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:

Therefore, we dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show yesterday — he'll be there again today and filing tomorrow — and 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.

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I was at a modern art exhibit a few weeks back, and I came across one piece that caught my eye. The entire canvas had been painted black. I'm sure the artist was making a heartfelt statement about the over-saturation of the contemporary visual landscape, but the fact remains that I was looking at a black square. I turned to a friend and stated, "not art."

Once you've pulled the "not art" card, there's no further discussion. So allow me to preempt criticisms of the Westminster Dog Show by agreeing with you. This is not a sport. It's a beauty contest. It's a circle jerk for the show community. It's a dog and pony show, minus the ponies. But who cares? We're in the middle of the desert of the sports calendar, with nothing of importance until March Madness. And the dog show is more competitive than the Pro Bowl. The entrants are more athletic than golfers. It's more respected than the WNBA. And I get to take pictures of lots of really cute dogs. It's a win-win situation, so follow me inside as America finds one dog to rule them all.

I love the little things that tell you unmistakably that you've entered a different world (though I think that sign is up during Knicks games as well). Things like the lady I saw wearing a jean jacket embroidered with the faces of her and her cocker spaniel. Things like a giant bloodhound licking a woman's face, and her licking it back just as vigorously. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the land of Dog People.

The holding area is a nightmare. It's crowded, cramped, noisy, smelly and generally depressing. I caught some flak for last year's comparison to a Doggie Dachau, so let's call it a Doggie Dorm. Half the residents seem to be in heat, and just like the University of Miami during Najeh Davenport's enrollment, there's doody everywhere.

Well, almost everywhere. That poor soul in the foreground is Panzer the Norwich Terrier, who's due to enter the show ring very soon. To protect against unexpected gifts for the judges, handlers take the dogs to the "poop pens" before they go on. But Panzer, you see, has stage fright. He's been to the pens three times in the last hour, but simply can't take the Browns to the Superbowl. "He doesn't like other dogs watching," his handler tells me, though he's apparently fine with my camera zooming in on his butthole.

I don't care to spend much time in the show ring, as the dogs almost never look happy. But that's where the stress always seems to get to the handlers, so on to the famed floor of Madison Square Garden, where Ali beat Frazier, where Messier lifted the cup, and where, uh, some dogs are named prettier than others.

It's a sausage party out there, and not like your parties in college because you weren't cool enough to know any girls. The dogs seem at ease, even though they clearly see the ones ahead of them in line being felt up by the judge. It's like a prostate exam, with 10,000 people watching. The handlers are a different story. One, clearly at the end of her rope, snaps, "Cathy, give me the water." Cathy helpfully tells her that she looks great. The handler graciously accepts the compliment: "Don't you think we know that, bitch?"

It's a vicious world on the green carpet. Anxiously waiting for the judge to select the best Tibetan Spaniel, one handler is nearly squeezing the life out of her dog. When another is chosen, she says under her breath, "Oh, that is bullshit."

There's bad vibes in the show ring, so I retreat to the holding area to find the lovely Kira, shown here about to receive a Pete Rose haircut from the Flowbee.

After being made to look all purty, Kira promptly bolts for the nearest trash can and tries to leap in. She's violently yanked away, and tries again. She's smacked by her handler, yelled at, but she really wants that garbage. And who can blame her, with Garden hot dogs costing $8? So her owner has a choice: A) be a good handler and control her dog; B)move away from the trash; or C) let a dog be a dog and have fun. She of course chooses D) yell at one of the Garden staff, "get that goddamn trash can out of here."

God this place is depressing. I was already in a bit of a pissy mood, because though the Dog Show usually preempts pro wrestling or tennis, this year USA is running it in place of Law and Order: SVU. And I get cranky when I don't get my Mariska. I looked to the dogs to cheer me up, but they didn't seem to be having any of it. To wit, allow me to use photographic evidence to demonstrate the three most common faces you'll see at any dog show:

"Call the police! Now! Run and save yourself!"

"I hate everyone here and want to die."

And, of course, "this demeans the both of us."

Oh, dog show, you're a strange, strange place. I'll be back tomorrow with more, but let me leave you with what's become tradition: the closing "awwwww!" shot. And never mind the rape stand.

The Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden features the finest athletic specimens at MSG since ... well, since the last Dog Show. We don't consider competitive dog preening a sport, but we do find it funny, and we think Best In Show is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Therefore, we dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show the last couple of days and give us the lay of the land and clock some bitches. Barry Petchesky is a journalism student, and he plans to use this as a clip, which is rather pathetic. We now hand the mic to him.

Welcome to day two at Westminster, also known as Manly Dog Day. That's right, no more poodles, no more rat dogs, and plenty of bitches to go around. Today's all about the hounds, the hunters, and other dogs that will not only track down a shot bird, but pluck it, batter it, deep fry it and bring it to you with a cold beer. Of course, it's not like you were watching on Monday, not while Jack Bauer was defusing a nuclear bomb - seven hours after being tortured! I'm naming my first three kids after him.

