The John Edwards Rielle-ity Show

My eagerness for the summer return of the “Dallas” reunion soap is being usurped by my ardor in following an even more salacious drama.

The scandal shows share similar casting. One stars a Hagman, one a hag woman.

I’m talking, of course, about “The John Edwards Rielle-ity Show.”

You’d have to go to HBO’s “True Blood,” a show that stars vampires, to match a plot line that features so many soulless, sinister beings.

I contemplated Edwards in this 2010 piece in which me and some buddies were trying to determine the world’s worst man. As it was a golden era of men behaving badly, it was a lively discussion.

Tiger Woods was having his shenanigans play out; Georgia authorities were weighing whether to charge Ben Roethlisberger for raping an underage drunk; and Jesse James was being castigated for dumping America’s sweetheart for a Nazi. A Nazi!

And then we had John Edwards.

Worst man in the world?

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

I almost hope it emerges through expert defense testimony that Edwards is, indeed, a vampire. That would at least explain some of his behavior.

He must have felt so God-like thinking he was going to get away with it all.

He might have, too, had it not been for National Enquirer (same with Tiger Woods, too). I mention that out of pride of my 10-year association with them and because the mainstream media covering the trial insist on snubbing their journalism derring-do.

Now observers are eager to learn if Rielle Hunter will take the stand.

Guaranteed, “The Stand” wasn’t the posture Edwards thought of when he first laid eyes on Hunter.

I strain to avoid superficial observations about people unless they’re clearly superficial people so I think we’re on safe ground here judging both Edwards and Hunter.

She’s an aging slut, one who’s not aging well. She looks like the kind of groupie a more discriminating Mick Jagger would have passed off on Bill Wyman. 

And Wyman, himself an historic slut, would have had a great time with her. She looks like she’d be splendid fun.

For one afternoon.

She doesn’t look like the kind of girl for whom you’d chuck your family and your reputation. Construction workers would be reluctant to introduce a woman like Hunter to mom.

Before I fell for my sweetheart, I had enough of a worldly past that I think I can describe the momentary attraction of women like her.

They’re easy. They’re experienced. They’re insatiable. Yes, there’s a base appeal to a sexy woman who is willing to give up her body for reasons zoo animals instinctively understand.

If I could go back in my past and address, rather than undress, those women of low reputation a wiser me knows exactly what he’d say . . .

Thank you! Thank you very much!

But I was in my 20s, single and carefree about society’s opinions -- and, boy, the more things change the more they stay the same, I guess. And, to be fair, being seen with me wasn’t exactly launching any of these girls into circulation at any of the area debutante balls.

But how Edwards, a man with everything to lose, fell for her and allowed her to trainwreck his entire life is an unfathomable mystery. How could he have so little regard for his family? For his supporters? For his country?

We’re talking about a person who will go down in history as one of the most vile and manipulative people the world’s ever known, someone so beyond redemption it’s a virtual certainty they’ll go to a grave destined to be unmoistened by the tears of all but a sad, lonely few.

And that last paragraph isn’t referring to Hunter.

Next to Edwards, the gold-digging whore’s the class act.

Our new purse puppy

I knew we were going to get a dog. I just never dreamed we’d be getting the dog we did.

Surrendering to the inertia of a child pleading for a puppy is inevitable. A 9-year-old girl is so earnest and tells such sweet, convincing lies.

“I’ll be responsible. I’ll take care of it. I promise!”

We’ve had the dog four days and I’ll bet I’ve already spent a combined six pre-dawn hours standing outside encouraging an animal I barely know to move its bowels.

That’s a big part of pet ownership. You stand outside in all kinds of weather urging the dog to poop. And when it does you feel one of the oddest surges of true happiness.

Good doggie!

When the girls and their mom called and said they found a farmer who was giving away really cute puppies, I tried to picture the bright side, the side that didn’t involve hours waiting for a dog to poop or get done sniffing stuff it finds fascinating.

I thought of the companionship, the warmth, the wagging tale when you walk in the room.

I thought of our last dog, Casey, a sweet, loving golden retriever, with whom I spent countless joyful days playing frisbee. That dog could have joined the circus. He was a sturdy fellow and loved to lounge beside us in the front of the fire.

I certainly didn’t think of Snickers.

He’s part pug, part chihuahua, a parental pairing that sounds like the screwball premise for some canine rom-com.

He’s a purse puppie, the kind Paris Hilton uses as a fashion accessory.

This is a dog whose fangs will never seize a soaring frisbee. 

I keep referring to him with female pronouns. I can’t believe we’re the same gender. French poodles could bully lunch money from a dog like this.

Right now, we’re collectively failing at house training. We have the crate, know the ground rules, and are ever vigilant to its every twitch.

The problem is the dog does nothing but twitch. I fear it’s going to be high strung, not the kind to sit by fires, but the kind that starts them.

My wife’s upset the puppy doesn’t seem to be taking to house training. Every accident sends her into a frenzy of wipes, disinfectant and alien admonishments to a dog that still doesn’t really speak dog yet, let alone English.

Me, I practically bark with laughter, “You call that a crap!”

Right now, its tidy little turds and its thimble-sized bladder spills are to me the dog’s most endearing trait.

Everything about it is diminutive. Casey used to bolt from the yard and could be gone for hours.

Snickers could bust loose during the catchy theme to “True Blood” and I wouldn’t bother to pursue her, er, him, until the show’s bloody conclusion.

It would take him 20 minutes at a full sprint to make it to the curb.

I’m sure I’ll grow to love it. I made many of these verbatim complaints about Josie and Lucy when they were born, and I’ve grown to love them very much.

But right now he’s just a nuisance. I can’t stoop low enough to pet him without tipping over. 

He bites our toes. If any hoodlum breaks into house we have to hope he’s barefoot.

He’s so insubstantial I fear I’ll sit on him and confuse his death struggle for a mosquito bite I’m too bored to scratch.

(Another HBO plug: That very thing happened with Christopher Moltisanti on “The Sopranos.” He came home high and crushed the life out of Adrianna’s annoying little dog when he passed out on the couch, an ass-whacking which led to a comical intervention among the mobsters.)

So it’s just another layer on our summer of discontent. Good news has been evasive, we’ve warred over family functions, house projects and have spent this entire, scorching summer without air conditioning.

And now we’ve added a dog to our hot house.

I guess that makes Snickers the perfect fit.

This is one dog that will never be cool.