Howl (23 page)

One-on-One with Triumph the Insult Comic Dog

[Catie Lazarus]

M
OST MALES FANTASIZE
about being with a babe, but only one stud has managed to get up close and personal with so many hot stars, including Beyoncé, Lindsay Lohan, Heather Locklear, and J. Lo. Sure, he’s a celebrity in his own right, with a Grammy-nominated CD, best-selling DVD, and a cult following that has only skyrocketed since his debut on
Late Night with Conan O’Brien
in 1997. That said, this biting and brilliant insult comic admits he is a bastard. In fact, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog is a shorthaired, black-and-brown compact dog made out of felt and plastic.

The irascible hand puppet deftly pokes fun at celebrities who are making headlines. But the comic genius behind Triumph, Robert Smigel, also manages to pay tribute to old-school borscht-belt stand-up comedians by wearing a sparkly gold bow tie, chomping on a cigar, and peppering his jokes with a staple punch line, “for me to poop on,” and tag line, “I keed.”

C
ATIE
L
AZARUS:
Your Grammy-nominated CD,
Come Poop with Me: Best of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog,
was such a success. Can your fans expect another CD or DVD?

T
RIUMPH THE
I
NSULT
C
OMIC
D
OG:
No, there’s no new DVD on the horizon because the first one was the best ever. It has more laughs than
Air Bud
or
Snow Dogs
and also way more graphic sex. Seriously, it’s the most entertaining, life-affirming DVD since
Backdoor Beagles Volume 3.

CL:
Your comic sensibility seems to be influenced by insult comic Don Rickles, who was himself influenced by the late Jack E. Leonard. Do you have a protégé?

TICD:
Rickles is my idol, I worship the ground he poops on. As for protégés, yes, I have one—Lisa Lampanelli. As you can see, the species keeps getting lower. I’ve taught her about timing and crafting one-liners but she’s not housebroken yet. She still poops on the carpet.

CL:
When you first started appearing on
Late Night with Conan O’Brien
in 1997, you were identified as a Yugoslavian Mountain Hound. How old are you in dog years?

TICD:
I don’t talk about my age, just my pink thing. It’s one foot, in dog inches.

CL:
You slammed former D.C. mayor Marion Barry, and went head-to-head with Eminem at the MTV Music Awards—are you particularly proud of insulting anyone else?

TICD:
I got that Fox guy everyone bitches about, O’Reilly. I was on his show, but he cut all my punch lines. “No Spin Zone?” Who’s he kidding? The only time I spin like that is when I’m crapping out a chicken bone. I told him, they call
me
a puppet—you’re the one with Rupert Murdoch’s hand up yours.

CL:
If you were roasted—by The Friars Club or Comedy Central—who would you want on the dais?

TICD:
You’d have to start with the great Freddie Roman, because there’s no way I won’t be able to top him. The last time Freddie Roman said something funny, mankind had just domesticated dogs. And I’d want Louie Anderson up there, so that for once, no one would blame me for the farting.

CL:
Tell us about your upbringing. It sounds like you have an Eastern European accent. And tell us about your family.

TICD:
It’s called a dog accent, moron. That’s how all dogs talk! My whole family has a musical background. My papa was a tummler. He did a little bit of everything: sing, dance, tell jokes, lick crotches. My mama is an Afghan who looks just like Celine Dion. My sister isn’t musical, but she smells like Christina Aguilera.

CL:
You have a cult following. What does it feel like to have all these adult fans who spend their time discussing you on message boards?

TICD:
They’re wasting their time. They could be on YouTube—there’s three pages’ worth of Lassie’s nip slips. And don’t tell me it’s because she has so many. You never saw the early Lassies flash them like that.

CL:
You have poked fun of popular dogs like Lassie and Benji; are there any celebrity dogs you like or admire?

TICD:
Okay, you’re setting up an obvious joke here, so let’s just agree that Courtney Love is unattractive and move on.