I digress. How manly is this show? Well, the day wraps up with hot dog-on-dog action. Follow me...

(more after the jump)

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On day two, the winner is crowned, the dogs can crap on the green carpet and not have to show their face in public the next day, and the sexual tension among all the dog hairdressers is boiling over. It's basically a big party. Look at this guy:

Tell me he's not stoned out of his gourd. This has officially become my kind of dog show. Well, no. My type of dog show would be the Puppy Bowl.

Now that I've spent some time in this bizarre universe, I feel ready to see if I can fit in around here. I spot a handsome-looking Rhodesian Ridgeback named Banjo and her breeder, an old patrician lady with a pillbox hat. I'm tempted to ask her if she was named after a classic "Space Ghost: Coast to Coast" episode, but I refrain.

"Nice haunches on that bitch," I say.

"Thank you," she says, without batting an eye. "I've been showing animals here for ten years, and it's always bitches. They're more likely to win, you know."

"Who, the bitches?" I ask, biting my tongue.

"Yes, statistically. I'm not sure what it is, but judges love bitches."

Content that I've discovered 2007's hottest new catchphrase/Snoop's next album title, I head out to the ring to see if judges really do love bitches.

If you'll notice, the only way the handlers can get the contestants to stand still is wave food in their faces. It seems cruel that they taunt them like that and don't give them anything to eat until the competition is over, but then I remember the exact same protocol is observed at the Miss Teen USA pageant.

I've asked around all week, and I still haven't been able to get a straight answer on what makes one dog better than another. Last year's winner Rufus, a Bull Terrier, won because he had a "perfect football-shaped head," according to one judge I spoke to.

I watch as the judge lines the dogs up and makes each run forward and back in turn. Then he makes them run in a circle one by one. Then all together. I wonder if he isn't testing their patience, just waiting for one to snap and rip its handler's throat out. That one would probably be docked a few points.

It's creepy as all get-out when the judge feels the dogs up. I understand he's checking the health of their coat, their muscle definition and numerous other factors I can't hope to understand. But damned if the judge and the handler aren't running the Eiffel Tower on poor Cannon here:

The Retriever apparently refused to cuddle afterwards, because some other dog won. I don't really know which; I was too busy scouring the Garden floor to see if I could find Eddy Curry's testicles. But they were nowhere to be found.

Dog shows are tough on the dogs. They're stuck in the holding pen, in stifling heat, for hours while snot-nosed children molest them. Even after they've shown, they're not allowed to go home until the entire day's judging is over. Even when they frigging die, they're not allowed to go home.

By the way, this may look like a huge furry greyhound, but it's actually called a Borzoi. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is Russian for "huge furry greyhound." It's also the same breed as Sassy, whom you see topping this article right before she eats a baby whole.

It occurs to me that I've been portraying the whole dog show experience as something negative, when it's really not. Yes, it's incredibly artificial. Yes, a lot of the people here are pretentious beyond belief. But even if it's only because their purpose is to be show dogs, all of them live pretty good lives. And the animals truly appear to be having fun. They're social creatures, and they absolutely love all the attention they're getting. They gladly pose for pictures and thrive on people fawning over them. Almost to a dog, they all look like their having the time of their lives.

And yes, that handler is my attempt to make up for all the cute photos pandering to Deadspin's female readers.

OK, I know you've only read this far because of the promise of Cinemax-quality pooch porn. I won't disappoint.

I'm walking in the back of the holding area where it's fairly quiet, and the dogs have room to roam about a little bit. Then I spot her: Kitty, a vision in black. Silky raven locks, deep brown eyes you could lose yourself in, just a true stunner across the board. If I weren't attached, I might've fallen for her charms.

I'm not the only one. Two stalls down is Charlie, who slowly walks over, clearly ready to put the Cocker in Spaniel. He hops up next to Kitty, and the two begin sniffing each other in the time-honored tradition of doggy foreplay. But Charlie's ready for the main event.

Sadly, Kitty's owner quickly brings about coitus interruptus. But as Charlie is dragged back to his cage, I swear I see him getting high fives from the other dogs.

This act of passion seems like a natural climax at which to end my Westminster odyssey, and holy crap, I did two days of this thing without once referencing Best in Show. It was a good time, if strange. Thanks to Will for the outlet, and thanks to the commenters. I'll see you guys on the boards.

Let's close with one more picture, because - well because Corgis are fucking awesome, that's why.

Starting yesterday and concluding today, the Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden features the finest athletic specimens at MSG since ... well, since the last Dog Show. We don't consider competitive dog preening a sport, but we do find it funny, and we think Best In Show is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Therefore, we dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show yesterday — he'll be there again today and filing tomorrow — and give us the lay of the land and clock some bitches. Barry Petchesky is a journalism student, and he plans to use this as a clip, which is rather pathetic. We now hand the mic to him.

Through a complex chain of events that began with me discovering my beer pong partner had mono, I somehow stumbled into a press credential for the Westminster Dog Show, better known as "Why isn't wrestling on?" Why not, I told myself, what's the worst that could happen? Well, other than being mauled by a pack of 200 lb. Mastiffs, or catching the # # # # germ just by being the presence of sculpted poodles, that is. So I headed down to Madison Square Garden, camera in tow, for two days of bad dog puns.

