“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”
William Blake
I praise the cosmos for its lack of meaning, giving it two thumbs up and coming within a hog’s breath of getting out the liniment and giving it the rub and tug it deserves. It is a universe that repels the notion that Man matters yet allows him the room to realize this unfortunate fact. Man is free to reach out for the God beyond God, to find his true authentic self yet is satisfied to squander his precious time mostly on expensive jerseys with the names of buff mercenaries printed on the back. This meaninglessness propels him to narrow down experience, which his addictions to drinking, shopping, television, narcotics, sports, Porn et al can surely attest.
Porn’s imprimatur is on everything from the soft-core offerings on E! to the twisted acrobatics performed by human pincushions on the Internet. From its infiltration into mainstream cinema (see Brown Bunny only to glory in the oral talents of Chloe Sevigny) to the abject fear mongering of the evangelical right porn has found a way to be this generations greatest mover and shaker of our fantasies. Unfortunately it exculpates them too. The web caters to every original taste and sicko craving that has ever been remanded to the darkest corners of man’s consciousness. Log on for ten minutes and you’ll find a clearinghouse for every warped bit of perversity a human mind can possibly conjure. It is here that you’ll enjoy the freshly spanked and shaven hordes, the girls gone wild, the ass worshippers, the stomata humpers, the sommeliers, the insertion freaks, the interracial, midget lesbians, the fudge slurping, jizz chugging, urine gargling gutter jockeys who trawl this miasma of nuttiness and if you don’t believe me then I’m not your typical red blooded, all-American, transgender foot fetishist. Even as I write it is raining harder than a bukkake film directed by John Woo.
This is because the web is the most egalitarian place on earth as no desire so ungodly and submental is judged harsher than any other. If your thing is overweight, hairy quadriplegics or hot bitches with osteoporosis the web will treat you with the same respect as a fellow who’s wasting his time finding a cure for AIDS. The web loves everyone. You don’t need a bushel of roofies to put the web in the mood. The web is always in the mood, legs spread, love siren calling. You never have to say “C’mon Internet let’s do it in the bad place!” either. The Internet always wants to do it in the bad place.
The Internet’s willingness to be non-judgmental is the lure that provides the firewall for our bent psyches. It is hard not to become hypnotized from the gaze of such a willing creature. However this indulgence does not come without a price. The Internet is very cagey. It knows when you are hooked and in need of a mad angry fix of totemic love. I’m not saying that there isn’t any room for a dalliance with the habitués of poonfarm.com or even a long weekend getaway to Porn Island, but if you find yourself taking your meals in the bathroom and have missed filing your tax return for the last couple of years you have a major problem.
The Internet ratchets up the heat with the relentless tenacity of a Jehovah’s Witness on a deadline and will not stop until you are a desiccated slick of dried baker’s glaze. There are two categories of porn fanciers that make up the bulk of this dubious clientele, lonely, clammy handed types who are usually found dead in their apartments drown face down in their own loads or the classic pervert/opportunist, guys who have no compunctions about getting a rim job from a blind dog.
Porn’s permeation into mainstream life has lowered the bar of personal outrage creating an almost blasé attitude toward it. Apparently having to study many years to master a talent has little to do with any success in our porn saturated culture. Sound bites from modern porn stars routinely play on cable television. I’ve seen Jenna Jameson queried (aptly put I might add) as to her opinions regarding various burning pop culture questions. These are opinions from a chick who learned her trade in a no holes barred, lesbian grudge match.
Paris Hilton’s foray into the world of celebrity cock sucking barely raised an eyebrow around the first tee of your average country club. The only actual ire raised from the discovery of the tape was her agent’s who was upset he couldn’t cut a bigger royalty deal for his client. No outrage from the public. Paris was drawn to its bosom with nary a repercussion only to be rewarded with a Fox show of her own. Apparently playing the skin flute has the same cachet as mastering the real one.
The bar has lowered so much that a PG13 film rating today would have gotten an X in 1969, as did Midnight Cowboy. Television and the media ultimately legitimize and waters down pornography’s impact making it as everyday as joining the PTA. The old X is the new PG13 and anal is the new kiss goodnight.
However, we can’t deny porn’s influence on modern society from how we hold a bat to how we salt our food. Is there too much porn out there? Hell yeah! But I’m certainly not advocating any sort of censorship. I’ll leave that to the dedicated soldiers of the culture wars, the Victorian maniacs who denounce this aspect of natural human behavior with a ferociousness usually reserved for dictators only to be secretly
But I do long for the time when it was almost impossible to get and if you could somehow wrangle a Gent or a Busty it was like finding a gold bar in your lunch bag. The fact that it was mostly forbidden made scoring porn that much hotter. Couple the scarcity with the era’s primitive technology, grainy 8 mm films or magazines with super saturated color photography and you had Gum-out even for the most sputtering Johnson.