CL:
Have you met a lot of celebrity dogs—are they just like ordinary dogs?

TICD:
In all seriousness, these Hollywood dogs, they’re all freaks and pervs. Old Yeller got that nickname because he liked to get peed on. Air Bud went that way too. They didn’t call him “Golden Receiver” for nothing.

CL:
In interviews you have referred to your illegitimate children. How do you feel about dogs being spayed and neutered?

TICD:
I’ve got about 200 paternity lawsuits that I’d like to clear up. There’s a Schnauzer in Ohio who claims her puppies are mine, but how can she prove I’m the father when she was with Vince Neil and Fred Durst the same night?

To know how I feel about neutering, all you need to do is to buy my CD,
Come Poop with Me,
and check out “Bob Barker,” my duet with Jack Black. Seriously, where does Barker come off telling people what to do with my balls? The guy’s so old—he looks like a chew toy I threw out last year. At least when I go for a walk, I can find my way back.

CL:
Humans tend to anthropomorphize dogs, rather than the animals they eat (such as chickens and cows). Do you think “dogs are people” too?

TICD:
You know, it’s best to keep in reality, though it’s easy to let your imagination go. Sometimes I anthropomorphize Tony Danza.

A Gentleman’s Ideal Companion

[Dave Barry]

I’
M TRYING TO
convince my wife that we need a dog. I grew up with dogs and am comfortable with their ways. If we’re visiting someone’s home, and I suddenly experience a sensation of humid warmth, and I look down and see that my right arm has disappeared up to the elbow inside the mouth of a dog the size of a medium horse, I am not alarmed. I know that this is simply how a large, friendly dog says: “Greetings! You have a pleasing salty taste!”

I respond by telling the dog that he is a good boy and pounding him with hearty blows, blows that would flatten a cat like a hairy pancake but that make the dog only like me more. He likes me so much that he goes and gets his Special Toy.

This is something that used to be a recognizable object—a stuffed animal, a basketball, a Federal Express driver—but has long since been converted, through countless hours of hard work on the dog’s part, into a random wad of filth held together by 73 gallons of congealed dog spit.

“Give me that!” I shout, grabbing an end of the Special Toy. This pleases the dog: it confirms his belief that his Special Toy is the most desirable item in the universe, more desirable even than the corpse of a squirrel. For several seconds we fight for this prize, the dog whipping his head side to side like a crazed windshield wiper. Finally I yank the Special Toy free and hold it triumphantly aloft. The dog watches it with laser-beam concentration, his entire body vibrating with excitement, waiting for me to throw it…waiting…waiting…until finally I cock my arm, and, with a quick motion, I…fake a throw. I’m still holding the Special Toy. But, whooosh, the dog has launched himself across the room, an unguided pursuit missile, reaching a velocity of 75 mph before, wham, he slams headfirst into the wall at the far end of the room.

This stimulates the M&M-sized clump of nerve cells that serves as a dog’s brain to form a thought: The Special Toy is not here! Where is the Special Toy?? The dog whirls, sees the toy in my hand and races back across the room. Just as he reaches me, I cock my arm and…fake another throw. Whooosh! Wham! The fake works again! It will always work. I can keep faking throws until the dog has punched a dog-shaped hole completely through the far wall, and the dog will still sprint back to me, sincerely believing that this time, I’m going to throw the toy. This is one reason why I love dogs.

My wife, who would not touch a Special Toy with a barge pole, is less impressed. She fails to see the appeal of an animal who appears to be less intelligent than its own parasites. Oh, I’ve tried to explain the advantages of having a dog. For example:

A dog is always ready: It doesn’t matter for what—dogs are just ready. If you leave your car window open, the dog will leap into the car and sit there for hours. It will sit there for days, if you let it. Because the dog knows that sometimes the car just starts moving, and you have to be ready! Usually the dog will sit in the driver’s seat, in case (you never know!) the dog is called upon to steer.

