She Don’t Want No Chicken, She Don’t Want No Roast
She just wants her double dose of my Beef, Beef, Beef Beef Baloney.
Interesting business afoot last night, as we were asked to leave the backstage area at Madison Square Garden after spilling our pricey cocktail on the handler/owner/helpmeet of some kind of irritable schnauzer. How we even gained access to the area, which basically served as a gigantic green room for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, remains an eternal mystery, up there with the whereabouts of D.B. Cooper and why dudes who should otherwise know better buy unwieldy clusters of heart-shaped Mylar balloons for their little hoodrat girlfriends on Valentine’s Day. (Listen up, Ray Ray: Everybody loses when you go the giant shiny balloon route. The girl looks mortified, you look like a fucking halfwit and while everyone else in the city tries to navigate their way around the slush gullies where the sidewalks meet the streets––carefully picking around the wet like the way anyone with any sense has to dig out the creepy little fetal ears of corn that sometimes unexpectedly come with bad Chinese food––you, your lady friend and her pointless and sad bouquet of helium and string serve as gallstones clogging up the urethra that is our fair city.)
So while we don’t really quite grasp how we managed to bluster our way into the dog show’s proving ground––we suspect the poor woman who holds the lease to the apartment in which we shivered our way back to consciousness this morning may have had something to do with it––we do know that we were bitterly disappointed that our two favorites, a golden retriever who made us speculate on whether there’s some kind of Friendly Canine Event Horizon, beyond which it is impossible to be more life-affirmingly good-natured, and a standard issue English sheepdog, lost out to some kind of freakish terrier thing with a head shaped like a beer keg.
Perhaps it wasn’t a highlight of our year––at our age, we should probably stop getting tossed out of public venues because we’ve been, erm, overserved––but at least we didn’t have to buy anyone chocolates. Or Mylar balloons.