I didn’t see my first naked woman until I was 13. I was walking down the school hallway when Stuart Peller called me over to his open locker. From between the pages of his history book he pulled out a wrinkled black and white photo of some unknown women, her moneymaker glistening like a quarter pound of Isaly’s chipped ham, a crooked smile plastered on a pock marked face. To see that one crummy little picture literally blew my mind! She was all I needed for the next two years it was that powerful. And as nostalgic as I tend to get when reminiscing about the past I put a stack of vintage Playboy’s that used to have safe haven under my pubescent bed under my son’s as a passing of the masturbatory torch. I am hopeful the golden thighs and callipygian flanks of Joey Gibson my first Playmate from June 1967 can pack the same knockout punch for him as it did for little Jeffy Schneider.
My only concern is that by the time my son is ready to experience the bounties of personal life he will not be able to respond to the joy of seeing his first naked female body because he’s probably already seen so much on the web. I’m talking about the gaping, roiling, load encrusted, siliconed, Asian, teenybopper, amputees that’s who, who spend their nights getting bayoneted by supercocksmen until the walls of their sanctum sanctorums cave in. Isn’t it curious that in an age where there is an indefatigable amount of pornographic images that anyone can procure with a click of a mouse, man still needs a pharmaceutical cantilevering system to get it up?
Today naked bodies are like reality shows, they’re everywhere. With so much porn nobody pays any attention to you unless you are seriously pushing the envelope like trying to break the world’s record of getting gangbanged by evangelical Christians. The record is one. The fact that we can dial up any kink at anytime is the great equalizer, but the webs big box approach to the dissemination of adult material leaves a culture inured to the vicissitudes of human sexuality. Eventually we will not be able to get off on anything.
So, what do you think? Are you ready to get rid of your high speed connection because the temptation to log on to hairymaturecunts.com is too much? If your penis looks like you were trying to make potato pancakes with it I might think about it. The key to life is enjoying all of the aspects than humanity has to offer as well. It’s OK to enjoy Throat Yogurt 6, but it’s also cool to enjoy the opera as well. Man is a multifaceted creature that can enjoy a rich multiplicity of influences. The key is finding the fluid center. If Jimmy Swaggart could only embraced his animal nature in lieu of denying it he wouldn’t have been blubbering like a sad ass milksop on national TV. He could have told his congregation that just because his personal savior is Jesus Christ doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a little throw down on the side too. The missionary position doesn’t do it anymore and Mrs. Swaggart doesn’t seem to understand the problem. Jimmy realizes he needs variety and this ho delivers.
No one wants romance 24 hours a day either, but if you can’t describe your lover to a police sketch artist you’re probably doing it doggy style way too much. Why can’t humans have both? Or is the narrowing down of experience the anesthetic that inures him to the real worm at the core, the intimate knowledge of his own eventual demise?
Once upon a time there was a doo-wop group named The Three Inputs…
My mother was a very cold and demanding woman. In fact, if I ever showed her any love or tried to hug her…she would tase me. Her idea of showing affection was a left hook to the liver. For control she employed guilt as most mothers do, but when it comes to calculating who is the most nefarious of all mothers in the known universe, the crown easily goes to Italy. Many an Italian son who claims to have had the corragio to leave their mother after a lifetime of cooking, cleaning and washing, even devoting countless hours to expunging the hash marks from her beloved son’s underwear with a gold plated, personally engraved hash mark brush gotten for Mother’s Day with the money her piccolo bambino earned as a boy from his scungilli stand, underestimates the length of the Italian mother’s tentacles when it comes to evaluating the chances of his ever leaving.
You see the Italian mother is perpetually petrified of aging and of ultimately being alone. What if there is no daughter, who by tradition is the one to do the heavy lifting? Who will make the sauce? Who will clean the house? Who will take me to Mass? What if I get divorced or become a widow, who will pumice my feet and pare the decaying enamel from my thickening, yellowing extremities? There is only one persona left that fits this bill. The Italian son that’s who! He is her last line of defense against the cold wind of outrageous fortune.
This is a very real problem for a lot of women, but the Italian mother is the only one resourceful enough to solve it and have the vision to do it decades in advance. But how can this amazing feat be accomplished when traditional guilt, pioneered by her ghostly double the Jewish mother, isn’t enough?
Put on your seat belts dear reader, it is time to take mothering to a whole new level. When the Italian son is 13 or 14 years old the mother sneaks into his room and performs an act she would never do in any context short of being at gun point and orally pleasures her boy. He doesn’t wake up, but fast-forward 35 years and there he is on his mother’s davenport playing Call of Duty 4 in his freshly minted tighty-whities. Looking around, he sadly thinks to himself….“How the fuck did I get here?”
