ATOMIC DOG

As a writer, or someone who plays one on TMUSCLE, I spend a lot of time home alone.

It's not bad except for those times when burglars try to break into my house and I have to rig the house with makeshift booby traps like swinging paint buckets and stuff like that.

The good part is that I get to work in my underwear, the kind with the built-in fly that makes it really easy to scratch myself. Another advantage is that I get to wear cool Viking hats with big shiny horns that I make out of aluminum foil.

Try doing that in an office.

I guess the hardest part is the solitude. There are times when I literally don't talk to another soul for an entire day and my voice gets kind of creaky from lack of use, kind of like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

Luckily I've got my Wilson to talk to, which to you might just look like a blown up condom with a face painted on it tied to the back of my chair, but to me he's a true blue companion, albeit with pleasure-inducing knobs all over his face and a French tickler on top of his head.

When it gets really lonely, I sometimes dress the bull terriers up like people, the male with a bowler hat and a little bow tie and the female with a frilly dress and bonnet. His character is Tuggy McTuggerton and she's Molly Ollyoxenfree and I'm Miles Outlandish and we sit on the porch with our toy teacups and lollygag the afternoon away.

Either that or we play Star Wars where the female, an empty can of Bush's Beans affixed to her head, is R2-D2 and the male, is—no costume needed—the Wookie.

Me? I screw on a couple of Danish muffins to my ears and it makes for a damn convincing Princess Leia.

But sometimes even that doesn't allay the loneliness. Sometimes it gets so bad that I'm tempted to do...well, stuff that would sound plain silly if I told you about it. Thank God I haven't gone there yet.

Still, every once in awhile, just to keep the madness at bay, I have to head out to a coffee shop and just be around some real people.

Castrating Bitches and Selfish Pricks

A good coffee shop is a lot like a bar, except for the noticeable lack of neon lighting, vomit, and ass-baring floozies looking to get laid. The similarity I'm referring to is that coffee shops and bars are great places to listen to people, especially if you're wearing one of those SonicEarz (As Seen on TV!) that allow you to overhear conversations from the next solar system.

The topic that's most often discussed, next to maybe sports, is relationships, as in male and female relationships.

Strangely, almost no one seems happy. It seems every third male and every second female is bitching about his/her girlfriend/boyfriend or wife/husband.

She, invariably, is a castrating bitch, while he's always a selfish prick.

Luckily, she's usually able to numb the pain through distractions like shopping and a vivid fantasy life where her high-powered vibrator is in reality a handsome guy named Roberto who drives a sports car and exists only to fulfill her needs, and he's usually able to numb the pain through distractions like sports and a vivid albeit delusionary fantasy life where he thinks the cashier behind the counter is coming on to him because she smiled at him when he ordered a muffin and who, if only he weren't married or involved in a relationship, would exist only to fulfill his needs.

Oh man, oh man, oh Michael Jackson, ma-ma-se, ma-ma-sa, ma-mah coo-sa, man.

The owner of the coffee shop has, as a result of listening to this type of inter-sex kvetching for several years, vowed never to be involved in a relationship.

Although he hasn't said this, I wouldn't be surprised if his resultant male/female encounters consist of dalliances with hookers; that or using his inestimable baking skills to fashion his dough into enticing anatomically correct female shapes, passionately squeezing and kneading his flour-women's breasts until they squirt a golden shower of California raisins.

Cereal...That's What It's All About

It was with these thoughts of relationships that I sat down to dinner the other night. Now I like to watch TV when I eat. I bet you're saying to yourself, "TC likes to watch TV when he eats? You gotta be kidding! Man, you think you know a guy...."

Anyhow, I was channel flipping and I stumbled onto an old episode of King of Queens. Doug Heffernan, aka Mall Cop, is afraid to go downstairs for breakfast because family friend and dog walker Holly is temporarily staying in the basement while she looks for an apartment. Doug has no idea what to say to her, so he's reluctant to go downstairs, but his bowl of cereal is calling to him.

Meanwhile, Doug's wife, Carrie, is working non-stop on a project for work and she's pretty much locked herself in her upstairs home office until the job's done.

Doug's stomach wins out and he tiptoes downstairs. Despite his stealth, Holly hears him in the kitchen and joins him. He's frozen. Can't think of a thing to say. He finally mutters, "Cereal...that's what it's all about."

Holly smiles good-naturedly, and she's obviously eager for Doug to say something else. Finally, "IPS" delivery driver Doug tries to tell her about something that happened to him at work the other day, a story his wife had rebuffed hearing because she was too busy.

"I delivered a package to a guy named Bubka Penis the other day," he offers meekly.

Holly does a spit take and spews cereal all over the table.

Doug is thrilled; thrilled that somebody thought his story was funny!

"I bet all kinds of funny things happen to you at work," she says, enthusiastically.

"Yes, yes they do!" exclaims Doug, who's never experienced this before, never had someone in his house listen to him, never had someone in the house who laughed at his stories!

Doug then takes a swig of orange juice directly from the carton, an act for which his wife has scolded him the previous day. Holly sees him and he's embarrassed, saying, "Sorry, I guess that's kind of gross."

Rather than scolding him, Holly bets him five bucks that he can't finish the whole thing in one gulp! He drains the sucker enthusiastically and she pays up with an Arby's coupon, which in Doug's house, "is as good as money."

