The ruby red boils on Pee Dog's hemmorhoids pulsated and quivered with excitement as he forced his way through the crowd. His sulphurous, Mercapatan-laden farts assaulted the noses of the convention goers, and the prolonged, tremulous noise of his amazingly loud flatulations announced his presence to their ears as well. So wet and earthy were his 'polish cheers' that, by comparison, his ketone-redolent halitosis, his vomit encrusted, matted fur, and even his mortifying, suppurating sores and wens scarcely bore odour to those recoiling in disgust as Pee Dog brushed between their legs in his haste to press forward.
The ointments and lotions that had been meant (so vainly!) to assuage his mange-ridden flesh glistened under the elegant chandelier lights as the slickened and slippery Pee Dog literally slid through the formally attired crowd. His tumescent, sperm-beshined, blood-red organ thrust forward and pointed his way onward, much as a sword might have led a brave soldier in days of old: proudly held high, and brandished with vigor. A pulsating froth of gleet dribbled from his throbbing, ulcerated urethra, and his scabby scrotum gleamed with sour-smelling sebaceous mucous. A veritable cloud of vermin and shit ticks -- including a museum's ransom in rare species of well-fed and fecund fleas, ringworm spores, blood- engorged scabies mites, and round worm larvae -- dripped or were slung from his gloriously (and flamboyantly obvious!) genital and anal regions, scampering up the legs of powerful, well-known men or burrowing their ways into the flesh of young debuttantes and ambassadors' wives. The tidal wave of parasites soon made its presence felt by all.
"I'll get to meet him, I'll get to meet him!" Pee Dog thought elatedly. "The President of the United States!" Aside from his previous master, "Bob" Dobbs, Pee Dog had never before enjoyed such an opportunity to experience Greatness in the flesh!
"Should I sniff his asshole, or offer mine to him, into which he might first push his nose?" pondered the socially inexperienced urine-canine. "Maybe that's best..."
The thought of offering this ancient ritual greeting of the dog species to Ronald and Nancy Reagan excited PeeDog to almost orgasmic intensity -- in fact, to orgasm. As the first wad of Pee Dog's AIDS-infected, puslike semen hit Princess Anne just behind the lower left thigh, Pee Dog spotted Nancy Reagan. Lust began to quiver at the base of Pee Dog's penis and he nearly swooned as the feverish throb slowly worked its way up his swollen, proudly erect member.
He then noticed the Secret Service agents swarming through the crowd in his direction. The closest, a bland, wide-faced ex-football player, tripped over a Georgetown secretary as she fled the veritable fester-wagon that was the Holy Dog; another agent carreened into the first, and fell flat on his face in a pool of jism left behind by "The Peed One" in his blind dash towards Glory and his President. Yet another skidded to a halt just before meeting the same fate, only to accidentally discharge his gun into the face of a fourth agent.
Pee Dog, sensing their proximity with his fever-heightened awareness, ducked between the legs of George Bush's wife (in so doing, depositing a colony of mutant syphilis germs well within reach of her warm vastness). As she fell back in a dead faint, the first Secret Service agent almost tripped over her now-tainted body, but managed to retain his upright stance by catching himself on the massive breasts of the party's obese hostess. As he recovered his balance he grabbed for Pee Dog, who spun just out of reach; and, missing his quarry, the red-faced agent slowly but surely fell down once again. Trouncing over the fallen Secret Service man, Pee Dog deftly sprang up to the banquet table and leapt at the chandelier. Swinging forward, the Dog of the Unclean released his hold and shot over the heads of the agents, spewing an aerial trail of gleet, spittle, and diarrhetic droplets.
"Perfect timing," Pee Dog thought gleefully, as a startled Nancy Reagan looked up at him.
"Those lips! Those lips!" thought Pee Dog as he landed on the First Lady's head. "I am in love with those lips!" exulted the Urine Canine, clutching at her ears. He felt the wife of the President stiffen as his rear paws dug into her breasts. On this unsteady perch, Pee Dog attempted to ram his rancid prod between those winsome lips. The first abortive pelvic thrust only penetrated the First Lady's left nostril, and the Pee Dick was quickly pulled out. With the second, his wet prod slid along Nancy's upper lip.
Then, lovingly, his festering penis carressed the left nare of her pert, aquiline nose.
She softly moaned, "Oh, yes..."
And with that, Pee Dog achieved the Greatness he sought.
Of course, another reason these forms of cultural progress became central to Western Humanities was that the tale cycles broke out of the old hackneyed and futile forms in which Western belles lettres had been frozen for decades. Pee Dog and Poop Dog were a breath of fresh air in a world of tired writers, dismal novels, stale literary backpatting societies and the self-serving criticism of the '70s and '80s. It was obvious that the huge amounts of money paid to 'artists' had thoroughly corrupted and nearly destroyed the liberal arts until the (at first uncommercial) Poop and Pee Dog cycles "overthrew the moneychangers" in the "temple of literacy." In a very real sense, Pee Dog and Poop Dog are the "Robinson Crusoes" of the 21st Century -- works of art that extend the written word to cover new universes of feeling, new ways of seeing and describing our very lives and souls. So effective was this form of storytelling that, like Defoe's famous tour de force, many thought the characters real. It is amusing to note that, as with the earlier Castaneda/Don Juan novels, many people actually set out on arduous searches, hoping to sit at the feet of the mythical Dogs. Some even claim to have done so!
(c)1986 by The SubGenius Foundation and Euthanasius
Editor's note: Pee Dog is a creation of
Jay Cotton and Gary Panter of The Shit Generation.
The first Pee Dog adventure, drawn by The Shit Generation
in comic book form, is available for $3 from:
The SubGenius Foundation, P.O. BOx 140306, Dallas, Texas, 75214.
Fuck it, Ivan, this New York review third rate parody stuff is giving me a headache. But if you think the New York Times Review is boring, the London Times Literary Supplement is surely worse by an OrdMag! And neither have heard of Poop Dog or Pee Dog or the Stark Fist or the Book of the SubGenius. Both rags are only interested in if Kafka's sister had the clap or if Hannah Arhenot wrote in orange crayola on shopping bags or butcher paper. Rub the hair right off my balls you betcha little Beaver. Just what's needed on the anal retentive ward. I'm worried about the Beaver Oh Hell Oh Pee Dog Ivan what's in those pills Dobbs sends out. I'll end up like Dr. Lux or Huey and blow huge globs of dead cells and neurons out of my nose each morning...yech... Let Crypts or Janor finish it.
P.S. No no on second thought BURN THIS! Don't send it to the White House with George Bush's name signed to it... that's too cruel.
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