The weight is tremendous, but he gathers himself and goes to a therapist with the money he was saving for Call of Duty 5. The doctor tells him he has mother issues and that something strange happened between them when he was young. After many days lying in his immaculate room on the bed with the hospital corner sheets, our man finally summons enough audacia and confronts his beloved mummsey about his doctor’s suspicions. As straight up as the Rock of the Gibraltar his Italian mother reveals with a stone cold confidence the motivation behind an act that is reviled in most civilized countries in a delivery that would make George Raft blush, and proceeds to bring down the hammer.
“My son, it was never incest…” A tear forms in the corner of her eye. “It was business…”
As I don’t usually succumb to the succoring nature of schmaltz, I would nevertheless like to turn to a performance so rare in its own opposition that to qualify it as a human one almost defiles its god-like otherworldliness. Patti LaBelle, a singer with the pipes of a Wurlitzer performed in 1995 before a packed auditorium audience for a television special commemorating Frank Sinatra’s 80th birthday. The show was titled “Frank Sinatra: 80 years My Way” and was peppered with the usual suspects of the time. Tony Bennett, Bono, Ray Charles, Natalie Cole, Vic Damone, Bob Dylan, Gregory Peck, Angela Lansbury, Edie Gorme, Little Richard, Hootie and the Blowfish and Don Rickles all paid the vig to the Chairman of the Board. Everybody bowed and scraped appropriately. Even Dylan, a fish out of water in this milieu, referred to Old Blue Eyes as “Mr. Frank”. The show motored along as if it was on cruise control. The performances were reverential, but workmanlike and it wasn’t until Miss Labelle’s Cri de Coeur did the fireworks officially begin.
Frank won an Oscar in 1945 for a 9-minute short subject he starred in called The House I Live. It was perfectly representative of the time when the United States coming out of 2 world wars wanted to promote the very essence of what made it the most revered nation on earth. In the film Frank portrays himself as he takes a break in the middle of a recording session. He goes outside for a smoke and sees a gang of kids getting ready to beat up a young Jewish boy. Needless to say, the boys get a lesson in tolerance and everybody goes home happy in the ways of Hollywood.
After this life lesson Frank sings the title tune. He gives a very safe, white, respectful reading. According to the website Songfacts www.songfacts.com, this song became an anthem during the second world war with the lyrics describing with great hopefulness a country that is both tolerant and inclusive of all races and creeds. The tune was written in 1943. Earl Robinson composed the music and Abel Meerpol under the pseudonym of Lewis Allan wrote the lyrics. Meerpol was a ferocious liberal, but had mixed views toward his own country. He loved the tenets it was based on, but loathed the ways cultural and religious minorities were treated. The words were meant to be about America’s potential. The ‘house’ in the title is a metaphor for the country.
Now that you have a little background, it is time to get to Patti LaBelle’s great hammer blow and the enormous irony of her interpretation. Miss LaBelle begins slowly as the song was written, but 30 seconds into it you realize she has a much different agenda. Through the magnificence of her enormous talent, she begins the heavy lifting of a doubly repressed minority to scale the mountain of prejudice this country has been trying to get out of the shadow of since it was a gleam in the eyes of the founding fathers. By a minute 30 you know that this isn’t your Grandpa’s version of The House I Live In, but a diatribe from an artist railing against the hate that still permeates the zeitgeist. Her gospel backing vocals add a beautiful seriousness that seasons the big fish that Miss LaBelle is to beginning to fry. At 2 minutes 50 seconds you know you are witnessing genius. Miss LaBelle pile drives the audience with her vast range and ultimate command. It is almost too beautiful to endure and you ache for her to stop. She does but only for a few seconds, relieving you of the moment’s immensity and weight. However, it is all for naught. Miss LaBelle lets the melody slow to a crawl before gearing up again for one last ride to the to the top of the craggy precipice before pushing us to our ignominious deaths. This is the house that Miss LaBelle wants everyone to live in.
It is a performance I can only describe as artistic expression of the highest order. Patti LaBelle takes the tune by the cojones and makes it what you see here; a paean to everything good about America and democracy…interpreted by an African American woman no less! How this woman sang it with such naches is anybody’s guess but suffice to say it was not only a national call, but a cosmic one as well. Early in the clip there is a close-up on Frank’s face. You can see in his rheumy-eyed expression that he knows the jig is up for a man who once resided on Mt. Olympus. It is a bittersweet moment and only punctuates the power of Miss LaBelle’s brilliance. Since that special originally aired, I have watched this masterpiece at least 100 times and it always gets to me as only great art can. The wailing crescendo at the end, steeped in a combination of bluesy misery and abject joy, is as thrilling as anything I’ve ever heard. I would rank this as one of the greatest performances in the history of the popular arts. Here is an artist not only at the peak of her powers and in full control of her instrument, but also able to hold up a mirror as well.
