A hush fell over S________* as I stood facing Triumph, who, along with his entire table, stared silent, glassy-eyed and open-mouthed in faintly tipsy stupor.
"What ARE you?" Triumph slobbered at last, looking at my mighty tail, the full length and girth of which far exceeded his own docked stump.
"Er ... you're either with us as a dog, or you're against us," he yelped. "If you are against Dog, you are against God. 'Dog' is 'God' backwards."
"And that's not all - 'Bob' is 'Bob' backwards," chimed in Sir Bob, whose long, greasy, disheveled hair a stylist had been paid to make, according to his contract, "artfully unkempt."
"'Bono' isn't any word backwards," whimpered Bono.
"Bono isn't a word forwards," I snarled. I then turned to Triumph and pointed a paw at him. "But to the point ... You, Triumph, claim to be fighting global warming, and yet at the same time campaign for legal hierarchy of dog over cat - when it is precisely hierarchy that has brought the world all its present catastrophes including global warming: hierarchy of corporation over individual, government over citizen, strong over weak, rich over poor ... You, my man, are philosophically corrupt, intellectually bankrupt and morally hypocritical!"
"Er ... poop on you!" Triumph belched.
"Is that your idea of a witty retort?" I sighed.
Then for the 8 millioneth time, Triumph invoked his "signature" phrase, entreating the listless celebrities at his table: "Come Poop With Me™."
"Triumph, what is in your mind, man?" I demanded, exasperated. "The proverbial Warholian 15 minutes of fame allotted to you - as they are to each and every no-talent one-hit wonder these days - seem to have elapsed. All your 'poop, poop, poop' - it just plain stinks! What are you going to do with yourself now?"
"Poop!" Triumph yelped.
"Well," I said, looking him up and down, "I guess I shouldn't expect much more from a dog-puppet who has spent his entire life with a human's hand up his ass!"
*Due to pending litigation, we cannot be any more specific.