Reglar Wiglar
Picking the easy targets since 1993





Editor's note: This disgusting little piece of commentary was written by stand-up comic, Matt Champagne back in 1998 when he was even more obscure and pitiful. He also wrote this letter to the editor, published in the same issue (Reglar Wiglar #10).


By Matt "Ol' Brown Eye" Champagne, Comedian

It is fairly common knowledge that I don't wipe well. My number two's have always been a bit on the rich side, and no matter how much wiping, cleaning, dabbing or regrouting I attempt, there's just no way to completely rid my brown eye of the old brown, if you follow me. Irritation soon follows, of course, and it's usually around midday that I start to look like I'm attempting to do the twist or the shag or the worm: an almost convulsive walk with upward tugs coming from the hips in a desperate attempt to get back to the can to indulge in additional wiping.

It is a mess and the dogs go crazy. So when I made the acquaintance of Weeds the Dope Dog whilst returning to the States from snail-ridden Vancouver, I had no reason to believe anything was at all amiss. Weeds, a highly trained pooch of indeterminate breed (I'm terrible with dog indentification--it's never long before I start calling them Volvos or Fords), approached me like I was master of the house and pawed me with the vigor of a spastic dwarf. At first I was flattered. "What a friendly dog!" I thought. Oh, how soon the winds of change would toss me from Hip International Traveler to Loser Gettin' Frisked.

"Sir, that is a narcotics-sniffing dog," intoned a guy in a badge-splattered windbreaker and a perpetual cord of spit connecting his upper lip to his lower. I wanted to bring my fingers to my own mouth, fiddle them about a bit and tell the man, "go like this," but I refrained. If anyone was in a weak position it was me. In fact, the only position weaker would have been if I was naked and bent over with a digit up my dirt chute. We didn't want that, and when I say we, I mean the collective we: I didn't want it, no one in my family wanted it (most emphatically my parents) and certainly whoever had to stick his medicinal prober would have gotten one look at my ass and probably changed his mind.

"Sir, at first we thought you might have had something to hide, but the interior of your ass is obviously toxic, so even if you did have anything in there, it's gotta be worthless by now, and if you think I'm putting my hand up there, you're nuts."

It would have definitely gone something like that.

The rent-a-cop continued, "Sir, the dog's reaction to you was so strong that we have fair reason to believe that you're carrying narcotics on your person."

"I've got Tylenol," I confessed.

Not amused, he continued, "Sir, can tell you tell me why the dog was responding like that?"

I'm not a big fan of the truth mind you, especially when I have to tell it to the cops, but the truth of the matter was that during my eleven days in Vancouver, I saw about three or four bands (Headswim, Man or Astroman? D7?, et al) in some pretty divey, smokey, beer-thick clubs where there was so much pot in the air you could have grabbed hold of it and swung from it like a jungle vine. I also attended a Halloween party near the University of British Columbia in a house whose most impressive feature was kids crammed into this three-story, pseudo-mansion with a pinball machine from 1977 (seriously) and a DJ playing samples of Samuel Jackson's speeches from "Pulp Fiction" to the near two hundred revelers present, I would say that about one in 198 of them had been smoking something. The jacket I wore to all of these sojourns was my trusty leather jacket by Marc. I don't know who Marc is, but he might want to get into the sponge making business because this thing retained odor like a pair of scrimmaging shorts.

"I went to places where there was a lot of pot being smoked, guess," I said.

"Also, sir," Captain Happy said, leaning in so I could see his spittle better, " the dog was sniffing your buttocks."

"Now wait a minute!" I thought. Maybe that says more about me than about dogs, but I feel it's valuable information. Second of all, if I ever met a dog who didn't sniff my buttocks, I'd be more than a little insulted. "Whatsa matter, doggie? My shit don't stink enough for ya?"

"Basically," Mr. Spittle went on, "I'm going to have to perform a search of your luggage and if I find any dope, it is an offense punishable by a five thousand dollar find and possible arrest. So, think hard. If you're honest and tell me now, nothing will happen to you. But, if over the course of my search I find one roach, your'e going to have problems. So, it's basically a five thousand dollar question."

It may have been a five thousand dollar question but no flashing sliding doors framed in fat light bulbs opened. No obnoxious game show host with a concrete jaw and weird pronunciation of his o's stepped out to stuff a microphone in front of my gaping mouth. I was on the spot and absolutely no one cared.

"Can I have a minute to think about it?" I asked.

Now, why the hell did I say that? Isn't that just another way of saying, "Nice cell, I'll take the top bunk? but I think and really rack my brain to make absolutely sure that I was in no way guilty, which of course I wasn't So why was I nervous?

No one gets more unsettled, more never-wracked, more horrified by the law than the innocent man. David Mamet wrote that the only people not afraid of the cops are thieves. You know why? Because they're inured to it. I was in no way, shape of form, inured to it. I get pulled over for speeding and I feel like I raped a kindergartner. Committing such a little offense like driving too fast makes be feel like I owe the world an apology. This spitty, droopy-eyed representative of law enforcement was systematically siphoning the confidence I had in my innocence by merely asking a question . The cold hard fact that I hadn't done anything wrong was worth noting because I was still scared shitless, and with all you've learned about my ass during this, that's pretty amazing.

"I have no drugs on me," I said.

And so the search began. The unsettling image of me being locked up with a four hundred pound man named Bessie washed over me like delousing powder as Captain Pot Probe dug, poked, and opened every last item I owned. He went into pockets, shoes, zippers, under lapels, inside deodorant sticks. ("Believe it or not," he said. "I had a guy who hollowed out a deck of cards and hid pot in there." "That's actually very clever," I said, "No it isn't, he said." He scrutinized my nose hair trimmer, a lint roller and an autobiography of Timothy Leary, which you'd think would be reason enough to get a finger up the shitter, but I was saved.

After finding nothing, Officer No Bust said. "Just to let you know, after watching the way that dog responded, if I found any papers or a lighter, you'd be back in the security room wearing your birthday suit."

I've heard that the person they get to actually perform the strip search is whoever happens to be around aback in the security room at the moment. a night watchman, the guy who restocks the vending machines, a janitor if you're lucky. So I was definitely relieved that no such colonic insight was necessary and I hadn't missed my fight.

As I was leaving I almost went over to the dog too cuddle and say good-bye, but I suddenly remembered I wasn't that bog of a moron. All I needed was Charmen.


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