A dog is vigilant: One time, on a movie set, I watched a small dog walk past a line of six metal light stands. When the dog came to the sixth light stand—which was exactly the same as the other five light stands—the dog stopped and began barking furiously at it. The dog would not stop. The owner finally had to drag the dog away, with the dog yanking wildly at its leash, still enraged by the light stand. Clearly the dog had detected some hostile intent in this particular light stand, something that we humans, with our inferior senses, were not aware of. We humans were thinking, “What’s wrong with that dog?” Whereas the light stand was thinking, “Whew! That was close!”

These are just a couple of examples of the practical benefits provided by dogs. There are many more, and I have tried pointing them out to my wife, but she doesn’t see it. This is why, in our house, we have fish. They’re nice fish, but they’re not a whole lot of fun. Although they are excellent drivers.

Excerpts from Great Books in the Canine Canon

[Francis Heaney]

From
The Catcher of the Stick

by Sal

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is what breed I am, and if I was a cute puppy, and whether or not I know any tricks, and all that Rin Tin Tin kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. I’m not going to tell you my whole razzafrazzin’ pedigree or anything. I’ll just tell you about this stray-dog stuff that happened to me around last Christmas. I mean that’s all I told Magic about, and he’s my littermate and all. He’s in Hollywood. He used to just be a regular dog, when he was home. I remember he dug this hole that must have been four feet deep, just for the hell of it. He stood there and barked all night if anyone got near it. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, Magic, shilling for a clothing store. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s clothes. Don’t even mention them to me.

Where I want to start telling is the day I ran away from Pencey Obedience School. You’ve probably seen the ads for it. They advertise in tons of magazines—you know,
Dog Fancy,
that kind of crap—always showing some puff ball Poodle wearing a ribbon jumping through a hoop for a piece of steak. Like as if all they ever did at Pencey was feed us steak all the time. I never even once saw even a package of ground beef anywhere near the place. Biscuits, that was it. You ever try to jump through a hoop for a biscuit? It’s hard to get excited about it, let me tell you. Anyway, it was the Saturday of the obstacle course race with Saxon Kennel. It was supposed to be a very big deal. I remember I was way the hell up on the hill behind the school. The reason I was up there, instead of down at the race, was because I’d gone chasing a stick right in the middle of a race. I was halfway across the phony pool they called a river, and I just turned and ran. I guess it was a crummy thing to do. But it wasn’t all my fault. Some kid had to keep tossing sticks around. Just tossing them.

See, what I have to do is, I have to play with everybody if they start to go throwing a stick—I mean, if they throw one and they don’t care where it’s going I have to come out from somewhere and
catch
it. I’d do it all day. I’d just be the catcher of the stick and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing I’d really like to be. I know it’s crazy.

From
Walkin’

by Thor

When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived with a family, in the suburbs, twenty yards from every neighbor, in a doghouse that my master built himself with an Allen wrench, on the corner of Walden and Magnolia, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the goodwill of my keepers only. I lived there two years and two months. At present I am chasing chipmunks in the woods again. The mass of dogs lead lives of constant deprivation. What is called emancipation is confirmed deprivation. From the rainy meadow you run into the barren woodland, and have to console yourself with the gristle of skunks and muskrats. When we consider what is the chief end of
Canis familiaris,
and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if dogs had deliberately chosen the feral mode of living because they preferred it to any other, yet it is never too late to give up our bestialness. But to make haste to my own experiment.

Near the end of March 1995, I went down to the playground by Walden Street, nearest to where I intended to find a house, and began to look longingly at some small schoolchildren, still in their youth and thus most vulnerable to emotional suasion. I stayed there for more than a quarter of an hour, just long enough to be chased away by a teacher, providing me a sympathetic, victimized aspect. So I went on for some weeks, loitering and begging tidbits. My days in the playground were not very long ones; yet I usually managed a dinner of baloney and cookies. Before I was done each thought I was his dog, or should be.