In the history of cinema there are only two sequels that can be argued to have surpassed their originals in artistry, brilliance and mise en scene, the second Godfather and Shut Up and Blow Me 2. Each revisiting crystallized its author’s vision; in Coppola’s case the émigré’s upward climb to cultural assimilation and in “Gusher” Mike’s, the addiction to semen as a metaphor for America’s addiction to foreign oil. Both of these films will reside in their respective pantheons garnering the highest accolades which can not be said of a little smoker I was recently introduced to with the punny moniker of “One Night In Paris” produced, directed, shot and cut by impresario and scumbag Rick Solomon. Coming late to the wild frontier of celebrity sex tapes, I had known of this film only in passing, but really was only aware of Miss Hilton’s work through the random and sudden appearances of her hairless abyss.
When I screened “One Night In Paris” for the first time, very late at night along with a cup of cocoa and some wet naps I cadged from a local rib joint, I was initially taken back by the film’s lack of production value so murky was the lighting that for the first ten minutes I thought I was on assignment for National Geographic. However, once you get around the meager budget the real problem of the film surfaces, that is, the lack of anything resembling an erotic impulse. The action starts out harmlessly enough as Paris Hilton, an heiress to The Hilton fortune, cavorts in a hotel room with the aforementioned Rick Solomon while dressing for what looks like a night on the town. Mr. Solomon films Miss Hilton as she puts on make up and gooses the action with his unique brand of erotic smack, that to this observer sounded more like a ranch hand trying to wheedle a cow into branding stocks than a hot piece of ass into a game of Hide The Salami.
Nevertheless, Miss Hilton falls for his cheesy pleas and both end up on the bed, she worshipping at the corona of his nut sack while simultaneously preparing for a throat swab to be administered by Mr. Solomon himself. Both are naked at this juncture and this is where the film skids off the road in artistry, brilliance and mise en scene from both Godfather 2 and Shut Up and Blow Me 2. Miss Hilton can’t suck a cock to save her life. First, she addresses Mr. Solomon’s manhood with the expression of a golfer who after assessing his lie is racked with indecision that this is the right club. Miss Hilton gazes quizzically at Mr. Solomon’s monolith for a moment, which seems like eons to any guy in blowjob anticipatory mode, before finally realizing that she’s away. Only after taking hold of the vein-y tumescence do we comprehend the most salient point of the whole narrative, that this chick doesn’t have a lot of experience, as her technique is reminiscent of a bad comic’s on open mic night. Is this thing on?
For an alleged siren, Miss Hilton sure takes her sweet old time before finally deciding to insert Mr. Solomon’s bowsprit into her mouth, as if the thought of gagging on his choad was beneath the station of her serendipitous existence. As a cocksucker Miss Hilton has the embrasure of a camper desperately trying to master the recorder before going home for the summer. She’s not sucking it, she’s playing it…and badly too. Paris can’t swing like the professional fellatrix’ in most adult films, women who growl like wild animals when another bitch tries to jump their claim.
That’s it girl, fight fo yo cock!
All men really want is a little ferocious cocksucking!
Like so many women in the world, Paris’ style is dutiful, rendered in an almost chore-like fashion. And this is the point you invariably come away with even before the credits roll, women do it not because they want to, the thought of something warm, viscous and non-descript going down their throats has about as much appeal as clipping the yellowing toenails on your mother’s arthritic feet, but because it is expected of them. All Paris Hilton is really after is a merit badge.
It is only in porn that you see people so into it, so willing to tongue and slaver over every crevice on the human body. Pornography feeds the fantasy of how we’d like Life really to be, pure and unencumbered. Man wants no emotional baggage to get in the way of an unregulated rusty trombone. And even if this was pure and unencumbered in Miss Hilton’s mind that is not how it ended. Even she forgot about an impulse that’s even greater than sex, the impulse to make a few bucks. Mr. Solomon sold her down the river by commercially releasing the film. It just wasn’t enough to screw Paris Hilton; he had to screw her financially too.
The moment Wiley Hitchens was born he took one look around then proceeded to hoist himself back up into his mother’s vagina never to be heard from again.
STILL WORSE
A devoutly religious mother pounded on her son’s locked bedroom door. “Leroy? What are you doing in there? Drinkin’?…Smokin’ pot?…Playin’ with yourself’?” Worse yet, her son was reading The God Delusion.
DESTINY IN ACTION
A middle-aged man checks into a sleazy motel. He takes a shower, has a couple of scotches and watches some close circuit porn. Aroused, he stands up and begins to repeatedly thrust his pelvis back and forth as if he was air fucking. Unbeknownst to him, a woman in the room next-door was on her bed buns up kneeling getting air drilled.
HOW MANY PEOPLE REMEMBER THE BRADY BUNCH?
