Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Observations taken during the 1 AM Westminster Dog Show re-broadcast.

So I'm watching the Westminster Dog show with my sister right now because I can't sleep. But I realize I don't want to. Why would I? This show is so much more than a dog competition. It's a total fucking bug out. You get to watch dogs which have been poof-preened into weird little fur clouds; fuzzy, shiny, boxy things that swish and sway across the floor like
animated throw pillows from Henry Kissinger's Honeymoon suite.Then you have the rest of them; big, awesome horse-sized things that look like concept art for the Tim Burton Marmaduke reboot, which when gathered together in large groups begin to resemble a Wookie drag queen parade float. What is not to love about this cavalry of absurd beauty unraveling before my eyes.

You also get to enjoy the spectacle of tight-faced men and women
geeked to the gills on Xanax and milk-bones, running around a giant green carpet while being watched by hawk eyed retirees in Civil War funeral attire who usually resemble one of the following: A) political cartoons of 1920's industry tycoons, B) Ellen DeGeneres/Wilford Brimley, or C) the heavyset, bullet-dodging barkeep in every Western film ever made.

The judges and handlers are an interesting cross-section of American dog nerds and visiting dog nerds from other countries. It's fascinating how similar and different they all are. There's a lot of story in their faces. If you take dogs and pantsuits out of the mix, I could easily be watching a Reba McEntire book signing or maybe even a cocktail hour at
New Vermont's 2016 singles mixer for survivors of the Great Robot Wars.

I noticed that Poodles always win, or at least make it to the finals. So do those little bastard Terriers. Something is screwy in this world of dog. Totally fixed. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that Poodle and Terrier syndicates are the Yakuza and Triads of the show dog world, deciding who gets the Blue Ribbon through mortal combat in a candlelit ring deep underneath the mansion of Caesar Milan. He's the kingpin, definitely. And why shouldn't he be? America's growing addiction to illegal dog show gambling creates a revenue stream ripe for criminal plundering. Why else do you think Caesar Milan has so many dogs? Not because he likes them. He hates dogs.The fucking dude kicks one in the face every 5 seconds on his show. But he knows they're good for certain things. You try convincing TV crew interns to bite an FBI agent in the balls for college credit.

My sister just asked about a judge, "How does that woman get her job?" I wouldn't know. I imagine they're like Carnies with better credit and less tents. My ignorance and prejudgment tell me that two prerequisites for them are to be both off-putting and extremely hard to be around. The perfect candidate is probably a 40-something man or woman that pretends to be well read, is the owner of tired shoulders and deep frown lines carved into their bitter faces by soul-crushing loneliness caused by years of frustration in trying to deal with people that don't get the whole “dog thing.” I could be wrong. But I have pretty good radar for people that suck at being awesome and succeed at being the fucking worst.

Commercial break. OMG. This adopt a dog ad is making me feel like bees are stinging my heart. Thanks for the kick in the beans, David Duchovny. Your "narration" makes me feel bad for being a human being. Hope you enjoy that mall money you earned during the 7.5 minutes you spent sucking down Fiji waters in the vocal booth, Mulder. I could really use one of those waters to rehydrate myself after all the crying I'll be doing down the road thinking about the images of confused puppy eyes staring at me through a fucking cage. Good work, you joy-killing asshole. Not even Scully can suck the air out of a room that fast. And the music is just... comically sad. It sounds like Thom Yorke's face. Excuse me while I crawl into a bottle of despair and murder my life to death. But please, don't stop your slow piano playing on my behalf. Those sounds are like tears of a Basset Hound puppy left out in the cold all night hitting the keys one by one. Nice touch, you manipulative bastards. You've made me sadder then when I watched E.T. die.

Other notes:
  • The Westminster announcer sounds like God, if the part had been played by a white economics professor from New England imitating Morgan Freeman during a wine-induced after-dinner board game with the new theater professor and his wife who drank too much and got awkward around his kids. Add to that some stadium reverb and an asshole filter and you have your man.
  • I'm pretty sure the handler of the Australian cattle dog just gave him a treat, and then immediately put the other half directly in his mouth and chewed it without even blinking. I rewound it on the DVR, and yes. Yes he did. That man eats dog food, or the dog eats man food. Either way I'm engrossed with the grossness of it.
  • Even if you call it a Belgian Tevuran, it's still just a Nazi police dog in hipster camouflage. You can't make a word like Tevuran sound cute. Names like that belong on whaling ships and airborne diseases, not on man's best friend. So give it up, Belgium. The dog slang ain't playing. It sounds like a waffle dish served at a Romulan Friendly's.
  • There's a commercial on asking me if I have a case of "dirty carpet anxiety". Last time I checked that doesn't make sense, so go fuck yourself.
  • If wolves has sex with bears they'd make the perfect Collie. Like this guy for example (below). He's so cool he should have his own dog so he can walk them. Look at this badass! He's like a werewolf version of Gandalf. I bet he can fly when nobody's looking.

Other, other notes:
  • Sheepdogs look like Koala Bears dressed as ZZ Top for a Wildlife Conservation calender.
  • Swedish Vallhund also a Viking dog, looks like it was engineered by dog scientists to the optimal proportions and size for specializing in attacking the genital area of an adult man.
  • Norwegian Buhund: the dog of Vikings. SOLD. Fucking sold. Apparently they were the companion of the Vikings when they were working on farms, or taking work breaks to visit other towns and burn other people and their farms. It's called a Viking siesta.
  • The Canaan dog is named after the Bible, not New Canaan, CT. Take THAT, white people.
  • Bouviers look content and pretentious. I can see Elton John playing one in a Pixar movie. They're not exactly fat, but more husky and sturdy. But at the same time kind of rebellious and rad, like Alec Baldwin or tugboats. God, I always wanted to ride in one of those. (Tugboats, not Alec Baldwin).

Closing note: I just heard the expression "love this breed!" come out of the commentator's mouth for at least the 45th time in minutes. Listen, pal. I applaud your enthusiasm, but I can't commit to trusting your judgment. Script or no script, I can tell you're more than a little over-involved in dog literature. You fucking adore them. So saying that you "love a breed" is an insult to my intelligence. Those European Mom pants can't possibly hide the raging boner you have for obscure canine trivia. Look. I love dogs. I accept that I'm totally gay for them. But being gay for dogs doesn't make you an expert, and being Liberace Ice-Capades gay for everything related to, or even casually associated with the dog kingdom gives you a bias I simple cannot accept in an objective dog show judge on the professional level. You may sound like a lady when you talk about your passion for the toy group, but I assure you, Sandra Day O'Connor you are not.

Update: A Terrier named Sadie won Best in Show tonight. Fixed again!!!!!!!!

No comments: