Right, OK, where was I?

Oh yeah- that’s right- I was gonna write about the Simpsons before I went all Debbie Dead Dog on you people. So…yeah…the Simpsons. Funny stuff, right? There’s Homer and Marge and, of course, Bart and Lisa and Punky. Hi Punky! Punky punky punky punky!!!! Can I rub your belly?? Can I rub your belly?? Rubbing. Rubbing. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl?? Punky doodles! Kisses Punky. Can you give kisses? Punky give kisses? Punky give kisses?? Oh thank you Punky for the kisses! Thank you for the kisses Punky Wunky. That Punky that funky Punky. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl?? It’s Punky!!!

Ahem. Excuse me. It appears I’ve adopted a small white dog named Punky and also turned into an idiot.

OK- let’s just get this guilt part out of the way. Yeah, we got a new dog a couple of weeks after we lost Lenny. No, we didn’t do it to replace him. Losing him sucked. It still sucks and it’s still weird that he’s not a part of our lives. Hell, I still have him as my desktop wallpaper on my laptop- and that’s only partially because I’m much much too lazy to change it. But much like I’ve said before that the only thing worse than doing theatre is not doing theatre, the only thing worse than losing a dog is not having a dog- so- we brought Punky into our lives. RESCUED her, in fact, from the POUND, where she would have DIED. Or worse yet- been ADOPTED by someone even more RETARDED than ME- like…uhm….and early 2000’s CELEBUTANTE or a JAMES BOND VILLAIN allergic to CATS. So…yeah. How you like them apples, fucko? Now who’s feeling guilty? Punky’s not feeling guilty. Does Punky like apples? Does Punky want to go outside? Does Punky wunky want to go outside for pee pee weepie? Punky go pee pee? Punky go pee pee???  Let’s go! Let’s go Punky! Let’s go pee pee!!! Let’s go pee pee with Punky!!! Pee pee Punky pee pee!

Oh God. I hate myself. Seriously I never want to stop punching myself in the face. The teddy bears won’t even talk to me anymore- but can you blame me for acting this way? Just look at her. And she’s so damn affectionate. She licks my face! She snuggles up to me! She pees with excitement when I come home from work- no one has EVER been that happy to see me. Hell, I’m lucky to get a “sup” or “hey man” or “internet’s down”- but urinating on the carpet with wild abandon??? I never dreamed I could be so lucky (sniff). Sure, they used to urinate with glee when I’d show up at the Powerhouse- but only because I came to fix the toilet. But I don’t need a plunger to unclog Punky’s heart- she’s just pleased as punch that I walked through the door.  I mean, Lenny of blessed memory had many wonderful qualities- but enthusiastic greetings wasn’t one of them. Living with Lenny was like living with an unemployed, stoner roommate- like Zach Galifianakis with more acting chops and less hair. I’d come home after a hard day at work, he’d be lying in bed undressed and we’d sort of grunt hello at each other and he’d go back to scratching himself. Then I would go into the kitchen and he would amble in, bleary eyed all like “dude- are you making dog food? Cause I’ll totally have some.” I swear- if he had thumbs, we’d have gotten him a bong and an X-Box and a SUNY Albany diploma. He was a drink the milk from the carton and put it back in the fridge with a super-tiny amount kind of dog.

With Punky, though, there’s much of a sense of occasion to my  homecoming. Hell every time I come home from work, I’m like a soldier coming home from Afghanistan for a surprise reunion with his family at halftime of a Dallas Cowboys game in a particularly manipulative Budweiser ad- assuming, of course, I come from a family of midgets  who lick each other compulsively and have incredibly poor bladder control. And we all know there’s no such family cause if there were they’d have a show on TLC right between I Turned My Wife Into a Cum Guzzling Fetus Factory for Jesus and Here Comes Diabetes! BTW- I realize that it’s a big misogynistic for me to assume that Jim Bob “turned” Michelle into a Cum Guzzling Fetus Factory. For more misogynistic opinions about the Duggars- check out my hip new misogyny blog  “the Gyst”- recently called “a refreshing alternative to Jezebel” by DouchebagDudeBros.com and Stephen A. Smith. Be sure to read Roger Godell’s latest post “I made everything pink- what more do you gals want?” and our Unwanted Advice Column for women- “Ask A Straight White Guy” – this week’s tip “just giggle and take it as a compliment”.

Ooooooh! Does Punky want belly rubs? Does. Punky Want. Belly. Rubby Rub Rubs???? Belly rubs for Punkyyyyyy. Belly rubs for Punkydoodles.

Oh God. Somebody shoot me.

So- at this point, you might be asking- wasn’t this supposed to be about the Simpsons? Yes. Yes it was. But let me tell you how we got Punky instead. PUNKY!!!!

