-Barney Rosset

It's been a rough few weeks for smut peddlers and the devotees who took a shining to their licentious outpourings. First, Jackie Treehorn died, then publishing icon Barney Rosset, and finally, the purveyor of the filthiest, raunchiest pornography in recent memory, Andrew Breitbart, dropped dead of a heart attack or utter shame (we're awaiting the autopsy).

Since Jackie Treehorn was a fictional pornographer played by Ben Gazzara (R.I.P.) and Andrew Breitbart was a lying sack of shit political sadist who enjoyed watching liberals squirm, our focus today will be on Barney Rosset.

The backwardness and puritanical tinge that American culture has always suffered from was made a lot less embarrassing for some of us due to the efforts of Rosset. Few people outside of literary enthusiasts knew his name, but he certainly played a large role in redefining this nation's social mores and what Americans considered acceptable art. He dragged a slouching behemoth, kicking and screaming all the way, into the world of modern aesthetics. And he did it primarily through publishing books.

Rosset was an eccentric. His first passion was for the cinema, but finding little headway in that pursuit, he turned to the written word. He was a fan of good literature and bad. He possessed a Bohemian flair for life and a schizophrenic business sense that saw his publishing house (Grove Press) through booms and busts throughout the 1950s, '60s and '70s. At his core, however, he was a crusader against censorship and a champion of the fringe elements of our society.

He served as a photographer in China for the U.S. Army Signal Corp. during World War II. Army Intelligence wrote three letters that described him thusly:

1.) A communist and a monster

2.) The greatest patriot that ever lived

And

3.) A nice boy who's worried about poor people who don't have the things that he has.

Rosset later joked that all three letters were likely true, simultaneously.

After the war, he produced a documentary called Strange Victory which dealt with racial bias in America after WWII. Finding no further inroads into Hollywood, he moved to France and married Joan Mitchell, an abstract painter and friend from his high school. Their open marriage failed and Rosset returned to New York where he purchased a press on Grove Street in Greenwich Village (assisted by a tip from Joan) for $3,000 in 1951. It was there he began publishing his literary magazine Evergreen Review. It was also at Grove Press where his numerous battles against censorship began. So many battles, in fact, that Rosset referred to his publishing firm as "a breach in the dam of American Puritanism."

The first fight was to publish D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover in 1959. The Postmaster General had refused to allow it to be shipped through the mail despite the book being in circulation (in other countries) since 1928. Rosset won. Emboldened, he took on the obscenity laws for Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. He won again. A flood of the Beat Generation's works followed through Grove Press and the torrent of the counterculture began to flow through the crumbling edifice of America's stone wall of hypocritical piety.

Rosset turned even more political in the mid to late '60s by publishing The Autobiography of Malcolm X and the writings of Che Guevara and Ho Chi Minh. He had a knack for sensing revolutionary trends in the culture and was often beautifully situated just ahead of the curve with the right property when they broke. He even scored a sensation as a film promoter in 1967 with the stateside release of the Swedish film I Am Curious (Yellow) which was like voyeuristic catnip to movie audiences that had not yet seen the influx of porn theaters on their downtown block. The film is laughingly tame by any standards now.

To give you an idea of the man behind the writers, take a gander at the list of artists that Rosset published:

Samuel Beckett

Henry Miller

Jean Genet

William S. Burroughs

Jack Kerouac

Eugène Ionesco

Tom Stoppard

Allen Ginsberg

John Rechy

Pablo Neruda

Octavio Paz

Kenzaburō Ōe

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Harold Pinter

Hubert Selby, Jr.

Not a bad scorecard of widows and orphans that gunslinger Barney Rosset defended against the swarming hordes of pinch-faced, priggish god-fearers and their abiding lawmen, eh? He received his share of death threats (even a grenade detonation in his office, presumably by the FBI), bad press, slander, ridicule and ignominy during his time here on the big rock. But, for such a scrawny and odd little fellow, he went toe-to-toe with the giants of his day – and kicked every one of their motherfuckin' asses. That's a hero to me. Now, I'm not about to mourn like an Italian widow over an 89 year old man who died relatively impoverished and underappreciated despite being the most innovative publisher of the 20^th Century but, again, that's a hero to me. We need more the likes of Barney Rosset. My life is richer for him. Our libraries are more full due to him. And we are a better, more open nation because of his efforts.

For those who prefer their info visually, check out the documentary Obscene. A well done synopsis of his life and contributions to our culture. Available for streaming on Netflix.

The arm of Drew Brees.

Living in the world's best brew town with 50 bars for every church.

Simone's smile and understanding.

The films of the Coen Brothers.

Sweet, tasty donuts.

The sardonic laughs the GOP and its enablers provide.

My continuing lucidity and wit despite all my efforts to destroy them.

And the love of my family which, as frigid and unforgiving as the northeasterly climes whence I sprang, has never abated in my near half-century on this earth.

I would like to offer as my Thanksgiving gift to you, Dear Readers, this audio gem regarding tomorrow's holiday from a true narrative master. An excerpt from Joe Frank's Pilgrim that I originally heard 12 years ago. It is now, like stuffing, my Thanksgiving Day staple.

Enjoy:

Joe Frank's Pilgrim

Oh, and I'll be taking the Packers, Ravens and Cowboys tomorrow.

"People are people, not the idealized founts of virtue we might like them to be."

When I saddle up my sinewy, rippling, muscular steed of ethical and societal vengeance and gallop through the streets of my nation hunting for the weak and hypocritical, I'm going to try to remember and adhere to that statement more.

Just a thought, on this day of our lord, June 8th, 2011.   

Normally, I wouldn't take this sort of prediction very seriously but the guy is, after all, good with math, only 89 years old and, most importantly, spent millions of dollars on ads, electronic billboards, images on traveling vans, and signs for his acolytes.

If that's not serious, then I don't know what.

Readers familiar with this blog know me to be a bit of a skeptic in regard to religious matters. Hell, who's kidding who, I'm overtly hostile toward and forever mocking any dolt who views the god myth as anything but a fear bag of power and control or- in this instance and most others- a cheap huckster's game to fleece the intellectually incurious.

But this time, I don't know. I could be very, very wrong.

It seems rather bittersweet, however, that if the end times are really here, most of us will have only outlived Osama Bin Laden by a few weeks. Where's the canonic justice in that?

Which is why I'm writing down some confessions here for Jeebus and, vicariously, you. To free myself from past sins and cleanse my spirit wholly. Blood of the lamb and Mississippi rivers sort of bathing and plunging. Just in case I meet that flowing-haired savior with the sinewy swimmer's body this coming Saturday. I want to be at my freshest. I will talc up as well.

I've never been good at this, but here goes- my confessions:

I masturbated often to images/scenarios involving my friend's mothers while finding my sexuality as a youth. I would like it to be known that these diversions were always with procreation in mind and never, simply, to spill seed.

Although I am now a professed vegetarian, I cannot resist the Italian beef/sausage combo at Al's in Chicago. I would willingly gouge the eyes out of a thousand bovines for just one more taste of those delectable sandwiches.

I do not think there is nobility in poverty. Mostly, just a squalor sink full of dirty dishes and screaming, hungry, ugly kids running around.

I stole a Matchbox motorcycle from a department store when I was six. The store went out of business two years later. That guilt has never left me.

I give money to street beggars but really don't want to know them beyond that. I tell myself they're all buskers, playing some form of music without an instrument.

I'm not really scared of an eternity in hell. I've already seen Michael McDonald perform twice.

I constantly tell lies over the phone, but never in face-to-face conversation. Something about the eyes.

I really do admire most of the work of Steven Spielberg despite having taken a critical claw hammer to his skull at every opportunity.

I have dabbled in race hate but, sometimes, those Laplanders get above themselves.

I voted for Republican candidates in the past. Oh, Sweet Christ, forgive me. I couldn't have known.

How's things with your Dad, Jeebus? You need to vent? You've got a shoulder and an ear with me. Fathers can be absolute pricks. I understand.

There are far too many handicap parking spaces per capita for the amount of cripples who drive. 

I have always ignored the dictates of Satan. It has helped that I do not believe in him.

I have based my life philosophy on contrarianism. My behavior has been formulated less by the person I desire to be and more from the person I do not wish to be. Often heard voice in my head says, "What? That asshole? You couldn't possibly!"

I have seen man's exploitation of his fellow man up close and decided to combat it by having a few drinks and a bake when I got home.

I tend to chuckle at the misfortunes of others. My laughs are usually at someone's expense. But, I helped a woman up the other day when she tripped on a supermarket rug. I rushed to her assistance without first snickering. That is progress for me.

While babysitting me around the Christmas holiday, my older sister suggested we peek at our gifts while our parents were out. I agreed wholeheartedly. Then I ratted her out a few days later when the guilt became too great and I thought I wouldn't get to keep my presents. Santa's vengeance is strong!

I own a copy of The Communist Manifesto and have not rejected all of its tenets. Actually, Jeebus may be cool with that in a "to each according to their needs" sort of way.

I've got an aversion to the foot. The absolute ugliest part of the human body. I avoid contact at any cost. So, sorry Jeebus, I won't be bathing yours.

I just don't like dogs. I don't hate them. But, like cops, priests, gout and Mormons, I feel better when they're not around.

I tip well. That's gotta account for something, right?

I have never killed another human being. Except Lewis Grizzard. Pretty sure his demise was directly attributable to my hatred for him. Particularly since I willed cancer onto that unfunny motherfucker.

I've never hired a hooker. But I have paid dearly for sex.

Everyone who has ever met me, despite my bristly exterior, finds me to be a good guy deep down inside. I am not. I'm actually that surface prick with some rote social manners instilled in him during childhood.

Being a passive, thoughtful, liberal thinker is ideal, but sometimes I really want to stomp some ass.

