The Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden finished up yesterday. We dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show, give us the lay of the land and clock some bitches. Barry Petchesky is a freelance writer in New York City, and he plans to use this as a clip, which is rather pathetic. We now hand the mic to him.

Monday was the 40th anniversary of Madison Square Garden, which opened with a USO show. My friend Zach and I were discussing how to work that into a joke, and he suggested using the phrase "let slip the dogs of war." A Shakespeare reference? I reminded him that this is Deadspin, where dick jokes are the pinnacle of humor. "Oh," he said, thinking for a moment. "How about saying that Bob Hope probably pulled a ton of bitches that night." If that's your idea of hilarity, come inside as we wrap up day 2 of the Westminster Dog Show (tagline: "We're Like The Puppy Bowl, Only Not As Much Fun").

There are 2,627 dogs of a record 169 breeds this year, probably because of Bob Barker's retirement. With no one to help control the pet population, the dog show is a bit overwhelming. So I did what any good action/comedy movie star does when he's in over his head. That's right, I found a sidekick.

That's your humble author with Max, a pug from North Jersey (like everybody from New Jersey, he'll tell you he's from "the nice part"). He was at Westminster for one reason and one reason alone: to meet women. So we set off to pull some bitches.

Max points out a smoking hot handler, and I, smooth dude that I am, score her digits. But I know I won't call her. Max, I said, she's Russian. Russian girls may look hot right now, but fast-forward 20 years and they all turn into this:

Max turns out to be the old-fashioned sort of sentient, anthropomorphic, narrative device and suggests we find a pair of ladies for a double date. Out in the show ring, I spot a couple of gals that look pretty light on their feet. Now both Max and I like to get down as much as the next unemployed journalist and fictional talking dog, but neither of us is a big fan of the cankles on our respective matches.

My well-known weakness for ugly press-on nails leads me to find the next two women, but Max says the Rottweiler gives him a Williams Sisters/she can kick your ass anytime she wants sort of vibe.

As we go back to the hunt, I realize just how much this place is getting to me. My girlfriend texts me, asking how the show is going. I actually write back, taking the time to put in the hyphens from the symbols submenu, "terr-ruff-ic." I've lost my mind.

Realizing that said girlfriend will probably be reading this, I forget about scoring myself some tail and decide it's time to find someone for Max. He's not exactly a catch, so I find him a slumpbuster. He politely declines, saying he's humped hotter sofa cushions (Haven't we all, Max?).

He's a discerning little pug, and he only wants the hottest dogs in the show. Lucky for him this is Westminster, where every handler is convinced that their animal is god's gift to judgekind. Seriously, if you saw the amount of time and money that goes into keeping these animals from looking like they love to roll around in feces you'd be ashamed(er) of this country. A veritable army of dog stylists offer manicures, pedicures, haircuts, eyebrow trims, special wraps to keep pesky ear fur in place, fans, vacuums, blow drys, massages and maybe the occasional happy ending or two. You don't know how depressing it is to realize that no matter what I do, I will never be as well groomed or smell as nice as these dogs.

I quickly locate two of the alpha bitches and offer to make introductions, but Max dismisses them as being too high-maintenance. You decide:

Deciding that we're too picky, we search for the biggest whore we can find. As at any party, we find her right outside the bathroom, passed out on the floor, her teats hanging out for anyone to see.

But Max begs off; he's not into fat chicks. And apparently there was this one time with a sleeping girl in college that didn't end so well for him, after the law got involved...he promises to tell me the story over beers and puppy chow, since he's accepted the fact that he'll be licking his own crotch tonight.

That's as good a cue as any to wrap up my trip down the rabbit hole. I hope I didn't scare you with that Shakespeare reference at the beginning, but don't worry. MS Word says this piece is only at a 7th grade reading level.

Crude and unfunny jokes aside, the Westminster Dog Show is always a blast for everyone involved, most importantly the animals themselves. For all the fooforah show dogs have to put up with, they really enjoy the attention and getting to play with people and each other. And if you're thinking of buying a dog, don't. Adopt. He thanks you in advance: