Why Did You Bother?

Yesterday, someone found my blog by searching Google for the following phrase: "Is it safe to have your dog lick your vagina?" I fear that this poor soul didn't find the answer she was looking for on my site, so I wanted to help her out in case she stops by again. And since I don't know her name, I'm just going to come up with a handy mnemonic to remember it.

So, dear Dog Fucker, the simple answer to the question "Is it safe to have your dog lick your vagina?" is, of course, yes.

The full answer is a bit more complicated than that, Dog Fucker. First of all, let me say that not only is it perfectly safe for your terrier to tongue your twat, but it's healthy! That's right - the saliva of the typical canine contains many anti-bacterial microbes that actually make your vagina cleaner and fresher than any household douching agent. In fact, next time you have a big date where you're expecting Johnny to go clam diving, make sure part of your evening preparation includes letting your labrador lick your labia - Johnny will thank you later!

This brings up the corollary to your question. Now that you know that it's safe for your pooch to pounce on your poon, how do you go about making it happen?

First of all, try some type of sweet spreadable food. Peanut butter works the best, but make sure to only use creamy! With crunchy peanut butter, the strength of your puppy's tongue might force little licked-clean peanuts up where he can't get to them, and then next time Johnny's fucking you in the backseat of his car and pulls out with pieces of peanuts all over his dick, you'll have some serious 'splainin' to do! Also, make sure not to use any food that requires biting. Sticking a small steak in your slit or holding a hot dog with your honey-pot is only going to risk having those sensitive parts chewed by your cuddly canine. Stick with foods that can be eaten by licking, and if you're not sure, test it on your hand, arm, or anus first.

Now that you have the food, it's time to set the mood. Put on some dog-themed music - I would recommend anything by Gnarles Barkley or Snoop Dogg. Then, while naked, with your food applied, approach your dog and face him or her. Give a sharp command of "Go downtown!" and then turn around, remaining on all fours. While it may seem strange, allowing Fido to freshen your funbox from the rear provides a shinier, sassier snatch than if you were to lay on your back and elevate your legs for your canine cooch cleaning. Remain in that position until Rover has finished relishing your rat trap or until you reach orgasm, whichever comes first. And you're done!

Dog Fucker, I wish you the best in all of your endeavors to have your Doberman devour your dickhole. And next time you need advice, all you have to do is ask! I'm here to help.

Back In Your Saddle Again

So I took an almost 6 month hiatus. Life had gotten a bit hectic there, and I needed a breather (and to buy a house, move, and renovate). But I'm back, motherbitches. Maybe for good, who knows...

Anoyone Other Than Me

My current job is somewhat common, and not in the least bit exciting. I'm more than happy to tell people the company I work for, but I have a self-imposed gag order on giving anyone my actual title or going into any sort of detail about what it is I do, coworkers included. I've run through all of the different kinds of people that exist in the world (at least those found on the "Guess Who?" board), and there is not a single one that could possibly come away from an explanation of my job's duties a richer person.

While not at a particular loss for not being able to share my occupation with the world, I do sort of mourn the fact that I never grew up into one of the standard occupations rendered so lovingly in cartoons on the pages of my Spanish workbook, like a butcher or a fisherman or uncle. There's something to be said for having a job of the ages, so that if you were to suddenly find yourself in another era past or future, Connecticut Yankee/Bill-Ted style, you wouldn't have to hastily make up some lie or risk some sort of grandfather paradox because you accidentally taught a civilization what a "database" was before its time. I kind of enjoy not having to explain my job to anyone for their own sanity, and though I have secretly always craved a unique job, I wouldn't relish having to give every new person I met a rundown of my life, like when you meet someone who's seven feet tall or from Alaska. I would make exceptions:

Furrier: I kind of like the idea of dealing in pelts, like a pilgrim or an owl. Plus, there's something very solid about coming home after work smelling like a bear or a wolf. It beats smelling like a spreadsheet. Downside: Omnipresent PETA members.

Mad scientist: This one's not that difficult to achieve, due to ever-expanding fields of science, and the rather general nature of the job title. All you have to do is become a scientist, then go batshit insane (I suppose it could work the other way around, as well, if one was up for the challenge). There are certain areas of science that would lend themselves more poetically to mental imbalance than others--a mad agricultural soil scientist doesn't have the same ring to it as say, a mad volanologist or a mad geneticist-- but on the whole, I think it's a pretty storied tradition. Downsides: Constant pressure to keep up with advances in the field and new technology, resulting in a stream of younger, hotshot mad scientists angling for your job.

Chess Grandmaster: There are two ways your day can end: One, you won. Two, you lost. There's a certain tranquility in the simplicity of it. Also, everyone would address you as "Grandmaster", mostly because you'd fucking insist upon it. Downsides: Birthday/Christmas gifts from coworkers and Secret Santas would always be novelty chess sets along the "Simpsons" or "Star Wars" line.

Funeral Director: Everyone you'd meet would be having a worse day than you. Assuming some sort of normal distribution, no matter how crappy your day is, within the scope of your universe, it's the best. Downsides: Constant realization of your own mortality; also, messy.

Q, From the James Bond series. The crux of his job is figuring out how to fit explosives into increasingly smaller objects, then basking in 007's appreciation; it's basically a Dremel tool, some C4, and a legion of devoted lab assistants rolling in hazard pay. There aren't a lot of opportunities for a science geek to save the world, but this is definitely the one that gets you most laid. Downsides: M seems kind of a bitch to work for.

Longshoreman: I don't really know exactly what a longshoreman does, but they seem to lead a pretty hedonistic lifestyle. You never hear about anyone frowning upon a longshoreman for swearing too much, getting too drunk, sleeping around. They get away with murder. Probably literally. Downsides: I don't know, but there's got to be some, otherwise I feel like I'd have met more longshoremen.

Jack-of-all-Trades: I dunno. Just seems handy. Would look good on a business card. Downsides: Union dues would really add up.

Cutting Corners

My friend Alberto recently purchased his first house. He has been talking about getting a house of his own since we were 19 years old, so this was a big moment for him. I was very happy that my friend had worked so hard and had achieved one of his dreams.

We all have dreams, but it’s interesting to note that very few of them actually come true. I will tell you that his eyes beamed with pride as he showed me around. It is nice to be around someone who has accomplished a dream. It is a good vibe that puts you in a good mood.

"Johnny, these last several years have been tough. I’ve put every extra penny into the bank and cut corners everywhere I could."

It was funny that he said this because he was the friend who would drink the grocery brand soda or maybe order water when we went out to dinner. I hadn’t paid much attention to it until he actually pointed it out.

"I actually hate the generic cola. It tastes moths and radish. I can’t wait to start buying actual brands. I’m tired of Terry the Lynx cereal."

I was proud of my friend. Maybe his bad moods could be attributed to drinking something that tasted like a flying nuisance and a root. My mom told me that everything that is worthwhile is hard. Alberto has had a hard road and he got to where he needed to be. I left him with the rest of the guests and went to visit the office (bathroom).

I won’t get into the details of my trip to the restroom, but when I went to reach for the toilet paper my heart stopped. What in the name of the Baby Jesus is this? One ply? Seriously? He is cutting corners here? One ply? Why? Why would you cut corners here?

Generic toothpaste. Fine. Generic cereal. Fine. Hell, even generic Q-tips is fine. But here? Toilet paper? One ply?

This particular "brand" was so cheap that it didn’t even have the perforations to make a nice, straight tear. Look, I like to have a nice, straight tear. Now, the tear is all over the place. Look at this... I just made a 45 degree tear. What’s the use of that? Now I’ll have to use more.

Is this made of thin cardboard? Are those pieces of sand? This is not going to be good.

It wasn’t good. It was hell. I understand cutting corners, but this? No. No person should save money like this. When I go to a restaurant, hotel or office and I see this type of toilet paper being used, I cry. I cry holy tears. I cry because I realize that whoever bought the paper didn’t respect me, the customer. Why would I want to go somewhere that didn’t respect me?

Now I understood why Alberto was always in a bad mood. In his attempt to cut corners, he crossed the line. Toilet paper is something that touches a delicate part of your, well, of your soul. Well, maybe not your soul, but if your behind is unhappy, then your soul is unhappy. So, it could be said that your behind is the gateway to making your soul happy.

Ask any proctologist. If your ass is unhappy, you are unhappy and then your soul is unhappy.

I believe that the makers of cheap toilet paper own stock in Preparation H. It's a conspiracy.

I walked out of the restroom and punched Alberto in the face.

Cheap bastard.

Condom Dilema

My question is a simple one: if we can put a man on the moon, why can’t we produce condoms that smell nice?

Make no mistake: I am not anti-condom. I have a long and storied (some would even say, fairytale-like) history with condoms, replete with fond memories, the oldest being the day I tried on my first condom.

You see, ladies, I’m going to let you in on a little secret - one of the most important days of a young man’s life is when he tries on his first condom. And to be clear, I don’t mean this in a sexual-intercourse-is-pending way. No man - or at least, no man worth his salt - has ever put on a condom for the first time while his naked or pantsless girlfriend is waiting to deflower him. Even at a young age, a guy knows that it’s important to do a test run so that when the opportunity for sex arrives, there won’t be enough time for the girl to get nervous and change her mind/for the booze to wear off and the girl to wake up while he is fumbling helplessly with the condom.

I was especially concerned about condoms because even at a young age I was aware that I had a tiny penis. I spent almost all of junior high sleeping only three hours a night, as I lay awake wondering if my unfortunate, diminutive bird would ever fit into a condom, which from porn I saw could stretch very far and wide and wow. Of course in porn, this stretching was necessary as the studs in those films had penises larger than my forearms - if anything, the condoms the porn actors wore looked like they were straining and uncomfortable, as if you could hear them saying "Can’t…hold on…much longer…" In my case, I worried that my baby bird would never be able to keep the condom on; I imagined a condom would fit my penis like a pen cap on a toothpick.

But all fears were allayed one day in eighth grade when my buddy Ronnie went to K-Mart and stole a box of Trojans. Ronnie, good friend that he was, then distributed the condoms between his friends, many of whom would not have sex for many years (myself included) or ever (myself kinda included - depends on what you mean by "sex" and also "have"). After Ronnie handed me two condoms around the schoolyard where we all hung out, I raced back to my house with a speed that can only be summoned by a sexually-charged 12 year old, locked myself in the bathroom, ripped open the condom, rolled it on (the sheer magnitude and excitement of the moment had given me an erection) and…IT FIT.

I slept for the next three days straight.

(After masturbating furiously, of course.)

So in order to show my gratitude to condoms for just fitting me, I wear condoms quite often during sexual intercourse. (I’d say probably 58% of the time, which in my circle of friends, is very impressive and the highest by far.)

And I don’t mind wearing a condom. I’m trying to figure out how the old axiom "beggars can’t be choosers" can be applied here, but suffice it to say that I’m just happy to be getting laid and would put a cheese grater on my dick to achieve orgasm in the presence of a (breathing, aware, semi-consensual) woman.

But that still doesn’t answer my question: do they have to smell so bad and be so gross?

According to guys, there are three main knocks on condoms:

1) They take away feeling. Hogwash. As addressed above, just be happy you’re getting laid. Otherwise, got back to jerking off in your laundry basket.

(Not that that’s not awesome in its own way.)

2) They take lovers out of the moment. This is undeniably true. It’s so much better (and more fun) to make love on the couch without interruption than to start kissing on the couch, take off some clothes, get up from the couch to search around for a condom, put the condom on the rapidly flacciding penis, get a couple of thrusts in, apologize for being limp, then have a milkshake.

But the alternatives are not much better. Do you know what else disrupts "the moment"? Babies. And: herpes. So you’re better off strategically placing condoms in secret places all over your apartment so that you can take advantage of spur of the moment kitchen sex than having to call your ex-girlfriend to ask her if she’s ever heard of "chlamydia."

3) They’re just nasty. True, true. True.

So what can we do here? I admit, maybe I’m a little naive. My experience with different brands and kinds of condoms has been very limited. Forever, I have used your standard blue Trojans with spermicidal lubricant. In high school, I had a sex ed teacher who stressed that it mattered not what brand of condoms we used, but that it had to have the spermicide Nonoxynol 9. I distinctly remember, in a scene much like the one in "Rushmore" in which Herman Blume is giving an address and Max Fischer is copiously taking notes, underlining the words "Nonoxynol 9" over and over again after my teacher offered this advice, making a point to remember to use that sperm-killer when I started having sex.

These condoms were fine for a long while, but I eventually wanted to switch it up a little. So I consulted a friend and veritable condom guru, who we will call "Colin." Colin was dating a girl for FIVE YEARS and she never went on the pill (if that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love you, well, I don’t know what does). So poor, poor Colin had plenty of time to experiment over the years with different condoms, and claimed the best was Durex Extra Sensitive. I used these for a while, but grew awkward when once at a pharmacy I had to instruct the Asian teenage girl behind the counter, "No - the extra sensitive" three times before she finally grabbed the right box. After that, I had trouble using (and asking for) "extra sensitive" condoms - like I was some kind of pimp or something - so I went back to the old blue Trojans.

[To clarify: I don’t mind wearing a condom with a girl I picked up at the karaoke bar after I brought down the house with my fiery rendition of "It’s Not Unusual", but if you’re dating someone for over a few months and having regular sex, well, Uncle John says she’s got to go on the pill. Them’s just the way it is.]

[Actually, I don’t know why all women aren’t on the pill anyway, since it’s the greatest invention since fire and possibly Country Crock, but I’ll fight this battle another day.]

Rounding out my experience, maybe I experimented with a former lady with some ribbed and "her pleasure" condoms, but neither did anything but embarrass me when a roommate or guy in my dorm needed to borrow one and would ask "Her pleasure? What the fuck?" But that’s about it. I have been fairly non-promiscuous when it comes to different condoms.

But all of the condoms I’ve ever used - and have ever heard of anyone using - have been gross. Condoms feel gross. They are covered in goo. They are slimey. And they smell. Why must this be the case?

Aside from the texture and goo of the condoms, we should at least be able to do something about the smell. You’re telling me that there is no way that science can’t mask the smell of latex and lubricant so instead of grossness it smells like an apple orchard? Isn’t there a lab in New Jersey that’s responsible for creating every smell and taste in the world? Can’t the people at Trojan, Durex, et al hook up with these people and make something happen? I’ve noticed that I’ve been consuming an obscene amount of cinnamon in my diet recently; might I recommend cinnamon-scented condoms? Tell me, are cinnamon-scented condoms really an impossible dream?

[Author’s Note: I know about flavored condoms, like banana and mint and strawberry, but I have two issues with these. The first is that who cares what condoms tastes like? (Oh, right - hookers.) Secondly, these condoms are often distributed by no-name companies, like "Uncle Charlie’s Flavored Condoms" and "Chop Chop and the Homos’ Mint Julip Condoms." Much like airlines and liquor, when it comes to condoms, names matter (you wouldn’t fly Bangladeshi Air while drinking Popov vodka, would you?)]

I wish that I could end this post by giving a solution to this problem or at least coming to some sort of conclusion. But frankly, my friends, I’m feeling a little exasperated and defeated (and, not gonna lie, a little aroused). And I don’t know why I care so much about this, because it’s not like I’m having sex anyway; the idea for the post came to me last night when I was feeling nostalgic and decided to put on some condoms and secretly dispose of them, like I used to do in the good old days after having sex with my girlfriend on break from college in her sister's bedroom and in her basement (my favorite is the ol’ "put the used condom in the middle of the hardcover book under the bed and dispose of it when mom has gone shopping and brother and sister are out" tactic).

But I thought this was an important issue that deserved some attention. Hopefully one day, hopefully soon, when I start having sex again, I will be able to suit up with a delicious pumpkin pie smelling condom, so that I can give my lady friend the most adequate fifty-eight seconds of her life. A boy can dream, at least.

(Until then, it’s jerking off in the laundry basket for me.)

Penis Stroke

I got this email from a reader the other day. I figured it deserved to be posted here:

I was dating a girl a few years ago and after a couple of months I told her that condoms were really a shitty thing and she should go on the pill. She did and we began some very happy latexless humping for the next three months or so. Then one day she woke up and couldn’t feel half of her face. She went to the hospital, where the thought she had a Bells Palsy and gave her all kinds of steroids and shit. it went away, but a week or two later she realized that she was having difficulty writing.

Well, long story short, apparently one of the dangers of going on the pill and being a smoker (did I mention that she smoked a pack a day?) is that you can have a stroke. Things worked out well for this girl, though, because I was getting sick of her shit by this point. But even I wasn’t a big enough douche to break up with a girl who just had a stroke for me, so I stayed with her for another 6 months. So maybe she had a stroke, but she got an extra 6 months of my man meat, so it had to be worth it.

I hope you can someday feel the love that clogs a girls brain.

…
…
…

That’s really all I can say about that. Aside from: I hope so too, my friend. I hope so too.

Things That Suck Harder, Or That I Imagine Would Suck Harder, Than My Day

1. Anal Cancer
2. Gingivitis
3. Your Mom*
4. That whole Holocaust thing
5. Jumping off the Empire State Building and landing on a bicycle with no seat**
6. Industrial Air Cast Iron Pump Compressor - 4.5 HP, 60 Gallon, Model# ILA8046065
7. This post

*Only applicable for John Dabiri of Pasadena, CA.
**Cross-reference with "Grosser than Gross".

Vegetarians Can Now Eat Meat!

Awhile back, when conversing with a vegetarian friend-well, not actually vegetarian, because they eat fish, and not actually a friend, because I'd never be friends with a vegetarian- anyway, I was shooting the shit with someone, and I asked him why he'd become a vegetarian. Having once spent a year as a vegetarian, for no reason other than boredom and inability to cook meat safely, I'm curious as to why people would choose not to partake of the most majestic creatures that God put on earth (for us to kill). Sometimes I'll get some spiel about not liking the taste (bullshit), I have one friend who's worried about contracting Mad Cow seven years from now (bullshit as well, nevertheless, she'll be eaten first in the event of an Andean plane crash), but most of all, people tell me that they don't want to harm animals, or more succintly-and-self-righteously put, "I won't eat anything with a face". Nice gesture, but this reverence really only pays off if God turns out to be either a Veggie Tale or a member of the Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

Despite their smug respect for all living things, when I ask most of these Face Vegetarians if they miss any particular meat product, they immediately start salivating and going on about burgers and steaks with the sort of crazed zest that makes you retract your extremities. So I was thinking, suppose someone were to open up a restaurant that only served animals that had died of natural causes*? Just keep a big range out back, with cows and chickens and whatever heavenly creature bacon comes from, let'em graze, and then when they croak (peacefully, in their sleep, surrounded by their family), hack them up into choice cuts and charge a ridiculous price. It's the perfect conscience loophole for protein-starved veggies, and anyone who's ever been to a Whole Foods knows that these people will shell out for just about anything that claims to be healthy and organic.

It'll probably only work in the more touchy-feely markets like Vermont and Northern California, but I figure I can get a mail-order side business going as well**. If the publicity brings more customers than I have barnyard animals, there might have to be a well-timed outbreak of Old Age, but I figure after the first couple of years, I'll probably get the numbers down. See? Everyone wins.

Vegans, though, they can go fuck themselves.

*Natural causes includes cancer and Alzheimer's and whatnot. This IS a business, people.

**I also have an idea for a Stoner Snack Shack, in which I just lay out bulk tubs tubs of ice cream and raw doughs on the floor, toss on a Phish song (one is long enough), and charge each person $10 for a spoon. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even need to wash the spoons.

Worthless

I don't like the idea that there are estates that earn more than I do per year, like James Dean's estate earning $5 million a year, 50 years after his death. There are imaginary things that make more money than me. If that doesn't make one feel a tad worthless, I don't know what does.

Goodbye Grey Poupon

I have to be honest - it doesn’t feel right posting today. I contemplated a moratorium on posting out of respect for the loss that I - that we, that humanity - is feeling right now. But I know that thousands of you (ok, six of you) are counting on me to be a beacon of strength in this difficult time. Typically, I handle death well, as my upbringing has taught me that when someone special dies, it is the responsibility of those who cared for that person not to mourn a death, but to celebrate a life.

But in this case, I’m afraid that I’m just too sad. We have lost an icon and there must be time to grieve. I can not write any more on the subject, for fear that I will lose control. My sadness is too great and the hole in my soul too deep. I can only muster a goodbye to someone who has touched so many of our lives in such important ways.

Farewell, Grey Poupon Man. May you have all the dijon mustard that your heart desires in the Rolls-Royce that is heaven. We shall miss you, Sweet Prince. We…shall…miss you.

The Morning After

That icky feeling you have, the second you wake up. It pervades your body, and as you hurriedly shower to try and wash the dirty feeling off your body, you can't stop thinking about it. Flashbacks pop into your mind as you rub the soap all over your body and exfoliate for extra measure. The dinner, the wine, they were all factors, and now, now you're not going to be able to forget this for another year. Things seemed fine when you spoke on the phone, almost like nothing had happened, but you know that's not the case...

It's the morning after your parents' anniversary. You know they've had sex, and they've had it more recently than you.

An Open Letter To Stormy

Dearest Stormy,

I will say straight away that this is not an easy letter for me to write.

From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew it was there. The clip, titled "Stormy Waters fucked and cum shot," was one from the random torrent of pornography I download from Limewire onto my computer every week, leaving it crippled with viruses. While the scene itself was not spectacular - thirty seconds of sideways sex on a bed, followed by obligatory pop shot - you looked amazing. Nay, amazing doesn’t quite explain it; you looked super fucking hot. T.T.B.B. (tall, tanned, blonde, boobied) all the way.

Immediately, I had thought I had found the answer. Ever since Celeste retired a few years before, I had been in search of a new favorite porn star. To that end, I dabbled quite a bit. Chasey Lain, with her blue eyes and dark hair, was fun for awhile, but soon she retired and left me alone, sitting in front of my TV/VCR with my dick in my hand and no new material. There is nothing wrong at all with Jenna Jameson, but she was the object of desire of far too many - I didn’t think she’d have the time for me (and, without getting into it, I was right).

Feeling spurned by Jenna, I turned to Taylor Hayes, one of the most beautiful but also one of the nastiest starlets - if watching her "Best of...Blowjobs" doesn’t send chills up your spine, you either don’t have a spine, eyes, or penis; the woman is a semen-eating machine. But with Taylor it was all physical. Likewise with Stacey Valentine, who has the IQ roughly equivalent to that of a German Shephard. I was into Kira Kener for some time, but c’mon - I can’t get seriously involved with an Asian girl (even if she is half-Norwegian).

I then went through a fairly serious Sunrise Adams phase and nearly fell in love. But, though I am admittedly a breast man, I fell in love with the Sunrise Adams pre-breast implants. Once she got the fake boobies, I couldn’t make it. I mean, I could make it - I ejaculated even more viciously than before - but I couldn’t make "us" work.

Dejected, demoralized, and pretty much out of semen, it was then that I first saw you, Stormy. After witnessing that first clip, I downloaded some more and - I’m not ashamed to write this - I fell completely head over heels for you. This is in large part because I knew you were more than a sperm-covered smile and a pair of fake boobies. Despite your easy manner and Louzy-ana drawl (which, by the way, is adorable), you exuded a real sense of self-confidence, something so often missing from porn stars, who typically spent their formative years getting fucked by their dad/their uncle/a teacher/my dad.

And all was right with the world. I masturbated to your scenes with the reckless abandon of a bee who has first tasted honey or a poor who has taken his first hit from the pipe or a 26 year old who on the whole is pretty lonely and has a serious addiction to pornography, so much so that he occasionally has to fake orgasms while having actual sex. The next few months were the greatest of my life, as I basked in that warm glow and semeny smell of porno love.

But, as with all relationships, the glow began to subside (though the semeny smell remained strong, if it did not grow in strength). I still roughed up the suspect to your clips, but a scary notion began to dawn on me. When I was not blinded by lust, I realized something.

Stormy, you don’t have it.

Believe me - this is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to write. But I do so because I believe that it’s not too late - that you could still have it. But you need to work for it.

I feel, Stormy, that in your scenes, you are simply not applying yourself as much as you should. There is no fire, no real fire, in your fake love-making. Like any good contract girl, you "ooh" and "aah" at the right times, have no qualms when ass-play is involved, and are willing to take the pop shot wherever and whenever, but it is obvious to any discernable porn connoisseur that you are giving only the minimum effort required.

Like many gifted people, you rely solely on those talents that you have been born with (or that have been surgically inserted into your body) to get by. All throughout your career, you have been considered so stunningly beautiful and sexy that you never had to really work in your scenes; it was enough for you to just show up, take off your clothes, S a little D, get slammed, and be on your way. But I must tell you that your lack of effort and work ethic in your scenes is not only a slap in the face to your admirers, but a clear indication that - right now - you, Stormy Daniels, do not have it.

And when I realized this, I was devastated.

But this isn’t about me (too much). I write to you to both enlighten you and plead with you to step it up - not just for your fans, but for yourself and your legacy. Few in the modern porn industry have been able to combine looks of your caliber with a passion that makes even the most seasoned director blush. Celeste could. Jenna could. And possibly Briana Banks can, if she stopped doing so many drugs (or at least stopped looking like she did so many drugs).

You, Stormy, could add your name to this list. Your looks put you half-way there. All you need now is that fire. I encourage you to review the films of Melissa Hill, a starlet who may have been lacking in the looks department but who turned into a sexual wolverine when the director yelled "Action!" If you have the time, I would also suggest checking out some of Chloe’s early work, though I would stay away from her whole eye-rolling bit, because, frankly, it’s kind of creepy.

I know that you may find some of my words hurtful, but please remember that I write these things only because I care about you, and because I know that you are on the doorstep of greatness - true greatness - that so many of your peers can not even approach. A few simple changes in your approach and shortly your name will be mentioned along side the all-time greats. You are so close, Stormy. So close. And I am getting such an erection writing this letter to you.

I close this letter with a quote from Calvin Coolidge, thirtieth president of the United States. I think it sums up my feelings and your task very well:

‘Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.’

Stormy, the key to the pantheon of porn greatness lies in your well-manicured hand. Unlock the door, Stormy. Unlock the door.

(Or something.)

As always,
Green, as I love you, greenly,
Beneath the moon of the gypsies,
Silent things are looking at you,
Things you cannot see,
I am,

Johnny Trashbag

Milton Bradley Killed My Youth

Visiting my aunt and uncle this past weekend, I played more games of Monopoly than recommended for someone still granted the use of their legs, and was given a glimpse of the naive optimism that a young Johnny posessed when playing the game at the age of 11, before the weight of the world killed his spirit. While I'm grateful for the sense of voracious capitalism instilled in me at a young age (I have distinct memories of my 11 year-old self purchasing my broke opponents' actual game tokens from them and forcing them to play with scraps of paper found on the floor, purely for sport), I'm worried that it might have built up my expectations; namely, that I would one day ever own property, win a beauty contest, or find free parking (not to mention the less-frequent-than-I-was-led-to-believe encounters with Scottie dogs and top hats).

Encountering the game again in the twilight of my thirties, I found myself even more money hungry than nineteen years ago, especially when playing against my cousin, who, God bless her stoned little heart, actually WANTED to be Banker (it was a bear market, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that the current fiscal climate and low interest rates were NOT going to make it a lucrative position, as it would harsh her mellow).

After we'd quickly cleared the board of anything and everything that could be purchased, rents were due, and I was struck by how little money is actually involved in the game. It's the same amount as it was back then, but having lived in Manhattan for three years, the idea of paying $18 for one night's worth of rent made me almost giddy with savings; I decided to purchase Mediterranean Avenue and not do a goddamn thing with it just for the God complex (I should mention that I'd found an old bottle Kahlua under the counter at this point). And $200 of salary, for 10 minutes of work? Tax free? Clearly I'd never appreciated the generous tax breaks that Milton Bradley had passed along.

Sailing around the board, managing my properties, crushing my poor cousin, who had not realized that blood does not, in fact, run thicker than imaginary pastel currency. I was heady with power, enjoying the life of luxury (taxed at only 10%!), until I looked down and realized that in a world where an entire avenue can be purchased for $120, a world created during the fucking Depression, I had more money in the pile in front of me than I did in my actual real-life bank account. Whatever nanothread of childlike innocence I had left in me died at that moment.