“So,” said the gal at the other side of the desk, “are you really THE FUN- HOG?”
“Um, maybe... yeah,” I stammered. Having learned some instinctive caution about that question, I realized my photos were easily accessible on the Web site and that I was wearing a “Read The Fun Hog And Nobody Gets Hurt” T-shirt. Nixon taught us all about “plausible deniability,” yet how soon we forget.
“Wow! I read you every week! I can’t believe you’re really THE FUNHOG,” she sort of gushed.
I was trying to get through to my new employer, AOL/Time Warner CEO Gerry Levin -- or “Uncle Gerry,” as I like to call him -- to find out just how in the hell “Buffy The Vampire Slayer” wound up at UPN this season instead of on the WB where it belongs. I’d gotten as far as his executive assistant’s summer intern’s temp, who turned out to be an unabashed fan of this very website.
She was understandably excited. After all, she thought she was talking to THE FUNHOG. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was speaking to me, Danny Dunn, a mere channeler for my larger-than-life literary alter ego.
It’s the Peter Parker syndrome (he was day-job Spiderman). You see, while we may appear to be one in the same, just a wardrobe change and some sticky substances apart, it often seems that THE FUNHOG is a supernatural being who takes over my body intermittently, exerting absolute control to feed a voracious appetite for pleasure.
Nocturnal in the way other people are Freewill Baptists, THE FUNHOG usually shows up to create some degree of havoc at night, after my Danny Dunn consciousness has been weakened by a bit of alcohol or sleep deprivation or chronically low self-esteem. The differences between the two of us can be striking...
Whenever the opportunity presents itself -- and believe me, in Hollywood, it presents itself regularly -- THE FUNHOG can be found on a barstool, knocking back snifters of expensive brandy and quietly detailing all the exotic places he’s visited, nearly always surrounded by a gaggle of female admirers who are not always immune to the lure of a good brandy.
Danny Dunn wakes up with a total stranger, a wicked hangover, his wallet stuffed into his shoe and the faint knowledge of yet another large bar tab.
THE FUNHOG is a confident womanizer who regularly takes porn stars and supermodels home for Herculean love-making sessions that have been known to register on the Richter Scale.
Dan is prone to excessive drooling when in the presence of women, and has the sex drive of a eunuch, probably due to guilt-related anxiety caused by THE FUNHOG.
THE FUNHOG hitches rides on private jets, off to consume mass quantities of haute cuisine in Aspen with people whose names appear on your kitchen appliances. Welcomed by name at the most exclusive restaurants in town, often in the company of some powerful group or individual, vaguely suggesting that his casual wisdom is needed at the highest levels.
Danny struggles with the ethical implications of shoplifting bean burritos from 7-11 at 4 a.m. There are famous, old-time, semi-ridiculous children’s books named after Danny Dunn. Sweet. THE FUNHOG is unfit for children, but does happen to be a well-known writer who many people think is quite well-to-do, having somehow confused even a slight degree of “fame” with some degree of becoming “rich.”
Danny actually moonlights at Applebee’s and has taken to parking his leased BMW (another FunHog idea, by the way) well away from his official place of residence, where it will be harder to find and the landlord cannot assume any sort of Danny whereabouts.
“So, Mr. FunHog,” the cutie said, jolting me out of my rumination, “you should write something about what it’s like to work in an office at a big place like AOL/Time Warner... that’d be interesting.”
“Sure, or maybe I’ll take it one step further and postulate on what it’d be like to count your fingers and toes for a living!”
Without warning, THE FUNHOG had taken over.
“Excuse me?” “LOOK BABE, IF YOU WANT AN ARTICLE ABOUT WORKING FOR THE CONGLOMERATE, WHY DON’T YOU WRITE IT? I’M SURE SOME MAGAZINE WOULD PAY BIG BUCKS FOR A FRESH IDEA LIKE THAT!” he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Geez,” she said, “I'm sorry I said anything.”
“NO, I’M SORRY I WAS RUDE,” he whispered, leaning into her personal space just a bit. “I’VE BEEN UNDER SUCH STRESS, WHAT WITH MY CAT HAVING BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH RICKETS... SAY, WHY DON’T WE MEET FOR A DRINK LATER AND FLESH OUT YOUR OFFICE STORY IDEA... OH, WAIT... DARN, I’M AFRAID I CAN'T — I’M A LITTLE SHORT ON CASH THIS WEEK, WHAT WITH THE VET BILL AND ALL.”
The executive assistant’s assistant’s secretary’s intern or whatever she was, of course agreed to meet for a drink AND pay the bill. She was absolutely gorgeous, and THE FUNHOG decided the fastest way to overwhelm her was to pour on the “sensitive guy” routine.
Somewhere in the surreal netherworld where I’m sent when HE takes over, I thought I heard him say, “Please be gentle, I’ve been hurt before.”
I don’t remember much after that, but I’m certain it was a wild night, since I keep getting calls from someone at The Bellagio in Las Vegas regarding Mr. and Mrs. Dunn’s unpaid room tab. I’ve got large welts in places I don’t normally bruise, and a woman named Marianne keeps leaving messages on my machine about “the validity of the marriage license.”
THE FUNHOG has done it again. (Dan Dunn, a Santa Monica resident, writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more FunHog fun, check out www.thefunhog.com.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on April 2, 2002. Read the original PDF.