competition has withered down to a single night of undoubtedly yawn-inducing festivities at a club yet to be determined. After that, Bon Voji will call it quits on Ink-n-Pink. The buzz within the industry is that my proposed Twats wit' Tats competition has Voge and his ilk runnin' scared, and rightly so. My competition will feature the hottest twats with the raddest tats! If you're a twat with tats...and you covet the title of Miss Twat wit' Tats...contact the Exotic office.

HOW MANY LOADS OF JIZZ are shot daily, on average,
in Portland? How many female orgasms are there? How many chicks fake it every day? How many guys try to get it up and can't? How many different DNA samples would forensic technicians be able to scrape off that couch in the back of the Exotic office? How many wads have been blown back there? How
many in the bathroom?

And more importantly, young laddie: How many dirty
pictures will it be 'til you've had enough? How many tweaker strippers hanging from scuffed brass poles as some sludgy shit-rock blares from the speakers will it take before you've had your fill and push away from the buffet table? Have you ever thought about that? Have you ever thought about anything? Or are the pictures enough for you? I need to know.

DADDY BISCUITS, a k a J. L. STOCKMAN, is on a self-imposed (meaning his girlfriend forced him into it)
hiatus from Exotic this month. The portly ex-con had contributed every month for the previous eight issues, delighting P-Town pornhounds with his whimsical observations about fat chicks, man-boobs, and the rigors of life as a male prostitute. He also graced our pages with hilarious photos featuring his disturbingly photogenic roly-poly self. This month, he had agreed to attend and write about a meeting of an organization called Portland Black Men 4 Sexy BBW's, which was to be held at bitter-divorcée hangout Bodacious Classics in Southeast Portland. The event seemed filled with potential for countless jokes about race relations and female body image, not to mention golden photo ops of Daddy Biscuits cavorting joyously amid black men and fat white chicks. But at the last minute, the bacon-scented scribe fagged out of the agreement, claiming he had to work until 1 AM and couldn't make it. But me and The Redheaded Jewish Clown went past Stockman's workplace long before 1 AM, and it was already closed. We think he was afraid to set foot in a bar because of the new twelve-step wringer his ex-girlfriend is squeezing him through.

Because he lied to me...forcing
me to write yet another uncredited feature article under deadline for
no extra pay...he must now face a double humiliation--therefore, I mock him not only because he is now affiliated with a dangerous mind-control cult, but also because he was afraid to tell me about it.

I don't care what his girlfriend or the twelve-steppers say--Daddy Biscuits has star potential, and I'm the only one who gives a damn about helping him break into show business. He's built for better things than diaper payments and sobriety chips. I hope that in future months he is able to redeem himself and realize the magnitude of his sin and folly. And I hope he finally gets around to helping me write that screenplay for Negroes in a Haunted House.

IN OTHER EXOTIC-COLUMNIST NEWS, a literary catfight emerged...and then petered out...between two of our female writers this month. Their original columns for this issue were filled with nasty barbs aimed at one another. Both of them seemed to be operating from erroneous presumptions about the other. Each implied that the other wanted to fuck me. Then, within minutes of one another, they requested that I pull their articles and wait for them to submit something new and not nearly so catty. And in the interest of the sistas workin' it out, this is what I have done. Their new columns make no mention of one another.

I welcome "Shifty" Henry into our dubious ranks as our resident Media Stalker. It's always good to have someone with a cruel sense of humor on your side. He just might be the man able to piss off more Portlanders than I can....Next month will inaugurate Officer Partridge's Hard Justice column. His mother is a well-known feminist. He isn't...And if you want to be an Exotic columnist--and you're a good-looking chick who can write--flip over to page 18 and see how you can make your dreams a reality!

ONCE YOU'RE IN THE INDUSTRY, can you ever really get out? Earlier today around the water cooler, the fellas were talking about the brawlin' bitches in the Beaverton bar and some whacked-out stripper chick who's addicted to Ecstasy and is a great fuck but is totally insane and the
lingerie model who does so much tweak, her eyes get crossed. And then I look at Kook Dogg hunched over there at his desk, slapping naked pix of Portland chix onto the scanner's cold glass and feeding their bodies into our computer system, and I wonder if the poor hapless youngster will ever really have a chance to make it in the "real" world after being exposed to something as degrading and soul-crushing as this. I hope he doesn't read this, because I predict a future of heartache, alcoholism, and nonstop porno for him.

Earlier tonight, the girls from the jack shack upstairs were standing outside the front door of our building on Burnside, all tarted-up and handing out flyers advertising their shows. It was almost like being in Amsterdam's Red Light District, and suddenly I felt myself whisked away to a land of herring sandwiches, windmills, festive clog dances, and hash brownies. It was a sweet moment, and I wish I could have captured it on one of those disposable cameras. I can't complain. It's not entirely unpleasant to be stuck here in the fuzzy belly button of downtown Portland on deadline...deadline, when I feel as if 50% of my body is composed of Dante's pizza, while the rest is coffee and Altoids. By the way--wouldn't "Altoid" be a great name for a black guy?