs!” I imagine everyone has their own peculiar traditions, and my freeloading roommate is no exception. In celebration of every major sporting event — including the Super Bowl, World Series, NBA Finals, Stanley Cup, Masters, Bass- Fishing Cup, NCAA Cheerleading Finals, the Ultimate Fighting World Title, the Great Wyoming Lumberjack Throw-down, the Battle of the Network Stars and, last but certainly not least, the Pro Bowling Seniors Championship — B.F. spends countless hours preparing several hundred Deviled Eggs.

Again, you’ve got your traditions, he’s got his. We call them B.F. Deals.

“Well, I’m on the toilet,” I yelled back. “You’ll HAVE TO get the door!”

There was some loud grumbling, along with some exaggerated rattling of pots and pans — B.F.’s way of letting me and the Unexpected Visitor know he was none-too-pleased with being disturbed while being bedeviled.

It couldn’t be helped. I’d been on the porcelain throne for nearly an hour — stopped up worse than a hair clog in Donald Trump’s sink. And at the rate things were going, I’d be damn lucky to be off the john by kickoff or even by the end of the first quarter, when we all believed the Super Bowl would be over, and we’d be deep into the debate over which Britney commercial ruled most.

“It’s for you …” B.F. said, and looking back I remember that his voice seemed eerily ill-omened. “… somebody named Tina.”

The most accurate way to convey what happened next is this: Imagine being struck by a lightning bolt. A lightning bolt made of Ex-Lax. Goodbye constipation, hello Worst Nightmare!

Tina? TINA???? Not THAT Tina, but I knew it was. At my door? In California? How the …? What the …? Who the …?

“He’s right in there,” I thought I heard Bottomfeeder saying, “go ahead in.”

I tried to scream “No!” but my lungs failed me. And then she was standing there, right in front of me, and all I could say was, “I just crapped” … certainly not the thing I dreamed I’d say if I were to ever see her again after lo these many lonely years. But “I just crapped” was all I could muster under such duress. And truth be told, it pretty much covered the bill.

“I’m back!” she gushed. “Did you miss me?”

Being in love with Tina is exactly like having a sore tooth. Clamp down the jaw to see if it. OUCH!. still hurts. Push hard with the tongue to see if it … OH GOD! … still hurts. And here was Tina, big as life, and my tongue twitched in reflex.

“You look great!” she said, which I found hard to believe. After all, I was on the toilet with my pants around my ankles, and a pained expression on my face that I imagine was quite similar to the one the producers of “Bob Patterson” must have had the instant they realized nobody ever wanted to see Jason Alexander on TV without Seinfeld again.

“Are you going to say something?” she asked.

You mean, other than the “crapped” thing? Probably not.

Then someone said “Try one of these deviled eggs.” Wait, did I say that? The mind plays tricks when I’m in cardiac arrest. No, it was Bottomfeeder, who was inexplicably holding a tray full of smelly hors d'oeuvres and standing in the bathroom with Tina and me.

I believe this is exactly how Dante envisioned the Ninth Circle of Hell.

“Did you ever notice,” B.F. said to Tina, “that on an emotional level, Jerry Springer guests tend to carry around more baggage than Mariah Carey on safari? Also, in every guest there seems to be a direct correlation between the level of insanity, caloric intake and the number of teeth missing.”

Tina agreed, then swallowed a deviled egg whole.

“I’m Tina,” she said to him, extending a hand. “FunHog’s girlfriend.”

“I’m Bottomfeeder,” he replied. “FunHog’s best friend.”

Things I Never Wanted to hear were suddenly slam-dancing in my cranial moshpit. My girlfriend? My best friend? It was as though I’d crapped myself into a horrific nightmare, filled with grotesque Maurice Sendak-esque creatures trying to pass themselves off as loved ones.

There was only one thing to do. I got up off the toilet, steeled myself, looked Tina and B.F. right in the eyes and said … “Do you guys wanna go to a bar and watch the game?”

Until next week. (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more FunHog fun, check out www.the-funhog.com).

*Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 17, 2002.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/061702.pdf?ref=smdp.com)