Wednesday, November 07, 2007

SIX THINGS I'M GOING TO MISS WITH THE CANCELLATION OF "DOG: BOUNTY HUNTER"

I'm not going to get into a discussion of right or wrong, the N-word (although I'm looking for a new word to call "the word" because the "N-word" just isn't working for me anymore) or anything else not about the show. This is all about paying homage to what was one of the greater cop-ish shows on television. I mean, for me it was the best of both worlds because it was the "hunt and kill" thriller like COPS, but it features a score of trashy bounty hunters wearing leis. It was like Magnum P.I. meets Boba Fett. So, as it's on its way out da door (until some cable network loosens its morals and principles and adds it back into rotation), here's my SIX THINGS I'M GOING TO MISS WITH THE CANCELLATION OF DOG: BOUNTY HUNTER.
THE FOAM

I have no explanation for this stuff. I mean, it's like whipped cream, but it stings like a muddah. And if you catch it in the face like this cat above, you will hate your life. It looks like dessert, but hurts like hell. And, because Dog is a man of the law, he uses the most humane form of apprehension--by shooting dessert at them. I only wish that Dog, in his time on A&E, started integrating the taser into his apprehensions. I mean, that's at least two good tasings an episode and the thrill of seeing Dog on the giving end of a taser--oh, the joy. Don't get me wrong, though, I liked the foam. Gonna miss it, actually.

BETH'S TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE CLEAVAGE

There's many things in this world that I have no explanation for. Why the sky is blue? What makes Biz Markie so damn dope? And how in the hell does Beth Chapman stand upright carrying those things on her frontside? I mean, these things are not only unnatural, they're almost cruel. Sometimes, I'd feel empathy for Beth because, man, I get upset at a couple of inches of fat on my hips. I can't comprehend having to spend an entire life giving side-hugs and sleeping on my back. It'd be empathy until, of course, I saw her in action. Girl gets props like mad for what she could do with those things attached. My lovely wife and I would get into brief discussions of whether or not they were real. She debated that they were fake and I would reply, "But why would any human do that to themselves?" I guess we'll never know. Word 'em up, Beth. Steady rockin'.

DOG'S GOLDY LOCKS

Completely unashamed (and maybe totally unknowingly), Dog rocked that mullet like no one else. I mean, his mullet was like a Bachman Turner Overdrive reunion tour. When you saw it at first, you were like, "Aw!" But then when you saw it in action, you were like, "Aw, hell yeah!" As a bond jumper, though, if you saw that mop coming around the corner, you knew it was on. I'd run like a muddah, too, if I saw that thing coming. And how he worked the top into a reversed shark fin--whoa. Dude's game was tight. I must say though that the mullet had some sad days. Especially when it was under the duress of constant hairspray drenching. Then, he'd jam feathers and roach clips into it like a Christmas tree. Dude should've just kept it real. I'll forever remember it from it's golden years.

LELAND

Leland was like that kid on the come-up just waiting for his chance to shine. He was like 2Pac in the Digital Underground days saying, "Just give me the mic, Shock." Then, dude just blew up. My lovely wife was a big fan of Leland because she thought he was cute. I was a fan because I thought he was cute and he kicked major ass. I ain't ashamed. He was like that cat in high school that came back after one summer spent in the gym studying hand-to-hand combat, gets in a fight one day in the parking lot and works a kid until his face looks like someone punched a cherry pie for twenty minutes. Then he walked with the respect of every twerp in school. He carried the foam only because his pops required him to. Otherwise, he would've just apprehended every cat by flying at 'em with a kick to the face. Leland, you're the future. Do yo damn thing.

THE TALK, THE CIGARETTE, THE CRY

So they get their guy (or gal), he's talking trash all the way into the truck and then Dog sits down to talk to him. All the sudden, Dog goes into crazy Dr. Phil-Barbara Walters-Roy Firestone mode and unleashes an assault of pathos on the subject and then offers them a cigarette (which is usually taken). Seconds later, we have tears. He works his way into your psyche using words like, "Brotherman, you need to get off that ice. It's bad stuff. You need to worry about your family." Offers smoke, tears begin to surface and then, before you know it, dude's crying like a two year old. Sometimes even, Dog begins to cry. These are the moments you savor. To see such a strong man in tears (and not when he has to cry like on national television admitting that using the N-word was wrong), wiping them away with his strong index finger that, with the help of his opposable thumb, could crush your skull like an eggshell. And when Beth cries, later days, I'm sobbing. Maybe not outwardly, but inside, I'm crying.

THE BLACK YUKON

Dog did for the black Yukon what Condorman did for the black Porsche. I mean, I would have never thought about purchasing a black Yukon until I saw them perform on the show. These vehicles are large, inefficient (and sometimes slow) earthcrushers that are the stuff that Al Gore's nightmares are made of, but they seat up to four bounty hunters and two fugitives. Not only that, despite their large frame, they come with a stealth mode that allow for silent, undetected movement on a subject. And, if you get into too much trouble with a fugitive's family, you can just mow them over under the daunting front bumper. This is a bounty machine. Long live the black Yukon. I actually find myself saluting when I see them on my morning walk to work. It's Wednesday. A perfect day for Pharcyde's first record. Do yourself a favor.

1 comment:

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