"Turn the other cheek" is a phrase I'm more apt to use at the culmination of a blowjob.

I have always found the Nazis to be quite stylish in appearance.

There has got to be some Armageddon loophole for a guy who picks up his cat and coos "Schmoopie Poopie".

I hope this helps you Jeebus, in your judgment of me come crunch time. I've tried to live an honest life without the church. Maybe you can forgive me for continually trashing the organizational offshoots of your teachings. You know- charlatans, false prophets, "healers", greed-heads using your name for a dime, the capitalists, Mormons, the Pope and his minions, homophobes, missionaries bringing horror to the "savages", snake handlers, cultists, Adventists, televangelists, politicians, racists, Intelligent Design proponents, flagellants, witch burners, the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusaders, Southern Baptists, Armageddon authors, pinch-faced small town gossipers, tent revivalists, censors, nosy neighbors, self-righteous jackasses, proselytizers, door-to-door god salespeople, "universities" without actual science, "straight campers", indoctrinators, frightened parents, etc. Or, perhaps, what many of your earthly minions have said about you all along is true. You are a forgiving sort who finds the good in people. Here's to that aspect of your attributed conscience. It probably doesn't help that I've always called you "Jeebus", does it? Anyhoodle, please keep an open mind when we meet. I have many good qualities and talents that could serve you and your staff well in the years to come. Attached please find my resume with email and phone number. I'd be happy to answer any and all of your questions and look forward to our interview. Since it's a Saturday, maybe drinks and some parlor games afterward? Just a suggestion.

If at all possible, I would rather not be immersed in flames for all eternity. If this is all some sort of practical joke, however, well, go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

C. Adolph Moores

I'd love to say I'll stick around here in Kabul, but the sand traps are too darn big for my golf game.

These terrorists are something, huh? They believe 72 virgins, wine and fruit await them in heaven. I think they're getting eternal paradise mixed up with Hugh Hefner's apartment on a Saturday night.

Say, how about these kids and their hip-hop music? I haven't seen anybody move like that since my USO show in Vietnam when Vic Damone hid a tarantula in Joey Heatherton's sock drawer.

I was at the Grammy's when Lady Gaga came out of that egg. I haven't eaten chicken since. Somebody needs to warn Colonel Sanders that one of his experiments escaped.

I was talking to former President George W. Bush the other day. His low profile since leaving office has nothing to do with embarrassment. He's working on his library. After two years, they've apparently procured a Bible, a copy of The Pet Goat, and a homeless guy who uses the bathroom to wash. (Audible boos)

Fuel prices sure have risen lately. The last time I bought gas this expensive was the garlic truffles at The Brown Derby.  

The news is that al Qaeda has come up with a new kind of IED. They strap Kirstie Alley down on the roadside and tell her Taco Bell just went out of business.

The Governor of Wisconsin recently took away collective bargaining rights for state employees and there was a lot of backlash. Not much changed, though. During the protests, union members still sat around doing nothing and complained about work.

Celebrities are getting younger and younger these days, aren't they? I just met Justin Bieber backstage and was asked to burp him and jangle my car keys while his mother went to the ladies room.

Boy, this internet has really taken off! Used to be if you wanted to take a look at a beautiful naked lady you had to drill a hole in the wall of Jill St. John's dressing room.

I've shot golf with 11 U.S. Presidents and I'm sorry to say that I won't get a chance to play a round with President Obama. The ladies down at the club would be too frightened and I'd keep confusing him for my caddy.

The Generals tell me we're moving on Muammar Gaddafi in Libya now. I haven't seen an Arab this nervous since Omar Sharif was seated at Golda Meir's bridge table.

I took a stroll in downtown Baghdad the other day. It was so hot the pickpockets were asking people to step into the shade with them.

General Stanley McChrystal just had a talk with that Rolling Stone reporter that got him fired. He told him if he was ever to lose his job again over a scandal from someone "embedded", he'd prefer it to be Lola Falana.

A lot of debate about Obama's birth certificate. I hope they don't ask for mine. Stone tablets can be so heavy.

I'm not saying that the ethnic makeup has changed in this country over the last 40 years, but Hollywood has released a financial report that studio bronzing expenses are down 89% . And not simply because Cary Grant is dead.

They asked me to host the Oscars again after the James Franco/Anne Hathaway debacle, but I declined. I told them humor and farce doesn't always have to be deliberate.

And now... you all know her and love her... Juliet Prowse!

Here is the unedited transcript:

Thank you. Dean, Chancellor, professors, over-educated, pampered, idealistic shitheads of the student body, Good Afternoon.

You are about to embark on the remaining leg of the magical journey that some call "life".

Let me begin by saying that your enjoyment is, now, essentially over. I'm sure most of you have groused and lamented over your powerless station thus far as minors in an adult run world. Obeying rules that made no sense. Stuck in, or shunned from, social cliques of someone else's design. Never having the ability to make your own decisions. Seeing injustice after injustice foisted upon you like a peasant in a post-war Italian neo-realist film.

I can only offer you this one salvo- it gets much worse.

For you will now be forced to earn money at the expense of all else, be a productive member of a society that you will increasingly learn to despise, obey stranger's dictates, toe new imaginary lines, and fear authority in a freshly debilitating manner. Hell, you'll even be expected to produce children of your own so that the whole inevitable cycle of misery can, once again, come full circle and start anew.

This is your future.

Now, there are many paths which can be taken to offset, in varying degrees, this absolutely maddening, soul-crushing experience that awaits you. And as far as I can tell, having gathered a large intellectual pool of resources in my near half-century on this planet, there are two options which succinctly define those channels.

You either pursue money in and of itself or you do not.

I am not here to advise you on which is the better road to happiness or enlightenment. Nor am I going to lie and tell you that either journey won't, most likely, end in despair and self-loathing, regardless of your choice.

I am simply here to say that the option of suicide, at this point in your tender ages, will be viewed as cowardice and forever place shame on your family and loved ones.

So, might as well take the ride, eh?! What have you got to lose but your youth, will and vibrancy?

Perusing the list the Dean kindly offered me a few days ago- a brief percentile rundown of the types of degrees that this graduating class has earned- I noticed that most of you have already answered my bifurcated lifestyle poser.

Fifty-seven percent of you have graduated with degrees in business or political science. The bloodless, personality-deprived nature of the business diplomas speaks for itself, but I wonder if you poli-sci majors are fooling anyone in your soul-less craving to become future attorneys? Are you really implying you're getting into government and using that degree for civic-minded solutions to our democratic ills?

Didn't think so.

The world needs new lawyers like it needs more anthrax. Or flesh eating bacteria. Or flesh eating bacteria carrying anthrax in a teetering, cracked vial.

At least business people have the potential to produce something worthwhile for mankind. But most likely they'll come up with the latest "singing bass" wall plaque to mass produce, or find more efficient ways to exploit labor, pollute the environment, shift operations overseas, skirt tax obligations, indulge in lawless financial endeavors, use economies of scale to crush competition and relentlessly shill worthless crap in order to create future generations of mindless consumerbots.

And that's why we need lawyers. And the ones at the top of the class (notably the ones whose conscience is for sale) will be scooped up to protect the business people from "frivolous" lawsuits that fight these malpractices.

Good hunting to you all! You are the dream destroyers for many.

The rest of this degree list looks like no one has really made up their minds yet. Teaching? Sure. The professors on the dais here will tell you what an enthralling and rewarding jaunt through academia is like for the untenured. Unions will soon be abolished nationwide, so good luck to all of you with that particular career choice. It was so well paying to begin with. You better love you some fucking children, I can tell you.

I see here a  few philosophy graduates. Let me tell you something, Kant. When you show up for your first day at the philosophy factory, there's going to be a lot of snickering until the dispatcher says, "Sure, Nietzsche, why don't you take cab #27. Be back by 5 am, WITH RECEIPTS!"

Here's another good one! A bachelors in Native American Studies. What is that exactly? Do you whittle the wooden mascots for the entrances to tobacco shops or design sweat lodge themes for casinos?

And I would be remiss not to mention my bothers and sisters-in-arms in the audience, the fledgling writers with the English Lit degrees. Those future J.K. Rawlings's and Dean Koontz's out there who have opted for a life in selling esoterica and all the riches that a sinecure in literary endeavors entails. I, for one, will be whisked away to my awaiting booze-soaked limo containing a $1500/hour hooker after this address, filled with the self-assured thought that the written word still does matter to my fellow humans and has not become, as others have designated the profession, a catchall for inveterate scum and layabouts.

As you are all now educated to some degree, it would also not hurt to brace yourselves for the coming doom. Learn practical skills in addition to your theoretical expertise. When the oil runs out and George Miller's prophecies come true, quite suddenly, in all their Mad Maxian inevitability, it will help to be adept in these talents to avoid becoming banished, killed, or left for dead by your newfound tribe:

gun cleaning, disassembly and assembly

bullet/IED making

fortress design

creating fire from flint, glass or wood

making root vegetables and human flesh palatable for consumption (culinary students have an advantage here!)

Machiavellian power grabs

construct of simple machines

healing

fucking (oodles of down time, people)

agriculture/soil revitalization

hunting

sanitation

Humongous spotting

With that said, and under the assumption we are not soon to be reduced to the limitations of our primitive ancestry, I'd like to spend the last ten minutes of this commencement speech dispensing life lessons that will assist you far beyond any vocational advice I can offer. Little tidbits of wisdom that might soften the hard blows during your insufferable grind of careerism. Believe me, you won't have much time to think of these yourself while trying to raise a family and churn out a living in the moribund decay of American capitalism and its soon approaching collapse. It's as Freddie Mercury and David Bowie spoke of, "The terror of knowing what this world is about."

To wit:

Never listen to your parents about anything except the need for safe sex.

Keep your drug dealer and bookie's phone numbers handy.

Don't take shit from auto mechanics, religious figures, bankers, attorneys or cops.

Befriend artists.

Read good fiction.

Forget voting as a means to anything. Well timed assassinations are always the key to change. Ask RFK or MLK.

Give up meat. It's cruel and disturbing. If not, eat your pet. I dare you.

Ask relevant questions.

Put your thoughts to paper, but do not assume they should be published.

Wean yourself from television.

Do not respect the elderly unless they earn it.

Be wary of children and those that cherish them.

Do not fall victim to nationalism.

Never, ever, serve in the military unless we are directly attacked.

Do not get tattoos. Your skin is precious- ink and fleeting symbolism are not.

Help a fucking brother out on occasion.

Seek advice in odd places.

If you drink, be a regular at a bar. Don't hop.

Know the game is rigged.

Always behave decently and with kindness, even though there are no gods watching.

People will ultimately disappoint you. Forgive them.

Do not seek extreme wealth or fame, it will make you a bad person.

Vengeance is a nowhere road.

True love is better left a concept. True lust, however...

Vehemently argue only with those you are assured are unarmed.

You are always as good as the next person, unless you're adjacent to me.

Don't hold up lines or traffic with your petty bullshit.

Embrace pornography.

Use your turn signal.

Never act on ethnic prejudice, but know that some stereotypes are real.

The opposite sex is beyond understanding.

If someone tries selling you religion or a quick fix to your ills, shit in their outstretched hand.

People of other lands don't hate you for your freedoms. They hate your leaders and military, and the fact you're a privileged shit with actually no reason to feel superior simply because of birthplace.

Refrain from being an asshole whenever possible.

Your latest crisis means nothing to anyone else.

When living in close quarters to others, keep the goddamn noise down.

Hate is for the weak.

Never, ever, think you've learned all there is to know about anything.

And, again, as Freddie Mercury and David Bowie sang, "Give love that one more chance"

That's it for me coeds! I'm outta here!

Live long, love strong, eat well, and tip your servers, you cheap fucks.

Remember, the only thing that you will likely not fail at is in your ability to disappoint me.

Goodnight!

(Tips over podium to the screeching of mic feedback)

Dr. Louise Atchison is a licensed therapist with a doctoral degree in human sexual studies from Bob Jones University.

My wife and I have been happily married for 37 years and were blessed with two wonderful children who are now raising families of their own. We are both retired and have had a satisfactory sex life up until recently when my wife's significant weight gain has caused her to not only lose her desire in the bedroom but has also made penetration extremely difficult. Do you have any suggestions on how to rekindle the passion?

                                                       -Pressed in Wichita

Dear Pressed,

It sounds to me like your spouse has fulfilled all her wifely obligations to you... TWICE! Or were your children adopted? Regardless, allow her to enjoy her retirement in peace. Choose a hobby and get your mind off such prurient interests. Your wife is finding true pleasure and solace in the wholesome realm of cheesy casseroles and rich desserts. Who are you to sully that with your carnal weakness and depravity? And why do you wish to bed a grotesquely fat woman anyway, Weirdo?

Dear Dr. Atchison,

I am a male in my mid-forties and my boyfriend is twenty years my junior. I'm finding it hard to keep up with his sexual appetite, but don't want him to think I'm disinterested or, worse, that I'm getting too old to satisfy his needs any longer. I'm tired so often from work and sometimes would simply like to cuddle up with a movie or just talk. He, however, is always chomping at the bit to have sex and I'm having a hard time maintaining my erections due to fatigue. Should I start taking an ED drug or be open with him about my limitations?

                                                      - Exhausted in Tucson

Dear Exhausted,

Leviticus 20:13:
"If a man lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination and they shall surely be put to death."

Dear Dr. Atchison,

My girlfriend and I have been having sex steadily for over a year now and, frankly, it is becoming a little rote and boring. I suggested the possibility of trying anal intercourse, but she is scared it would be too painful. I sympathize with her fears (I am rather well endowed) and am trying to ease her into it with various toys and occasional ass play during our love making. She remains averse to the idea. Could you offer any help as to how I could open her up (forgive the pun) to the possibility?

                                                            - No onramp to the Hershey Highway

Dear Ramp Seeker,

The anus is strictly an output device, Mister. Take your toys and your freakishly oversized member and return to the pornographic sewer whence you sprang. And leave that poor innocent girl alone. It is bad enough that you tricked her into surrendering her most precious, life bearing flower before marriage, but do you wish that she be cast into the lake of fire as a Sodomite as well?

Dear Dr. Atchison,

I am a nineteen year old male from a good Christian home. My intended is seventeen and we plan to marry as soon as I graduate from college. We are both virgins and plan to remain that way until our wedding when we can offer ourselves to each other fully and without shame. I have to admit, however, that there has been some heavy kissing and inappropriate touching on more than one of our dates. We also engage in masturbation in front of each other. We are both terrified that God looks upon us as sinful despite the fact we have not gone "all the way". Are we doing a bad thing? We love one another so much. It is very difficult. Are we losing the love of God by acting this way?

                                                               - Damned by love

Dear Damned,

You are both filth. But as long as none of this behavior leads to dancing, you should be fine.

Dear Dr. Atchison,

I am a paraphiliac infantilist (AB/DL). I enjoy dressing up in diapers and being mothered by my lover through nursing on her breasts, having her change me (I defecate when I climax), burping me and speaking to me in baby talk. She has been quite accommodating in all of this, yet, I feel I don't pleasure her enough after my session is over. She likes straight sex and wants me to perform as a monstrously hung black man in a breaking and entering rape scenario, but I am often so overwhelmed by my gratification that I cannot pleasure her fully. Should we alternate these role playing games by who gets to go first or save each of them for different nights?

                                                               - Soiled in Collingswood

Dear Soiled,

I am phoning the police.

Dear Dr. Atchison,

What and where is the G-spot exactly?

                                                              - Curious in Tacoma

Dear Curious,

The Gräfenberg Spot, more commonly referred to as the "G-spot", is an area anywhere from 1 to 3 inches along the anterior vaginal wall in between the back of the pubic bone and the front of the cervix . A very sensitive area in many women- part of the female prostate- it can be manipulated to achieve greater sexual arousal and orgasm during masturbation or, if one must, sexual intercourse. I recommend a curved dildo, like the "Havana Plantain", applied rigorously with near unbearable pressure to stimulate it correctly.

Be sure to subscribe to Dr. Atchison's podcast, "Not in the Lord's Bed You Don't" which airs every Monday and Friday at 4:00 am. Her new self-help book, Chastity, Multiple Cat Rearing and You, hits stores in July. She steadfastly refuses to answer questions from women as they should have their minds on other things.

If there is one certainty, one remedy, to all this upheaval and suffering, it lies in the ability of the masses to rise up, gather their collective force and give power to their frustrations in very public acts of lawlessness.

Either that or bring back dueling. Seriously. If I can walk up to an investment banker, insult his wife, slap him with my glove (I always keep one handy) and then shoot him dead, legally, in front of others on a field of honor - well, justice, I say, has been served.

But I will not speak of violence or overthrow. I want no person harmed in my revolution. I command no permanent destruction of public or private property. The business or activities of others should not be halted. The rights of those same people should not be impinged upon. Traffic should not be impeded. Detractors should not be shouted down. My demonstration requires no placards, no bullhorns, no chanted slogans, nor human blockades.

I desire, simply, the peaceful assemblage of those who have had enough of the current socio-political climate to make known their feelings through normal bodily functions.

I am speaking of a new citizen protest.

The "Flash Poop".

A "flash" is, by current definition, the impetuous gathering of people via social networking (i.e. facebook, Twitter, Myspace, texting, phone, etc.) in which the receivers of the message through those outlets gather together swiftly in a freshly determined place to perform an act en masse.

In the case of the "Flash Poop", it is a clustering to take a very real, non-proverbial dump on whatever intolerable entities have become the focus of wrath, outrage or incredulity.

The targets will obviously be of the inanimate variety rather than actual people, due to the legal ramifications of actually shitting on someone (I'm guessing the laws are more severe for birthing brown babies on a person) but, you never know what could happen given some of the egregious acts of our politicians and businesspeople. They may deserve some mahogany rain. This would always be done from a position of altitude, mind you. We want no physical contact with our marks.

I like the term "dung sniper" or "bird of conscience", don't you?

What is painfully obvious is that the act of public defecation has not been utilized enough as a form of social protest. And, let's face it, urination has simply lost its vogue.

If people began intermittently pooping on things and places of historical, political, financial or personal relevance to the powers that be, it could change the world. Our fecal matter, in abundance, could stop this runaway train of injustice.

Step away from your toilets. Hold in your digestive vote. Save it for a statement on the machinations of your fiscal and political enemies, both public and private.

People! We have some shitting to do.

The "flash" gathering, until this point, has been little more than tepid congregates performing commercial pranks, hordes of renegade, bored youths asserting their blossoming violent identities, or twerps joining together in lame dance routines or yoga. Our calling, while culling from the spirit of the "flash", will be of significantly greater socio-political value. We are critiquing with our anuses. We are summoning unrest, not only toward those who would keep us downtrodden, but from our very bowels themselves.

And while the "flash" has at its very core the idea of improvisation and spontaneity, the "Flash Poop", like most well conceived rebellions, cannot take true form without some planning and preparation.

The following is a brief guide to creating your own successful "Flash Poop".

Networking

All relevant and widely popular social media outlets should be utilized. These would include facebook, Myspace, Twitter, etc. Give the event a little push beforehand via phone or text to your inner circle of fellow poopers. Just a little heads up that something big may be emerging in the next few hours or days. Always use code during these exchanges so as not to tip off the authorities or targets.

