This excerpt is from the beginning of “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy. The bestselling novel has been called “The Hangover” in Buffalo, NY.
Unable to escape like a turtle flipped on its shell, a man flails his limbs through the puffy snow. As he passes out, the alcohol in his bloodstream celebrates with wildly inappropriate dance moves that mimic the night’s sins. The orange glow from a streetlamp punctures the darkness like a police helicopter’s spotlight and frames the helpless fool in a jagged snow angel.
A few hours later at dawn, a woman is walking her Saint Bernard down the quiet street when she notices the collapsed body. Naturally, compassion fills her first thought — What the fuck? But after she reminds herself of one critical detail, it all makes sense — Of course there’s a drunk jackass lying in the snow. This is Buffalo after all. As she shrugs-off the potential Darwin Award winner, the dog picks up a scent and is pulled in the man’s direction. It tears the leash from the owner’s grasp and dashes to investigate.
The shaggy beast pants above the lush and stares in wonder. Masked by a pair of pink cotton panties, the man looks like some sort of deranged bank robber. If the hound could form complex thoughts, it would be speculating, For what ungodly reason is he wearing that? Maybe it’s a clever way to keep warm? While unorthodox, perhaps it’s a disguise? Or could it be some next-level form of perversion? But it can’t contemplate such things, so it just wags its tail with joy. Incapable of resisting the undergarment’s aroma any longer, the mutt enthusiastically licks the guy’s noggin like it’s a female-flavored lollypop.
Nearby, a fresh line of boot-prints mark a trail up to the man and continue past him. “SUN 12-17 7:16 AM” displays on the frosty LCD of his Casio watch. A frozen bottle of Genesee Cream Ale fuses with his bare hand as gusts of wind blow across the ground. In his other hand, a tattered envelope labeled “Buffalo Tickets” flaps and scatters a rainbow of glitter dust into the air.
The slobbering dog belongs to a breed known for saving dinged-up people in the snow, however, this pooch’s glowing eyes foretell that a rescue is far from how things are about to go down. The poor fellow, too inebriated to realize his forehead is about to be the target of an amorous assault, remains oblivious as the canine straddles him and launches into the grand finale. The funny thing is (which can be said when you’re not on the receiving end of such an outlandish act) humiliations like this don’t compare to the history of bad luck that the city has endured.
The owner strolls into the spectacle like her pet’s pleasure-romp is nothing out of the ordinary. As she reaches for the leash, she abruptly halts and scratches her scalp. Anger builds while she reads a urine scribbled message in the snow that proclaims, “GOD HATES BUF…” and ends in a wavy drizzle. Now in control of the tether, she gives it a harsh tug. While dragging the animal away, she reflects for a moment and mutters to herself, “Maybe that shithead’s right? Maybe God does hate Buffalo?”