Comedian Skip Intro was such a hack the cruise line he worked for built a ship completely around him. When it was finished he was already on stage!
PROFILES IN BANALITY
Adolph Eichmann referred to Adolph Hitler as “his former employer”.
DIABOLICAL
A man from Cleveland drives to Pittsburgh and proceeds to molest 20 school children. He is arrested. Strangely, at his trial, the parents do not seem to be particularly worried about any long-term psychological effects that may have been inflicted on the kids by the pedophile, instead their greatest concern was if any of them became Browns fans.
I’M WORKING ON MY EXPERIMENTS
Pavlov’s dog was actually his wife Serafima. Serafima was so conditioned that every time the doctor unzipped his fly she would start to salivate.
TORN BETWEEN 2 LOVERS
Professor Hamish Finkel who lived a life of such polar opposites he could whistle a symphony while ripping a chimp.
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
Frederick Nietzsche while evacuating a particularly bad bit of local fare inadvertently looked into the chamber pot and there, floating in the fetid coagulate that yoked him to his finitude was hope itself.
LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, STEPHEN HAWKING!
Always before an important lecture Stephen Hawking would arrive at the lecture hall accompanied by a couple of black hos. “You get ready for your lectures you’re way. I’ll get ready for my lectures my way!” he said in his trademark robotic whine.
I’LL HAVE THE TONGUE
The greatest salad tosser of all time was an aging Asian cougar by the name of Skan Kee Ho who is said to have trained every day for 30 years by doing 10,000 reps into a tiny thimble.
HOT EMETIC
The Mayo clinic uses photographs of Britney Spears vagina to induce vomiting.
SCOTCHGUARDED ON THE INSIDE
The Garden, an old porn theater in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania is said to be haunted by masturbating ghosts of former patrons, who even in the netherworld are still pretty immature.
LAST CALL FOR EXCUSES
Murray Kovacek’s wife Betty knew she had to do something about her husband’s descent into alcoholism when she found him on all fours in the flower bed of their front yard caterwauling about how he needed to “get strong”. So she planned an intervention. The whole family gathered in the den while Murray sat on the couch pie eyed, his nose reminiscent of an exploded raspberry. Betty’s hope was to hold up a mirror so Murray could see what drinking was doing to him physically and the family emotionally. The going got very tough, as the proceedings evolved into a torrent of tears. Betty broke down and cried, their son broke down and cried, their daughter broke down and cried, but a stranger standing in the corner of the living room by the name of Duane Barko was taking it worst of all. Duane Barko owned the liquor store.
THE FARTHEST KILL SHOT
The longest-ever recorded and confirmed sniper kill was made by Corporal Rob Furlong of the Canadian Forces during Operation Anaconda in 2002. Using a .50-caliber (12.7 mm) McMillan TAC-50 rifle, Furlong shot and killed an enemy combatant from a distance of 2,430 meters (1.5 miles) Mysteriously, the combatant killed was his mother in law, Ruth Hunsecker who was under the dryer at the Ce Le Vie beauty shop in Saskatoon when the .50 caliber round pierced the dryer bonnet rendering Mrs. Hunsecker useless to all who loved her.
I was working on a cure for depression, but my agent convinced me that there’s no money in despair. His said the real money is in reality programming. Do you have any idea what Seacrest is pulling down these days not including tips? Shit Gigs was right. He says why waste time on superfluous projects like world hunger and AIDS when all other cataclysmic events are designed to thin out the herd anyway and if all diseases were eradicated what would we do with everybody? Natural disasters and disease have an ameliorating effect especially on parking and housing prices and anyway, it’s not my job to tamper with perfection.
My agent knew of my predilection for fantasy, that I see myself as a paladin sent here with a combination of guile and bonhomie to save Mankind from itself, but I owed him 500 Simoleons and if I didn’t show him a couple of sawbucks soon, I might end up in a dumpster somewhere.
So I took his advice and did a little research to find out how this world of reality TV works. I went deep into the woodshed to uncover ten reality concepts currently in development. Heaven help us. Any one of these is destined to lower IQ’s to really malleable levels.
Going, Going Gone takes place in Florida retirement village where everyone rides Hoverounds. The women play cards and kibitz while the men play grab ass with the nurses. Controversy ensues when the men receive collapsible grabbers for Father’s Day, which dramatically increases their range.
Perverted Justice-Scumbag white-collar criminals are thrown into a maximum-security prison where murderers, rapists and shakedown psychos dispense their own brand of…PERVERTED JUSTICE!!! Bernie Madoff stars.
Bimbo Island- 20 bimbos all named Kayley or Caleigh or K-Lee try to get off an island using nothing but their breasts.
Cougar High- A high school in Anywhere, USA has budget problems and can’t afford a cheerleading squad for the football team. The mothers of the players volunteer. “Hey Mrs. Jenkins, are you going to shave for the big game?” When Mrs. Jenkins does her first jump split a riot breaks out and police receive several reports that something looking like actor Dan Hedaya has been spotted for no apparent reason.
Touched By A Priest- Bad timing was this priest’s only crime. Honest, he really does do good work.
I Didn’t Know That Was My Baby- Candid Camera style show that records the reactions of idiot women when they are presented with babies they never knew they even gave birth to.
Judge Girlfriend- no nonsense African-American street chick dispenses practical justice like shoes up asses, slaps upside heads and the ever humiliating “No you di…int!
Do What You Gotta Do- A game show that follows average citizens on their daily rounds of jones crushing, marrow sapping errands, waiting for hours at the DMV, standing behind a woman with 100 items in an 8 items or less line, arguing with an HMO administrator about denied coverage for a pre existing disease and being able to murder them with impunity. The more violent the death, the bigger the prizes.
Pimp My Life- a random couple gets a complete physical, sartorial, and home makeover. After all is revealed, a man enters with an Uzi and wastes them all.
Showbiz Philosopher- selling philosophy 2010 style. A man with a long beard reads famous philosophical quotes then closes by saying “GOOD NIGHT! ENJOY YOUR NACHOS. I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK!”
As luck would have it, I have a cousin who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who makes the lifts that Ryan Seacrest uses in his shoes. He thinks he can get me a meeting for my littel surefire concoction. You only get 3 minutes to sell these suits. After that, they’ll either want to hear more or you’ll be shown the gate. So, I’ve been honing my pitch for the past couple of weeks and I think I’ve got it down:
From the guys who brought you the holocaust here comes It’s a Living. Joseph Goebbels opens a bar in Chaco, Argentina. This friendly, neighborhood, corner dive is populated by close pals, former Nazis who sit around and reminisce about the good old days…and making a living.
Who’s making love with your old lady while you were out making love?
Johnnie Taylor had the right idea with his funky paean to illicit sex. What was good for the goose was good for the gander. But was Johnny really “making love”? Making love a phrase so quaint I hadn’t seen it referenced since Nick and Nora Charles walked out of their bedroom holding highball glasses, he in his cutaway and she in her strapless evening gown. That was 1933 when people did make love, but today you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who is man enough to admit that the road to conjugality is not littered with the coarse remains of truncheons, maces and iron maidens.
When it comes to making love today’s machinations have all of the subtlety of a fetish convention hosted by Richard von Krafft-Ebing. By the way, Jody von Krafft-Ebing will be signing copies of his great, great grandfather’s book Psychopathia Sexualis at this year’s Anal-con August 6-9.
Leave it to Beaver takes on a whole new meaning these frothy days as pornography has gone mainstream. Porn’s imprimatur is on everything from the soft-core offerings on reality TV to the twisted acrobatics performed by the human pincushions on the Internet. From its infiltration into commercial cinema (see Brown Bunny only to glory in the oral talents of Chloe Sevigny) to the abject fear mongering of the evangelical right porn has found a way to be this generation’s greatest mover and shaker of its fantasies. Unfortunately, it exculpates them too. The web caters to every original taste and sicko craving that has ever been remanded to the darkest corners of man’s consciousness. Log on for ten minutes and you’ll find a clearinghouse for every warped bit of perversity the human mind can possibly conjure. It is here that you’ll enjoy the freshly spanked and shaven hordes, the girls gone wild, the ass worshippers, the stomata humpers, the sommeliers, the insertion freaks, the interracial, midget lesbians, the fudge slurping, jizz chugging, urine gargling gutter jockeys who trawl this miasma of nuttiness and if you don’t believe me then I’m not your typical red blooded, all-American, transgender foot fetishist. Even as I write, it is raining harder than a bukkake film directed by John Woo. See what I mean?
I met a woman at a bar the other day. She was in her thirties and pretty enough. She was on the verge of inebriation and began to tell me about her lousy day and even lousier week. Kidding, I told her that if her day didn’t improve I would come back to her hotel and I would be happy to make sweet, sweet love to her.
She cocked her head in a combination of bemused puzzlement and alcohol reduction as her sagging countenance struggled against the will of a 5th Cosmopolitan.
“Are you talking about fucking?” she queried. I said, “Oh yeah, there’s gonna be plenty of fucking. But I’m thinking of a somewhat more complete sexual experience!”
“I’m in room 813 and don’t forget to bring a horse harness.”
“I just want you to know, I parried. I am a weirdo, a connoisseur of a most particular kind, a kinky motherfucker in some circles.”
“You’re not gonna fuck me wearing a diaper while sucking on a binky are you?”