Example:

"Hi, Midge. Would you be interested in dropping the kids off at the fountain in the Mall of America?"

or

"SCOTUS needs shexting"

or

"Dennis, how's about a mocha frappe at the Starbucks near the courthouse on Tuesday?"

These subtle hints will no doubt spring Midge and Dennis into action as they relay the exponentially growing message to other concerned citizens.

Convincing the Apathetic

Obviously, with any act of civil disobedience, there will be those who hem, haw, whine and argue that the effort will accomplish nothing in the long run. They will also be deterred from fear of arrest, public humiliation, media exposure, loss of employment and, quite possibly, nervousness about literally showing their sagging, hairy, acne pocked asses to others. As the majority of these people will be cringing, ineffectual liberals, simply berate them for thinking that voting for Barack Obama would be enough to stem the tide of corporate fascism and American military imperialism. Further add that Obama has only worsened the problem on both counts and they better take action or Birkenstock prices will go through the roof, transgender Latinos will be enslaved in work camps, homegrown basil will be outlawed and Sarah Palin will become President. If that doesn't work, physically drag them to the "Flash Poop". They're liberals, what are they going to do, put up a fight?

How to Prepare

As we are all aware, a balanced diet full of nutritious foods is the key to healthy living. I ask that you forego such thinking in the days leading up to the "Flash Poop". An abundance of cured meat products, potato chips and corn on the cob washed down with sparkling cider and finished with the smoking of a pack of Pall Malls about two hours before the event should do the trick. Participants should abstain from dairy of any kind as it can instill constipation in many and result in what Flash Poopers like to call "stage fright" come performance time.

The Event  

The locations of the proceedings should solely be based on the message being received by the largest audience possible. This does not limit "Flash Poops" to heavily trafficked areas so long as the resulting mounds of human excrement leave a solid political point for the media to translate and the target has been properly mortified. Furthermore, low volume pedestrian and vehicle areas are less likely to be populated with law enforcement agents. 74 neatly arranged piles of feces on the lawn of a despised alderman performed in the middle of the night speaks volumes more than a few paltry shits squeezed out in a panic on the steps of city hall.

How to Poop

Poop in formations. Poop structurally (Build, people, build!). Poop in designs. Poop in artistic postures. Poop while running. Poop in shifts. Poop on your own (the bandit pooper). Poop like no tomorrow. Poop often, anywhere, but make it distinctly yours by style (the serial pooper). Get creative!

Where to Poop

Your own imagination and sense of righteousness should guide you here. Golf course holes ("Bill, did you see that?! Chipped it in from the fringe. I can't believe... eeewww".). Disney Stores. Entrances to gated communities. Government buildings. Theaters showing Vince Vaughn movies. Dance floors. Hunting blinds. Shopping malls. Posh restaurants. Swimming pools of Republicans with political yard signs. On Hummers. In Charlie Rangel's suit closet. Upon Ted Nugent's flag in his sex slave/guitar dungeon (be careful). All over the doorsteps of Libertarians so they'll beat their dog for it and feel empowered, etc.

Dealing with Law Enforcement

Normally, political protestors are encouraged to "go limp" when faced with police arrest. Not the "Pooper". They have a handy weapon at their disposal. Show me the officer who would willingly bring in a non-violent protester with dung smeared on their hands and clothes, just itching to share it with a person in a clean blue uniform, and I'll show you a renegade cop out of control.

Cleaning Up

No cleaning up! That's the point, Stupid.

Spicing Up the Event

Not everything involved with protesting need be a serious slog through the mire of heavy-handed political earnestness. Sure, there is suffering and hideous criminality being perpetrated by the U.S. Government in your name. Innocents are being slaughtered wholesale by our armies. A walled security state is building all around us, incrementally infiltrating our privacy and setting us up for cowing obedience. Money swappers are stealing our livelihood and retiring on our lost investments. And only now has the idiot general public realized that Charlie Sheen is a lovably unhinged satyr.

But that's no reason not to have fun.

Once the playfulness has been removed from "Flash Poop", then "Flash Poop" is over. Before it had ever begun.

I suggest a contest to keep things light and fresh. Reward the best poops. Scold the worst ones as traitors to the cause. Bring in those sick chicks from "Two Girls One Cup" to host an event. They're the real professionals.   

Some award ideas:

"The Serpent" - best coiled dump by diameter.

"The Carvel" - best coiled dump by height.

"Satan's Breath" - most fetid dump.

"Chili Cook Off" - loosest dump.

"The Load of Tom Joad" - driest dump.

It is this kind of celebration of effort and single-mindedness of purpose that will allow our spark of revolution to kindle into a real political flame. Vive le merde!

So arise, My Fecal Comrades! Tune in, drop trow and let your flatulent voices be heard above the din of exploitation and suffering! You have nothing to lose but your chains and need of Charmin coupons. Our fallen brother, Mr. Whipple, cries out for bread, roses, vengeance... and shit.

And in another Oscar News:

The nominations will be made by Mrs. Sturtevant's 8th grade ceramics class from Westberry Middle School, Providence, Rhode Island.

