> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.smdp.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Twisted: Eurotrash column on FunHog and Warner Bros. - URL: https://www.smdp.com/twisted-2/ - Published: 2002-08-19T15:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-23T00:40:04.000Z - Author: Dan Dunn - Tags: Opinion, Santa Monica, #archive-import *Eurotrash: Everyman’s guide to crossing the Pond* Memo: To Editors Re: FunHog First off, because the greedy humps over at Warner Bros. have chosen to flex their considerable muscle, this column can no longer be slugged “FunHog.” And even though I CREATED FunHog, Bottomfeeder, Tina and all the other characters in the series, the threat of litigation is quite real — so bye, bye FunHog characters. Henceforth, this column shall be called TWISTED. Sound good? Good. Send money.... PART THE FIRST... BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN Blond, blootered and broke-down in Piccadilly Circus is a rather inglorious end to what was otherwise a triumphant march across The European Continent. My travels included an unexpected encounter with an American actor in Turin, Italy, a near-fatal near-collision with two monster trucks in Genoa, Italy, a tremendous birthday party for Yours Truly on the French Riviera, my own personal D-Day on Omaha Beach in Normandy, France, and a Joe Strummer sighting in London’s Trafalgar Square. You have your vacations. I’ll have mine. T’was truly a rollicking ride, this sight-seeing, spirits-swilling sojourn across the Pond. And I did it all as the guest of a series of multi-national, junket-sponsoring corporations who seldom suspected I was even on vacation. And don’t you fret over missing a single moment because, frankly, many of the moments were quite boring. The exciting times, well, I preserved those for you, friends. Roll footage, please... PICCADILLY CIRCUS, LONDON. 5:14 P.M., FRIDAY, JULY 21: Spent the morning in a small pub on the Strand attempting to corner the market on Guinness. Pissed the hell out of the Limey bartender by continuously asking him if he “spoke American.” Noon found me not far from this renowned district of commerce in a terrible wrestling match with powerful demons spawned from the wretched loins of the Guinness beast. As one might expect, the demons scored a decisive victory. Somewhat impaired and quite possibly in need of immediate medical attention, I instead sought refuge in — of all places — a trendy Soho hair salon, under the supervision of an undernourished gay stylist named Lincoln. I’d be proud of myself for being an international degenerate except that, as I’m making this diary entry, at yet another pub, I’m seeking important local travel insight by flipping through the pages of “Reach For The Ground.” This excellent book chronicles the downhill struggle of a true degenerate, an English legend in fact, the late-great Spectator columnist Jeffery Bernard, who was a patron saint and hero to incorrigible drunks the world over. Well-deserved regards to my pal Terry Sullivan over at GQ for recommending this fine work...said recommendation coming on the heels of a similar steering towards Donleavy’s “The Ginger Man” and a brilliant piece of madness called “Killoyle” penned by a man named Boylan. There’s a trend here... Cheers, Sullivan ole boy...the irreparable damage to my Rube Goldbergian psyche is now complete. You’ll hear from my solicitors. And it should be noted that I also have blond hair. Really, I do. Don’t know how I feel about the new look, but Soho seems cool and Lincoln assured me I’m the tits! TURIN PALACE HOTEL, TURIN, ITALY. LATE AT NIGHT, WEDNES- DAY, JULY 5th: I never had any reason to hate the French until today. I arrived in Milan much earlier after connecting in Paris on Air France (motto: “We love to fly...and our planes smell like armpits!”). My luggage is lost. Because I understand about as much French as your average gang banger from Compton, it is impossible to ascertain whether anyone at the airline has the faintest clue as to where my things might be. An Air France representative offered me a lengthy clarification in her native tongue. Not a single word was recognizable, but fearing the repercussions of being perceived as an ignorant American pig-dog, I cleverly sprinkled the “conversation” with a liberal dose of “oui,” which I understand is French for “due to a lack of understanding, I have to pee.” My luggage, I think they assured me, will no doubt arrive within the hour. So here I am, dining naked and alone in my room. Tried to have a meal at the hotel restaurant, but they don’t allow sweat-pants, and that’s all I’ve got thanks to Air France. The sweatpants, incidentally, are hanging from my hotel window. This in the hopes of airing out the considerable odor — eau du armpit. While checking in, I bumped into the American actor Giovanni Ribisi, a cat I’ve met before at press junkets and through mutual friends. Turns out Vanni, as his inner circle refers to him, was shooting a movie in Turin with Kate Blanchett. He graciously pretended to remember me, so in return I made no reference to his role in the horrendous remake of “The Mod Squad.” Our encounter played out something like this: INT. ITALIAN HOTELLOBBY- DAY DAN, a strikingly good looking travel journalist attired in a pair of stylish, if somewhat gamey, sweatpants, is standing next to the American actor GIOVANNI RIBISI, who starred in “Saving Private Ryan,” “The Boiler Room” and “The Mod...er, never mind.” DAN: Hey, Vanni, how’s it going? Giovanni feigns recognition. GIOVANNI: Hey, um...my friend-a, it’s-a going OK-a. DAN: (Looking more strikingly good looking with each passing moment, wears sweats like few in the business) Great. Great. Funny seeing you here. GIOVANNI: Yes-a. I’m-a — how you say? — en-joy-ing-a my time-a here in Torino. DAN: Why are you talking like that, dude? GIOVANNI: Scusee, but-a have-a been-a studying-a Italiano for several months-a, and I must-a stay-a in character-a. DAN: Several months. Really? GIOVANNI: Yes-a. Dan produces a notepad from his jacket pocket and scribbles something. EXTREME CLOSE-UP of what he’s written: “His dialect coach used to work for Air France Communications...I predict another Mod Squad.” Next week: The Twisted European sojourn continues… (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and a freelance writer.) *Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 19, 2002.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/081902.pdf?ref=smdp.com)