“Hardly…”
“Lick the resplendent residue from the soles of my feet? Smell the fetid remains of my panty liner? Perhaps you want me to spank and humiliate you while you enjoy a big bowl of Alpo?”
“No, no, no…you’re not even close.”
“What then could be so perverted, so beyond the pale of human expression?”
I was willing to confess knowing full well that after my mea culpa this pickled puma would never remember anything the next day let alone the Rolfing she was about to endure. For it was my shame and my shame alone…I hesitated for a second then decided to spill.
“I like to do it face to face…
Her expression did not belie the revulsion she was feeling at this prospect.
“And if all goes well I might even kiss you on the lips…”
She recoiled again her face twisting into a knot of disgust reminiscent of a child confronted with Brussels sprouts.
Face to face? Kiss on the lips? I was going back to a time when pot was 10 bucks and acid was a nickel.
“Listen taint…You can tie me up, smear me with petroleum jelly. Get a 100 of your friends to expectorate their manly evidence on my face until I look like a glazed donut, but as god is my witness we will never being doing it face to face! Not even if you have a coupon. The thought of looking anybody in the eyes while committing the most base of all animal behaviors makes me want to projectile vomit!”
I didn’t know what to say other than to think that projectile vomiting probably has a website of its own and is a cottage industry unto itself so entrepreneurial and egalitarian is the Internet and especially its denizens.
Obviously this woman has never felt the tender touch of a master, one Jeff Schneider the Willie Moscone of the bedroom, the first man to use billiard chalk on his tongue in an effort to apply a little English to a woman’s sugarplum.
This much was clear, people today have no interest in the nuances of making love and would rather be duct taped, impaled, and gagged than to gaze deeply into a lover’s eyes. For to look that deeply, is to be reminded of the finitude of our corporal existence.
Even body hair is looked at with distaste. Everyone and everything has to be completely shaved devoid of anything reminding us of our animal natures. Scrotums look like baby peaches and a woman splayed resembles a quarter pound of chipped ham.
Doing it face-to-face and kissing on the lips is the single greatest erotic thing I know of. As a maker of love, I am not what I once was, a boy hell bent on conquering the heathen female hordes with his unfailing, telescoping titanium, riot baton. Subtlety and nuance are his friends as he knocks boots on a higher plane
Today, it is not about the love, or quality but pure carnality, the impersonal nature of it no better than dogs copulating in the street. It is so impersonal these days; it is perfectly permissible to text your lover while you’re doing it which, I guess, is a form of multitasking. Texting is OK because chances are she is checking her texts too, informing her friends that you are probably not that good with those rickety moves you ripped off from this B-list porn guy hired as atmosphere, sneering in the background of some run of the mill orgy scene.
Come on folks, can’t we turn around once in a while and introduce ourselves? I mean, if your girlfriend can’t describe you to a police sketch artist, you’re probably doing it doggy style way too much.
Tiger Woods is back and none too soon as if anyone can expect a man within an arms length of the remote and ultimate fighting to endure the whitest of all sports, professional golf, much longer. Golf, even at its most exciting stinks to be sure and without Tiger Woods has all of the appeal of sitting on the veranda and watching Uncle Rodney cornhole his nephew by sending his croquet ball skyrocketing over the hedge. Other than the obvious somnambulant effects indigenous to both golf and croquet, save the young Thurston pulling a roscoe on his dear old uncle and draining him of his most precious fluids neither golf nor croquet can survive as spectator sports if Tiger Woods never again raises his mashie with malice or if the young Thurston does not survive his cornholing in San Quentin.
However, our prayers have been answered and Tiger will play again, this week at the Masters because without him the mall looks pretty good right now. Forget the hubbub of Tiger’s infidelity, that he had affairs with 15 bimbos named Kaylee or Caleigh or K-lee. This is a man of tremendous focus his golf game included. Any man who is down on him because he sullied his marriage vows by having dirty coitus out of wedlock can meet me at the Cinnabon and I will rain bolo punches off his gourd like skull.
Of course he had sex with those women. He is a reasonable man and this is what reasonable men do. Even a judge who’s a church elder would give Tiger a pass after witnessing that undulating parade of grade A prime. You know the type of woman I’m talking about…the kind that can bench press 250 pounds with their tongues. What man wouldn’t, given the chance to knock boots with the pulchritude of his choice, his only real concern is making sure he can slip the roundhouse of the battleaxe at home, the one with the sneer hell bent for destruction.
The allegations that Tiger Woods is a sex addict are ridiculous. No doubt he was out of control especially on the road, cheating, conniving in the great American philandering tradition. But what would any man do when confronted by some of the finest, hottest, young celebrity fuckers in the celebrity fuck business? All they wanted to do was give Tiger a rusty trombone… Rachel Uchitel studied at Juilliard for 8 years to lean how to play the rusty trombone for Christ’s sake! And a very soulful one to boot I might add and you think me and every other rutting mammal in the heterosexual free world wouldn’t back it up when Rachel Uchitel wanted to solo?
