Thursday, April 2, 2009


I hasten to assure my vast and secret reading public that any theoretical reference either to an adult expression of human sexuality, or to any more adolescent habit of self-abuse, that might have appeared in these pages would have been advanced purely as an aid to didactic expression, poetic flourish or technical explication.

Why just this very evening someone referenced in my presence the erotic appeal of a certain former paramour (from oh so very long ago -- another decade, another century, another millennium), one "Gwen" by designation, to whose sexual magnetism he alluded with a suggestion of self-gratification attached. I felt it was my duty to inform him, in the interest of full-disclosure, that a very thorough if tragically tardy exploration of the full topography of Gwen's anatomy had revealed the disturbing fact that she possessed a full if bloodless and rather crushed set of male external genitalia. Upon hearing this distressing revelation, my interlocutor expressed a certain insecurity, and after I splashed some pink zinfandel in his face to calm him down I told him to just own it and move on. He'd polluted himself, you see, to Gwen's image. Yes, that makes him gay.

By now it should be clear that within these pages, onanism, as any other form of sodomy, is held in the severest disapprobation and its practice is roundly deplored by your humble author and the Editorial Staff here at the Forgotten Prophets Internet Web-Log and Moral Uplift Society of Latidutinally Central North America Website.

Speaking for myself, I have no interest whatsoever in any of the various forms of sexual manifestation. I personally have not been capable of achieving what is termed, in medical circles, an "erection" for well over twenty years. I may have inadvertently mislead certain impressionable readers in this regard, with references to hot babes who are after me with their booty calls, but this would be meant in a purely allegorical sense. In actuality, my genitalia are so thoroughly atrophied that they have the dimensions and coloration of a hatchling hummingbird. I do have to admit, perhaps in seeming self-contradiction, that I like to play at being the Big Man, so of course I would never admit to any of this publicly, but I am confident that my secrets are safe when confided to these hermetic pages.

Thus no one will ever uncover the shameful secret of my hairless and almost perfectly hemispherical groinal area, as featureless as a windless snowfield. Indeed, I've recently purchased a pair of artificial gonads and accompanying life-like crepe-latex sac from a prosthetic supply house, along with a convincing replica, if memory serves, of the male sexual member. I've displayed this assemblage in situ in the YMCA locker room (men's, I believe) on a number of occasions now, and I'm quite pleased that no one is any the wiser, so artful is its craftsmanship and animated its movement -- due to the patented BatterySac Action ® -- I splurged on that little perk, and believe you me brother, it was the best seventeen fifty I ever spent! I've noted many startled glances directed my way, but that would be due to admiration or envy, I am certain. My next purchase will be a luxurious woolly merkin. I haven't decided, from the catalog photos, on the hair distribution pattern -- anywhere from the Wild Bushman to the Languid Librarian. Something understated, I think ... perhaps the Yellow Brick Road. I am inherently conservative, and there is a no-return policy.

Also, in an attempt to more convincingly feign an interest in the opposite sex -- although which of the four or five identified genders would be opposite to me has yet to be determined -- I have been conducting research into the verbal aspects of the human mating ritual. Terms like "Sup biatch" and "Boinkity tata" and "Prittie kittie" seem to be popular with the youngsters. These are preliminary observations, however, and I've had disappointing results when using them to address the young sidewalk women, as I call them. For example, just this afternoon I said to one likely lass standing in line at Starbucks, "Kazaa mama, Ah'mo fold you over like a mudpie!" Very surprising response. I must be misusing the terms somehow. Perhaps there are tonalities I'm missing. But I shall persevere.

On a related note, the clamor for more info about my dog has been overwhelming. But it would be too much of a good thing. And, sadly, Yoda has passed away in the years since Gwen took her leave, finally. Too bad she couldn't take her strain of pernicious scrofula with her -- I've been suffering with it for years. Anyway, I am an animal lover, admiring their innate nobility and natural beauty, so I'll share a few portraits, if you'll indulge me, that I had done by a professional -- I was thinking of publishing a coffee table book.

This was Rosie, named after a popular comedienne and talkshow hostess.
She got into a fight with a pigeon and died of her injuries. Vicious, filthy vermin. Flying rats is what they are.

Here's Bambi. He was sucked through the intake nozzle of an industrial wheatgrass juicemaker at Whole Foods. He was allowed into the store because I was pretending to be blind at the time. Don't ask.
Sometimes in the still predawn hours I think I hear her scratching at the cellar door. It breaks my heart.

Batman had been neglected as a puppy, and never was quite normal. But we have to love even those who are hard to love. There was some speculation that she was part possum, but that of course is impossible. She did have a pouch though. Very odd.
My theory is that they tremble so much because they know how unnatural they are. It's an existential dilemma to be so self-contradictory ... like Michael Jackson.

Donovan was a card. More personality than a Yugo salesman. You can probably see he had a little skin condition. Turns out he was allergic to dogs. Strange world.

That's all I wanted to say. Share a little more of myself, and give a reassurance to our secret fellowship that all is perfectly normal here, and I will continue to display the excellent good taste and prudent sensibilities that you have always enjoyed, here at your haven of sanity and decorum.

Next week's password is ... well, let's make it prosthetic gonads -- it will be our little inside joke.


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