Congratulations on Fucking Underdog!

As time passes, fewer and fewer people remember the cartoon Underdog.  Born of a formative pun based on phrase “Wonder Dog,” Underdog was a canine superhero who fought crime, mostly by comedically punching it.  But here’s the untold story: Underdog, like all cartoon dogs, was actually based on a real dog.  And like all real dogs, he’s still alive, but he’s super old.  And like all real cartoon dogs, he fucks human ladies.

Your father left you when you were just eleven, without word, without explanation.  If your mother knows why he went away, she never chose to share that information with you.  She just told you you would have to grow up strong without him and did her best to raise you right, working two jobs and living clean.  She never remarried, never even really dated, so you didn’t learn about men until you were much, much older.  By the time you had your first sexual experience you were nineteen and, eager to make up for lost time, you fucked your way through a rogue’s gallery of bad idea boyfriends.  Dudes with motorcycles, drug dealers, overly attached lesbians and men with prosthetic legs, all of them got into your business.

You did right by your mother by keeping your sexual misadventures from her, thank god, but the time you spent refining your sex drive has left you with open tastes and a hole in your heart where your pappy used to be.  So you’re an emotional wreck who fucks to try and find a man to fill the void in her heart, which isn’t really that uncommon.

But the set of memories that link you to your dad are a little more rarefied.  Your only memories of your father now stem from evenings you’d spend watching the television program Underdog with him.  You’d sit on his lap and he’d pat your head and the two of you would thrill to the adventures of the caped dog who was always fighting against the odds.  You didn’t realize until you were much, much older that part of that probably had something to do with your dad being some kind of gay gangster, but by the time you pieced all of that together it was far, far too late to do anything to try and help him out.  He was gone, probably dead, and your mother was barely sane enough to remember your name.

Today you’re going to see Underdog on the New York subway, taking an F train towards Brooklyn.  You’re going to walk up to him and tell him your story.  He’s going to think you’re propositioning him, which will be partially true, and you’re going to follow him home because you’ll see him as the best possible vector for a father that you’ve met to date.

When he’s inside you, it won’t feel that different from the way it feels when most men are inside you.  You’ll feel a little sad, a little uncomfortable and more than a little excited.  When he’s finished, you’ll feel just as empty as you always have.  But Underdog will look you in the eyes and say, “I’m sorry.”

This will mark the first time a man has ever apologized to you.   He won’t specify what he’s apologizing to you for.  You won’t ask him for a clarification.  Instead you’ll just hold his head against your breasts (which will be pleasant, since his head is fuzzy) and, for the first time in your life, feel a measure of peace.

After the cab ride home, after the long hot shower, you’ll fall asleep.  For the first time in a long time, you’ll dream of something other than your missing father, other than the void he left in your heart.  You’ll dream of watching a puppy run through a field, headbutting stalks of wheat out of the way with wild abandoning, boring through to an uncertain future.

Congratulations on Fucking Underdog!