By the middle of April, my doghouse was bought and ready for the building. I was to be the pet of James Collins, a popular boy whose father worked on the commuter rail. James Collins’s yard was considered an uncommonly fine one. I walked about its border, sniffing. I thought, a dog could spend a happy life sniffing all there is to sniff in a single yard, if he took the time to wholly appreciate each scent. Sadly, I was not to spend my life there, after an incident involving a handmade pillow and some meat drippings, but I learned much in those twenty-six months on the joys of civil obedience, and how, if a dog prefers walking on a leash to keeping pace with his wild companions, perhaps it is because he hears the whirr of an electric can opener.

From
Food and Leashes in Las Vegas

by Hunter

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the window began to roll down. I remember saying something like “ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF” and suddenly there was a tremendous wind all around me and my ears were flapping and flipping and waving around my head, which was sticking out of a car going just over 65 miles an hour with my family to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming, “Hunter! You’re stepping on my frozen yogurt!”

Then it was quiet again. My master had picked me up and stuck me in the backseat. It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, I was going to have to start chewing on something, possibly an armrest. But there was no going back, and no time for walkies. We would have to ride it out. Check-in for the Black Mountain Kennel Club dog show was already under way, and we had to get there by four or some standby Terrier would take my place. Grrrrrrrroowrrrrrrrrr.

The trunk of the car looked like a mobile pet store. We had two squeaky hot dogs, six bags of chew sticks, three tug-of-war ropes, twenty cans of premium wet food, one Frisbee, three hair clippers, twenty-five packs of batteries for the hair clippers, my fuzzy blanket, seven collars, four leashes, and a Tupperware container filled with eighty dog biscuits (minus the half-chewed one sticking out from under the passenger seat).

The only thing that really worried me was the Frisbee. There is nothing in the world more obsessed and uncontrollable than a dog in the depths of a Frisbee binge. But this wasn’t that kind of dog show. This wasn’t California, on a beach, jumping and catching and running. This was sitting still, playing nice. Not my scene. But I had to hold it together. I had to OH MY GOD BIRDS ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF.

From
The Great Cat Pee

by Scotty

When I was a pup my sire gave me some advice that I’ve been nosing around ever since. “Whenever you feel like chasing a cat,” he told me, “just remember that all the animals don’t have the advantages that dogs have.”

He didn’t say any more because he was seized with an urge to scratch himself that lasted for quite some time, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m inclined to let cats be, a habit that has opened up many aloof felines to me and also made me the victim of not a few novelty photographs.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Cats may sleep in the sink or the double-poster bed or on the back stoop but after a certain point I don’t care where they decide to plunk themselves. When I came back from the kennel last autumn I wanted the house to be uniform and tidy and free from tracked-around bits of cat litter forever; I wanted no more rambunctious kittenish runs up the side of the bookcase, knocking the golf trophies into the spider plant. Only cat pee, the liquid that gives its name to this book, was exempt from my reaction. If smell is an ineffable sequence of aromatic explosions, then there was something combustible about it, some impossible whiff of gunpowder that fired the pleasure synapses in my helpless brain, as if I were a bomb-sniffing dog who wanted to throw himself into the very fire he was entrusted with preventing.

So it happened that on a warm autumn evening I walked into the hallway to see a puddle of cat pee where it should not have been at all. The silhouette of a moving cat flickered across the bathroom window, and turning my head to watch it I smelled the heavenly scent. I decided to roll in it.

But I was not alone. A figure emerged from the shadow of the kitchen doorway and was standing with a stack of napkins bunched in her hands. Something in her purposeful movements and the steady stride of her feet rattled me, and involuntarily I glanced away as she stretched out her arms to the amber water in a curious way. When I looked once more for the cat pee it had vanished, and I was alone again in the still faintly redolent hallway.

From
The Petamorphosis

by Franny

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams about chasing rabbits, he found himself transformed in his bed into a Golden Retriever. He thought about it for a minute and decided he was fine with that, and went back to sleep.