It was a couple of weeks ago on a Friday and we had pretty much decided that we had found a dog who met all our criteria: medium sized, male dog, mix of poodle & cocker spaniel (the poodle is the baby laxative of dog breeds- you can use it to cut a pure breed and still sell it for the same price. Supposedly it’s because poodles really smart and don’t shed, but we all know it’s cause every word’s funnier with the addition to “poo” – go on – try it “weiniepoo”, “cockapoo” “pit poo”- you can’t go wrong! )- not a terrier, so he wouldn’t be too spastic. His name was Willie and he was temporarily residing at the East Valley Animal Shelter in Van Nuys. We weren’t totally sure we wanted another dog yet- but we figured- hey- we’d go check him out. We had tickets to see La Traviata that night at LA Opera, an anniversary gift from me to my wife- but we figured- we’d leave work around 1 PM, head out to Van Nuys, check out Willie, grab lunch and have plenty of time to go home, change and have a nice, romantic, anniversary dinner and arrive at the opera in a leisurely fashion. If we did decide to adopt him, he would still have to be neutered- so we wouldn’t be able to pick him up until Saturday and therefore we wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with him while we’re at the opera. Perfect! Kismet! Everything was falling into place.

So we got in the car and headed for Van Nuys with a sense of adventure and excitement (no one in history has ever said that before) but, as the Old Testament says “Fortune rarely smiles on a Jets fan.” When I called the East Valley Shelter to check if Willie was still available, I was told he’d been adopted just moments before. All of the air went out of the car. We were aimlessly and doglessly drifting towards Beverly Hills. When the dog we weren’t sure we wanted became the dog we that we couldn’t have, we knew for certain that we couldn’t go back home to an empty house. After a bit of searching on the iPad- and perhaps a slight loosening of our criteria (maybe doesn’t have to be medium sized? maybe doesn’t have to be male? maybe just has to be available?) we found that there were a bunch of possible dogs in the South LA Shelter. By then it was around 2:30 – so we figured- ok, great- we skip lunch, drive down, get there by 3:30, check out some dogs and still have plenty of time for a nice, romantic dinner before the opera.

We made it down to the South LA Shelter, conveniently located at the corner of “I’m not a Racist” and “Yikes! Close the Windows” around 4 PM and began walking among the cages, trying not to think about the fact that we were window shopping on Death Row. We found a few dogs that struck our fancy- one in particular was part dalmatian part poodle (dalmapoo- see-always funny!) I went looking for a staff member who might be able to help us meet the dogs we were interested in. Turns out all of the staff were ensconced behind a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only- Do Not Enter” as a safety precaution against helping the public. It was there that I met Mona- who had all the grace, charm and governmental customer service acumen of a Latina Selma Bouvier (and sort of the hair, too). Mona pulled out the dalmapoo who was even less enthusiastic about meeting us than she was.  There was another dog  we were interested in who wasn’t available yet, and so we came to a cage with a grey-white little fluffball with matted, tangled fur and a Chihuahua so absurdly eager to please, he should have been wearing a little bow tie and saying “Yo quero ha-cha-cha!!! Eh?? Eh??? Is this thing on?” We wanted to see the fluffball, but the Chihuahua came too. At this point, Mona, realized she had a couple of pigeons in her shelter, and so she switched gears from inconvenienced bureaucrat to used dog salesman – (from Selma to Gil.)

And it was there, in the small square of patchy grass which was balding like Dylan McKay before he first left the show and then mysteriously came back with more hair that we first encountered Punky (not yet called Punky). She was pretty but she was a mess- a Pasadena Rose Princess turning tricks on Hollywood Blvd (are there still hookers on Hollywood Blvd- and if so- where do they park??) but when I got down on all fours and looked into her eyes and she gave me that curious flat smile of hers- well- I knew for sure that she was coming home with us. And she knew for sure that I was a crazy person who had just gotten down on his hands and knees on grass so utterly covered in piss it would make Port Authority blush just to get to know her better. And Mona- well, Mona knew for sure that there would be one less dog stuck at the shelter that night and it wouldn’t be the Chihuahua (“that’s ok folks- I’ll be here all week! Unless somebody adopts me….anybody…..take this dog- please????”).

Right, so now it’s 4:50. The shelter’s closing in 10 minutes and we’ve got a dog we like- great! Except- crap! La Fucking Traviata! (Verdi’s original name for it) Fuck! If we leave her at the shelter, she might not still be available in the morning but we can’t adopt her and then leave her home alone all night- I mean, sure we could leave her home alone all night if we wanted to come home to find our place entirely covered with urine and feces but we weren’t feeling that nostalgic for Port Authority so we were at an impasse until our salvation arrived in the form of an announcement over the loudspeaker “Chameleon is Down! The Computer System is Down!” Surely this means we won’t be able to adopt Punky (not yet called Punky) tonight and they’ll have to let us come back tomorrow to get her. Hurray for incompetent IT departments!!! (are there really any other kind?) The opera is saved! Fortune is finally smiling upon us! Could the firing of Rex Ryan be far behind? And then a very stressed out looking woman in a lab coat (like Doctor Without Borders level stressed out), Doctor Whateverhernameis, came out confirmed that, in fact, we wouldn’t be able to adopt Punky (not yet called Punky) with the computer system down and that she would be willing to make an exception to the standard shelter policy and hold Punky (again, not yet called Punky) over night so we could pick her up the next day- and would that be ok with us?  “FUCK YEAH!” we thought “Sure, I suppose, if we must” we said. We struggled mightily to hide our inner glee behind a mask of inconvenienced disappointment and headed for our car as fast as our little legs would carry us. And, then, just when we thought we were out:

“Chameleon is online! The computer system is up!” CRAP!! This is just like that Patriots – Chiefs game- too good to be true! Mona, whom at this point had made it her life’s mission to make sure that we weren’t getting out of there without that motherfucking dog grabbed us by the elbows and yanked us into the office. A medical history was produced, forms were printed, the shelter workers were moving with an urgency never seen by bureaucrats in a situation where neither cake nor collective bargaining are involved. Wait wait wait- here’s another announcement: “CHAMELEON IS DOWN!” Woo-Hoo!! “CHAMELEON IS BACK!” Doh! And before we knew it, and before their totally useless computer system could collapse again (why would you name a computer system after a creature that never looks the same way twice?), Mona was shoving Punky (not yet called Punky) into my arms wrapped in a flee ridden pink sheet (“just in case she pukes in the car”- oh boy! something to look forward to!) and we were on our way out of the shelter, headed north with a filthy, small white dog wrapped in a filthy pink sheet at 4:57 with absolutely no idea what we were going to do with her for the night.

It was at this point that I texted our dog sitter with what is hands down the bougiest electronic message of all time since Richie Rich Tweeted “Consuela got the caviar but forgot toast points. Who’s got two thumbs and is eating Beluga like a bitch with a spork? #thisguy #thuglife” My message was: “So….we just adopted a small white dog. Have opera tickets tonight. Could we please leave her with you for a couple of hours?” And, Donna, being awesome and also thrilled to have her best clients back texted back “Sure Can’t wait to meet her” Great! The First Worldiest of all First world problems- solved! So…it’s 5:15 PM- plenty of time to get up to Donna’s, drop of Punky (still not named Punky), pick up a few essentials for her, stop for a quick dinner and make it to the opera on time!

Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen. We got to Donna’s around 6:30. Dropped off Punky (whom at this point we were thinking maybe we’d call Dolly?), hit the pet store and then, at 7:10 PM- we headed towards Downtown for the opera, cramming a leisurely, romantic pre-opera dinner from Jack in the Box into our grease holes in the car as we crawled through traffic heading downtown on Washington Blvd like a soldier bleeding to death crawling to the First Aid station through the desert who is stuck in a huge line of other soldiers who are bleeding to death trying to get to the First Aid station because one asshole soldier who’s bleeding to death in a Prius is trying to turn left. Finally, we made it to the opera at 7:57, took out a quick second mortgage to pay for valet parking, ran inside not even stopping to pee and collapsed into our seats just in time to wait around for the opera to start ten minutes late. After a beautiful and extremely restful performance of La Traviata (SPOILER ALERT: Everybody’s sad and the nice hooker dies) we rushed back to Donna’s, picked up Punky (Roxie? Moxie? Tallulah? Sam?) took her home and passed out around midnight only to wake up the next day with a filthy, adorable, tiny little fluff ball licking our faces so that, much like Bart when he wakes up to find he joined the Junior Campers, we were wondering just what the fuck we had done the night before. We were pretty sure, though, that we were gonna call her Punky.

So- yeah, that’s how we set out to adopt an an available male, medium sized, cockapoo and ended up with a female, tiny terrierpoo (huh. that one doesn’t work so much) who was met absolutely none of our criteria except “available”.  And in need of a good home. And adorable. And ours. And that’s why the Simpsons is the greatest show on television. Got it? Does Punky get it? Does Punky like the Simpsons? Punkydoodles like the Simpsons? Punky Wunky like the Simpsons? Yes she does. Yes she does. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good wittle girl?? Who’s a goodie-woodie wittle girl?? Punky!

Please. I’m begging you. Shoot me now. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand myself like this. The next post, I promise, will be all about the Simpsons and nothing about Punky. Although- wait a second- did Showtime just announce they were doing a new season of Twin Peaks episodes??? Holy crap!! I’m excited as as Dale Cooper having that first cup of coffee in the morning. I’m as excited as Pete finding a fish in the percolator. I’M SO EXCITED I COULD…..uh oh….oopsie….gotta go. Now I know when Punky feels when I get home. Is Punky excited?? Is Punky excited????? IS PUNKY EXCITED???? Yes. Yes she is.Now we’re both wet. Oh well. Who needs dignity anyhow when I’ve got PUNKY??? Clearly not me. Just look at the Jets shirt. It’s totally not me. Dignity was always more of a Lenny thing.

See what I mean?