The winners are to be chosen exclusively by America's teens, who will select their favorites by texting "45789 rofl" to (555) 555-5555.

There will be guest appearances by Carrot Top and Avril Lavigne.

Rosie O'Donnell will slime the audience with green goo.

No alcoholic beverages will be served at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion's "Grog & Grub" during the ceremony unless you are stamped or have a wristband.

Lesbian kiss rumored to occur between Best Director presenters Heidi Montag and Dakota Fanning.

Jack Nicholson will not be allowed to sit in the front row as it would violate his probation for coming within 200 feet of a minor.

Sponsors "Axe Body Wash" and "Squinkies Cupcake Surprise Bakeshop" will control all commercial advertising.

Ceremony must end by 8:30 p.m. as audience, producers, agents, and writers have school the next day.

Cutaways to simultaneous broadcast of Spongebob Squarepants should keep 3 to 5-year-old demographic interested.

Five words: Miley Cyrus in Vera Wang.

(*African-Americans 1028% more likely to serve prison time for said offenses.)

Be sure to purchase our add-on accessories of plum wine, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid (GHB) and a neutering kit for the ultimate Michael Jackson Experience.

Getting Started:

Decant plum wine.

Dissolve GHB powder into wine. Shake vigorously. Add sweetener if necessary to mask saline taste of drug.

If using multiplayer mode it is suggested to have a pedophilic handler or sympathetic agent as moderator for more realistic game experience.

Clear out a wide area for dancing maneuvers, backstage tantrums, spilling of plum wine or the inevitable struggling of a sexual victim.

Loading the game:

Single Player mode - Rub controller firmly back and forth along your taint. Sip from unlaced jug of plum wine. Press START button.

Multiplayer mode - Insert index finger into anus of other player. Simultaneously hit START buttons. Sip from jug of unlaced plum wine. Offer laced plum wine to player 2.

Creating your character:

Hit the SELECT button to enter PROFILE MODE. Here you can manipulate the physical makeup of your avatar. Keep in mind that you are not constricted to the unique features that God assigned you at birth. Change whichever bodily attributes mock you constantly in the mirror. Your only limitation is your imagination! Lose the nose. Alter your pigmentation. Add a dagger chin and dimple. Confuse your gender. You can turn down gigs as gay Skeletor at hip NYC Halloween parties later if you become uncomfortable. The most important thing is to know that you can transform into anything. Without the niggling judgment of society or health care professionals.*

* Ubisoft recommends the presence of a licensed medical practitioner (or those from Martinique, Chad, Latvia or Laos) on hand for this stage of game play. If only to dispense the required amounts of Propofol and Xanax to continue uninterrupted gaming.

Now it's time to begin the game.

Navigating the Neverland Ranch:

While a magical and wondrous place, Neverland is also filled with many pitfalls. Beware these enemies during your journey:

Bubbles the Chimp - Always carry extra bananas. You never know when that maniacal simian is about to go off with a fanged attack or fecal hailstorm.

John  Merrick's Bones - Never mock them. Their power is unknown.

Liz Taylor - While not overtly dangerous, you cannot afford the time in taking her to gala luncheons, escorting her to award ceremonies or pushing that wheelchair down one more goddamn embassy hall.

Daddy Joe - You best get on the stage when Ol' Joe commands it. Dance, you little motherfucker, dance! Papa needs a new Lincoln, so even if you ain't disposed to it, get up and start singing or his new Motown belt buckle awaits for the motivation.   

Lisa Marie - She's dirty and wants you to enter that open wound. Scientology lectures will ensue.

The Ghost of John  Lennon in the Hall of Betters - Here you will need to run as fast as your spindly legs will carry you as that nutty Liverpudlian haunts you for the catalog purchase of his works. A blaring Beatles soundtrack makes this portion of your journey quite treacherous and frustratingly undanceable.   

LaToya Shapeshifters - They come in many forms- bats, harpies, pigeons, rats, and earwigs- constantly badgering you for career advice, favors for her agents and rhinoplasty referrals.

Controller functions:

X - Ignore Tito's phone calls, block father's punch, feed Bubbles, fire maid.

O - Decant plum wine, alter pigmentation, moonwalk, grab crotch.

∆ - Get new scrip, reach attorney, cancel show, pop a Xanax.

□ - Avoid court appearances, feign illness, drop baby, consult Swedish augmenter.    

Tips/hints -

Your opponent's intake of plum wine will lessen their resistance to suggestion. This is metered on the bar in the bottom left corner of the screen.

Shatter all mirrors.

Get a new rotor for the Ferris Wheel.

Wear the glove. Its magical powers will protect you.

Decline all interviews and PPV events.

Keep plenty of clean underwear on hand, in all sizes.

Do not listen to Diana Ross. That bitch is fucking crazy.

Remember to send a thank you note to that fan who gave you the Jesus and Ron Glass figurines fashioned out of Clorox bottles and human hair.

Anger Joe at your peril.