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All hail Automotive Eroticism's sensational April issue!
- - - - - - - - - - - - April 1, 2000 |
Another week, and another tedious gallimaufry of media malfeasance. Those
pansy poltroons are still stuck like barnacles to John McCain's bony butt,
while they dopily let the crushing imperative of a female veep for both
parties slip, slip, slip away like a greased pig. Sniveling, pasty-faced
grubs! Mush-brained lemming losers!
Hillary Rodham Clinton, meanwhile, like Lucille Ball with head wrapped and
skirt hiked up at the Italian vineyard, is feverishly stomping the gooey
grapes of wrath and hoping to turn race war, her only playable card, into
victory at the polls. Hey, Mr. DJ, crank up the tarantella for that gal
with the purple knee socks!
Rancid ricotta dripping from the twin cannoli affixed to Eleanor's bosom
symbolizes (according to the Whitney's audiotape) the milk-and-kindness of
the now-sour New Deal, while the fountain of marinara sauce flooding down
her
thunder thighs (which viewers are encouraged to quaff via paper cups)
signifies the sufferings of humanity that Democrats claim only they can see
and relieve.
Naomi Wolf returned to the scene this week with her emotional confession at
a press conference on Riker's Island that she has finally found the ultimate
alpha male of American culture -- Rush Limbaugh. Never before, she wept, has
she experienced the erotic transports afforded her by being imperially sat
on
by Limbaugh during his controversial radio show. "Masochism is the Fourth
Wave of feminism!" Wolf fervently declared.
Wolf denied rumors that Limbaugh has had to curb her infatuation by limiting
her cushion services to 1:05 to 1:35 p.m. each day and that EIB Network
producers must regularly drag her kicking and screaming into the street,
where she is slapped back to her senses by her anemic-blond Ivy League chum
Karenna Gore. But Wolf did confirm she has commissioned look-alike Monica
Lewinsky to create an earth-tone, plush-velvet handbag, doily and towel set
embroidered with Limbaugh's monogram in the classic White House Bordello
hue, "Impeachment Pink."
Salon reader Fred Ubermensch sends a query from Evanston, Ill.:
Certainly not! The prostitute is the cosmic symbol of sexual freedom. Your
niece will be doing heaven's work in service to the tempestuously pumping
male principle. See the fourth and fifth paragraphs of the seventh section
in the third chapter of my second book.
Sigmund Jung writes from Arlington, Va.:
Alas, there are some questions so inkily profound that even the oracle must
fall silent before them.
Alice C. Dodgson sends this impassioned screed from Berkeley, Calif.:
No one can understand a word they say except when they stop their sucking
long enough to chant in unison, "There is no god but Foucault, and Said is
his prophet!" It's so boring -- and also unsanitary. What should we do about
this? Perhaps a mass mailing of sample-size cayenne-flavored K-Y tubes to the
Literature and Cultural Studies faculties might jolt them out of their
depressive funk. The science and technology side of academe has everything
to gain as the American humanities departments self-destruct -- which they've
done awfully well in the past 20 years, haven't they?
Congratulations to Automotive Autoeroticism for its sensational April cover
photo. Horny Hephaestus, do those guys know how to photograph a titanium
underbody! Their glossy, polychrome pull-out of Cornish carburetors and
Merseyside mufflers also must be seen. Lay tracks, you dynamos of the
magazine world! Newsstands are the Alexandrian Library of modern life.
Is it true Gwyneth Paltrow was abducted by anarchists off the loading dock
of a tuna-packing plant in Monterey and left to twiddle her thumbs in a
Dumpster on Sunset Strip? Well, then, how did she get those Oscar frizzies?
Whoops, must dash. My partner Alison and I are overseeing
the renovation and conversion of St. Agita's Roman Catholic Church in South
Philadelphia into a New Temple of the Hollywood Astarte. Construction
workers are the only Real Men left, let me tell you! Ah,
those phallic jackhammers and vulval lunch buckets -- let's go dig up Walt Whitman
to sing their praises.
POSTSCRIPT: My article, "Rites of the Lubricious Ear Lobe: Notes on a
Tenth Dynasty Pottery Find in Latrines of the Lower Delta," appears in the spring
issue of the Journal of Esoteric and Egregious Archaeology.
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