Has any child's face ever lit up with such happiness, let alone a grown man's? Finally, a woman who appreciates him, who understands him, who doesn't bust his balls!

The next morning Doug bounds out of bed, eager to go downstairs. Meanwhile wife Carrie is still squired away in her upstairs office, still typing away on her work project. As Doug walks into the kitchen, he's greeted with the sight of Holly making pancakes, eggs, and hand cut bacon. His eyes light up.

Someone is making him breakfast! And not just cold cereal!

Holly then asks him if he'd like her to wheel the TV into the kitchen so he can watch while he eats.

The look on his face! The same look he'd have if gold pirate doubloons were issuing forth from her vagina!

Later, he walks back upstairs to dutifully check on Carrie. She's stressed from her work and says to Doug, "I need to unwind. Let's have sex."

He can't f-ing believe it! He got sex from Carrie without having to schmooze her, without having to lie to her that her ass looks good in those God-awful stretch pants, without having to ply her by completing household chores! Did any man ever have it better!?!

Afterwards, smile on his face, he zips up his sweat suit and practically levitates downstairs, where Holly has just finished baking Doug a chocolate cake.

He's buoyant! He's being carried on angel wings! Doug has never been happier

He explains the situation to his friends who've gathered at his house to watch TV:

"If I want someone to laugh at my stories, cook for me, be nice to me, I have Holly on this floor. If I want someone to have sex with, yell at the phone company, tell me when to take a shower, I got Carrie up there. Upstairs wife, downstairs wife, happy."

The next day he has a football party and Holly prepares a taco bar! She walks around with a tray of tequila shooters! All the guys are smoking cigars, which are, in Carrie's world, taboo!

"I just love the smell of cigars," bubbles Holly. "Mmmmm! Something about it just makes me want to bake."

Doug has it great. Unfortunately, like a fat Icarus, he gets cocky and flies too close to the sun. He attempts to juggle a third "wife."

This one's a sister of a friend and she does P.R. for Nassau Coliseum. She tells Doug she can get him tickets to any event. After a few front row seats to hockey games, a locker room meeting with the players, and a chance to ride on the Zamboni, Doug declares to the universe, "Coliseum wife, you're my favorite."

Obviously, this 3^rd wife is the comedy crucible in the show. Doug can't handle pleasing all three women and comedy doo-doo hits the fan. He's of course left with one wife, the real one, and he's probably doomed to a life of conflict and dissatisfaction (not that reality would creep into a comedy show).

An Energy Source, Not an Energy Drain

The weird thing is that I almost got teary eyed over this...this fairly pedestrian television comedy! I saw the pure joy on Doug's face, recognized the feelings of acknowledgement, approval, and pure animal satisfaction he was experiencing, compared it to the relationships I see around me, and I actually felt sad!

Together, Holly and Carrie equaled one decent mate. It wasn't Holly's baking or cooking that would have helped Doug be happy—those acts were incidental. It was Holly's giving nature, her non-judgmental attitude, and her interest in giving rather then receiving.

Granted, Doug is self-absorbed, conniving, slovenly, and selfish, in many ways just the penis-carrying equivalent of Carrie. I get that. Let's ignore that for the sake of argument, though, and assume that maybe Doug would be a tad more giving and a little less selfish if his mate were a little less selfish and a tad more giving.

But let's forget the Heffernans. The undeniable fact is that most people get involved largely because of their loins. They see something that causes bodily secretions to stain their underwear and they make the tragic mistake of using that as the primary factor in determining whether they should pledge their undying love to that person.

The second factor used to determine the suitably of a potential mate, probably equally unwise to the flow of underwear secretions, is the perceived or hoped for ability of the potential mate to "fill in your gaps" or make you feel secure.

In other words, people usually want something from the other person. They want another person's energy, they want constant attention, they want acknowledgment and understanding.

He wants a whore in the bedroom, a whore who can cook in the kitchen, and maybe a whore-slash-certified public accountant in the home office come tax time. He wants a combination of an underwear model, celebrity chef Rachel Ray, Mother Theresa, and porn star Veronika Zemanova.

She wants...ah, who the hell knows? Let's put it this way, she wants something equally unrealistic, someone who'll fulfill every half-baked need of hers.

Horse piss.

Unfortunately, invariably, the barometric underwear secretions soon become a thing of the past. Unfortunately, invariably, the illusory glow of newfound love soon also becomes a thing of the past and you usually find that your mate isn't filling in your gaps.

You're left with reality. And reality is usually what I see and hear in the coffee shop, not to mention my friends' relationships, the celebrity relationships in the tabloids, everywhere.

Granted, it's important for a potential mate to make your underwear crusty and it's nice that your mate will yell at the paperboy when he throws the Sunday paper in the begonias when you lack the courage, but it's not enough.

If you're lacking some essential quality, you ain't gonna get it from someone else. If you're looking for someone to give you things, you ain't gonna get them unless, paradoxically, you forget your own needs and concentrate on the other person's needs.

Unfortunately, the other person in the relationship has to have the same attitude, to give without expectation of receiving anything in return. You and your mate act as energy sources instead of energy drains.

Of course, that kind of attitude is important in all relationships, romantic, personal, or business. It's very Zen. Sorta. At least as interpreted by a guy who works in his underwear and a cool Viking hat with big shiny horns.