Sheesh…Sometimes I don’t know where this world is coming from.
And if he was a sex addict Tiger should have broken his silence on the Larry King Show and not on ESPN. He could have told Larry that yes he is a sex addict. In fact things are so bad I’m getting head right now! Whereupon a tight little minx crawls out from under the console completely nude except for a pair of kneepads with the Tiger Woods logo on them. Teary-eyed. “That’s the only endorsement I have left, Larry…””Overland Park, Kansas you’re on the air.”
Are you trying to tell me that without the sex addiction Tiger would have won 40 majors? Please…the man just fell off of the Christian morality wagon like ever other guy who’s ever been ceremoniously tethered to 200 pounds of the American dream.
In the Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche writes that before Christianity the Romans used to gauge morality in a more naturalistic way. The body would dictate behavior. If it felt good do it. So men and women who had multiple partners were not looked at as wanton and immoral, but as a reliably human behavior. Once Christianity became the paradigm, Man became a slave to the impossible standard of living up to the virtues of gods. We have been supplicants to this for over 2000 years and the indentured servitude continues, the blowback clearly seen in the tidal wave of scandals currently drowning the Catholic Church.
As for Tiger he clearly broke a culturally sanctioned contract by cheating on his wife and now through the politics of pressure will re-gird his loins so that chumps everywhere will know that he shares their hell too. It makes perfect sense and good business too.
If it was me and I was Tiger I’d look down at any one of those naked bimbos laying splayed before me, someone probably named Britney or Britain-E or Britknee and before inhaling from a can of amyl nitrite ask a simple question, what’s par for this hole baby?
Charles Bukowski once said, “The days run away like wild horse over the hill.” True dat and no truer than for The Funny Bone Comedy Club which will be 28 in July. Who would have thought in 1982 that a nightclub solely devoted to comedy would be a viable business, that a club owner if he did it right could bang waitresses, snort coke and have the same respect as any politician. Needless to say the list of waitresses is long and I would love to thank each one personally like I did when the club was closed, but my memory will not allow it. However, my coke dealer Dirty Sanchez is another matter. He was a man of unusual pedigree and so resourceful that he could find you an 8 ball at 3:45 in the morning during a hurricane. Today, he is still my dealer and scores me Poke, the street name for Viagara, you know for the times when you’re trying to chat up a little hard belly at the Toot ‘n Scoot and miraculously she’s buying the bullshit. That’s why you keep old Dirty’s number on the speed dial. There’s a distinct possibility that you might be in need of a little pharmaceutical cantilevering system in the next coupla minutes, you know, for when she gets off work and invites you over to her place above the pizza shop for a breakfast of Colt 45 and Ding Dongs. Ah, how time flies.
Twenty-eight years is a long time and I have seen a lot of things in the comedy racket. Robin Williams walked in one night after a big theater show and did an hour because he needed to relax. Lenny Schultz a prop comic who was going through a monumental mid life crises brought his hot 24-year-old bombshell of a girlfriend on stage and had her flash the crowd. All I remember is jaws hitting the floor and thinking, “so this must be show business!” Jason Russell accidentally cold-cocked a lady with the mic doing his Roger Daltry impression.
Steven Wright did one of his earliest club dates at the ‘Bone and so did Bobcat Goldthwait, Harry Anderson and Dennis Miller. In fact Dennis did his last 12 weeks for us in Pittsburgh before heading to NY, NY and landing the news chair on SNL. Chris Rock did 6 sold out shows on a Wednesday and Thursday just before he broke big in the mid 90’s. Time flies if you’re not careful.
Everything I have written up to this point is true except for the wanton pillaging of the waitresses and the coke, Still, I’ve been around long enough to remember when an ounce of pot was 10 bucks and acid was a nickel. The young whippersnappers today don’t have time to think about the past or the future. They’re too busy living in the now texting their girlfriends why they’re having sex with them.
The Funny Bone made its bones putting on the best and funniest shows possible, without worrying about whether this guy was a draw or not. It was all about the concept that strangers could come together in a darkened room, placated by the lube of their choice while another stranger would tell hilarious tales of the most personal woe. This audience would explode in raucous laughter because after the checks were paid and the house lights were on somehow they felt they knew this funny stranger. Today clubs book these weird little cats who might have some lame subterranean Internet show that draws Mushroom People who like to watch lame subterranean Internet shows. They’re demographic is 20 to 22. And so is their life experience and what they can draw on for laughs. I miss the days when guys like Rodney Dangerfield had audiences from 10 to 90. He was universally funny to every man not just to one 17-year-old dweeb who plays Call of Duty 4 in his tighty whities on his mom’s davenport 10 hours a day.