The oldest minger in town
After last night I feel moved to tell you that, to paraphrase Princess Di, there are three of us in this relationship.
According to his website, Dog the Bounty Hunter* is “…undeniably the world’s greatest bounty hunter. His exterior is: rugged and handsome, weathered and tanned, leather and metal. He is muscular, rugged and stoic in his blond, shoulder-length Mohawk – with a single braid interwoven with feathers (a tribute to his Indian heritage). Dog’s bulging bicep is dressed with a bone armband. A shark tooth necklace shows respect for his Hawaiian homeland. He speaks in soundbites, his own lingo of urban-island poetry that has come to be known as ‘Dogisms’.”
Do you know, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Except, perhaps, I could…
Dog the Bounty Hunter is undeniably the world’s most deluded man. His exterior is reminiscent of Michael Bolton after a nuclear holocaust ridden out in an outlaw biker bar. He is pumped up like an overblown lilo, and looks weirdly proud of his (let’s call a spade a spade here) bleached curly mullet-and-flattop combo – with a hair extension clipped onto one side of it like a six-year-old girl at a slumber party (a tribute to his utter lack of self-awareness). Dog’s side-of-beef arm is dressed with a plastic armband he bought at Sturgis three years ago. A shark tooth necklace shows that a man with a predisposition to leather trousers and a mullet probably shouldn’t be allowed to shop for jewellery unsupervised. He speaks in incomprehensible clichés, his own mishmash of cod-philosophy and bad poetry that has come to be known as “Complete Bollocks”.
Dog, his missus (I really don’t have the room to discuss her here), one of his twelve (count ‘em!! Twelve!!) children – Leland (who favours combat trousers and a Steven Seagal pigtail), a man named Wesley and various random spear-carriers spend their time formulating bizarre and complicated plans to hunt and take down aberrant members of society who have, for one reason or another, broken the terms of their bail bonds. Between them they carry enough accessories to start their own branch of Millets – Mrs Dog even has a perfume holster on her utility belt. They roam the streets in a two car convoy, pointlessly talking to each other over their radios: “…so we’re just pulling into the parking lot now”. “I know. We’re in the car behind you”, etc.
The unfortunate targets of Dog’s moral indignation (and, let’s face it, a good source of income for him), in addition to facing time in jail or rehab, also have to run the gauntlet of an amateur psychological analysis before they can escape the Posse (that’s what they call themselves. It’s not a word I’m comfortable with). It’s a harrowing cross between Mad Max and Dr. Phil as felons are invited to explore their souls for the power to change their lives, while Dog and Mrs Dog loom over them like amateur night at the wrestling.
Dsepite all this, as a result of last night’s viewing the Other Half has developed a bit of a man-crush on ol’ Dawg. He even dreamed about him last night. I will be watching him carefully for any sign of an incipient mullet.
Oh, and Dog’s real name? Duane. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it?
* Unbelievably we had never seen this show until last night. Rest assured that it will be Sky-Plussed for all eternity. Please, if you haven't seen it, make a point of doing so. You'll thank me for it. Honest.