(more after the jump)

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I'm surprised, when I arrive, to see scalpers outside the Garden. "Want to see the mutts?" one asks.

Yes. Yes I do. I didn't realize how important this event is to some people. Is it even a sport? I guess so, since Sportscenter shows highlights, and I have faith that ESPN would never show anything that's not strictly sports-related. And nor would Deadspin!

I make my way to the press room and sign in. ("I wouldn't leave your jacket here," I was helpfully told, "I wouldn't trust the media.") Then down to the bowels of the arena to find the athletes themselves.

I am immediately overwhelmed by the smell. Since the Knicks are on the road, I know I'm getting close. Then, I see this:

Hello, Westminster.

The holding area for the dogs is an absolute madhouse. More than a thousand dogs in cages, rows upon rows of them. Plaintive wails filling the air. The overpowering stench of feces. It's a regular Doggie Dachau.

I immediate decide to help in the liberation of one, so I accompany Greggory ("That's with three Gs, if ya please," his 90-year-old owner tells me) the Siberian Husky on a quick walk around the building. He's stopped to bask in the attention of three young children, when Greggory spots movement behind a trash can. A mouse darts out across the floor, and before his owner can restrain him, Greggory pounces on that little bastard and tears it apart. Greggory, you're awesome. I hope you win.

Back to the holding area. You know how they tell you to react when you're undergoing a traumatic experience? Disassociate. Leave your body. Go numb.

Look at him. Look at those eyes. He's dead inside. After a quick prayer for his soul, I move on.

Meet Doozer.

He's an ugly little rat dog, yes, but he's now also my favorite animal ever. You see, Doozer has quite a little talent. I'm talking to his owner Alison Allison (someone had cruel parents) while the Dooze is taking care of business in one of the many "poop pens" scattered about. I look down, and I see something that shakes my faith in everything I've ever known. Somehow Doozer has managed to leave a turd on the side wall of the pen, about 18 inches up. It's a perfect spiral, good consistency, and it's fucking defying gravity. If I could do that, I'd move to Vegas and charge people to watch. Doozer seems impressed too, as he sticks his snout deep into his brown gift to mankind.

There's a stigma associated with cat people, and rightly so; they're generally a bit off. Why don't we look down on dog people the same way? I don't mean the average dog owner; I mean the kind of person who wears a sweater with three dog asses side by side, with the legend "Nothing Butt Cockers." This place is dog people heaven. For sale, there's dog jewelry, dog clothing, dog calendars, dog ties, dog grooming accessories and about 8,000 crates of dog food. I lean into one crate, and yell out "Barbaro?" No one laughs. They either don't get it, or don't think it's funny. I choose to believe the former.

Not everyone's having fun. Cricket the Papillon has already taken a nip at one of the curious fans who put their face up against her cage. "She hates children," Cricket's owner tells me. "And they're fucking everywhere."

It's time to head out on the famous green carpet to see the judging. Waiting on the sidelines is a Neapolitan Mastiff, an enormous wrinkled beast who seems to be getting restless. His handler, to occupy him, wrestles with him a bit. She pushes him down on the floor, massages his side, pats his belly and OH MY GOD SHE'S GIVING HIM A HANDJOB.

Ok, maybe that was some accidental contact there. But the old man next to me gives me a knowing wink and says, "I'd lay down for that too." OK, the dog show is officially freaking me out.

I hurry to one of the judging rings, where it looks like they're holding a Scooby-Doo convention.

And if you look at that picture, scratch your head and say, "wait a minute, they're going to objectively select the best of a half-dozen identical Great Danes?" ... I'm right there with you, buddy. But the judge, after watching the dogs run in a circle and getting to third base with each in turn, manages to decide which one best exemplifies its species. I dunno. It looks like every other damn dog out there.

Some other things happened, I guess. I was too busy hitting up the table that was giving away free chocolate. Yes, at a dog show, they're giving out unlimited free samples of the stuff that KILLS DOGS.

That's all from this abomination for today. I'll be back with more tomorrow. Let's close with one for the Deadspin Vaginarchy:

All together now: awwwww.

"The dog breeders and owners are like parents who have kids in soccer games, swim meets, ice skating, etc.," [Cosby] said. "Only the breeders are better behaved. They are proud of their 'kids' and want to see them do well. The breeders arrange the marriages that produce the pups and raise them. The owners pay for the uniforms, the referees, the coaches and the tournament fees."

I love Bill Cosby... but I'm sorry, that's just weird. I guess old age does funny things to people... one day, he's molding Theo and Cockroach into men, the next, he's one of these dog show people. I'd have expected that out of Sandra and Elvin, maybe... but not Bill.

And this may seem a little bit off the beaten path, but take a guess at how much I can bench press. Come on, take a guess. Take a guess. Three-hundred and fifteen pounds, maxing out at 400.

Cosby's terrier could become America's top dog [MSNBC]