The Industry : Exotic Magazine Online : December 2002

OUR NEW PRO-ISLAMIC EDITORIAL SLANTEven though nobody onearth beside our president and his father consider Saddam Hussein an immediate threat, it appears likely that "we'll" be sending "our boys" into combat and tuning into CNN to watch live-action feeds from videocams attached to all the cool new bombs and missiles we've been waiting to try out. While I certainly hope this doesn't happen...well, no, not really, bombs could be droppin' all the way from here to Japip, and unless they blow up the place where I get my morning coffee, it differs not a whit to me...I do worry about the possible outcome. What--eek--if we were to lose? What if the new Islamic occupational regime forced everyone in the office...even Karla...to grow beards? How would you feel if all the strippers and escorts you see depicted in Exotic's pages, these deceptively beautiful girls, were all forced to cover their bodies head-to-toe in traditional Islamic women's garb? What if you had to pay a hundred dollars at a jack shack merely for a chick to show you the inside of her wrist? To call it "culture shock" would be putting it mildly. So, operating in the best interests of myself and my readership like I always do, I've decided to beat our possible Muslim conquerors to the punch and steer our editorial content toward a more pro-Islamic space...just in case things go bad, you know? Next month will herald the inauguration of a new column, al-Exotiq. It is designed to address the hypothetical problems of being an Islamic sex worker...you know, things such as how to give a good pole dance even after the town elders amputated your limbs as punishment for accidentally removing your burqa in public. We are actively seeking a female Muslim sex worker willing to write al-Exotiq. Interested applicants should write a 650-750 essay centered around the theme "Why I Want to be Exotic's New Muslim Chick Columnist" and e-mail it to xmag@qwest.net.

On an almost entirely unrelated note, grumpy septuagenarian rocker Bo Diddley (see feature, page 76) claims to be working on a rap song about swarthy Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. Sample rhyme: "Saddam Hussein, pick up your phone/if you do we might leave you alone."

YET ANOTHER BONER PILL Exotic headquarters recently got its hands on a new pill whose manufacturers seek to slice a few inches off Viagra's near-monopoly of the boner-pill market. The newest cockpill on the block should soon be released in the US by Eli Lilly under the trade name Cialis. Whereas Viagra's dick-enhancing properties are caused by a compound called sildenafil citrate, the newer Cialis draws its erection-conjuring mojo from a compound called tadalafil. If you repeat it fast enough, it starts sounding like "the daffodil." Manufacturers claim it works more quickly and lasts MUCH LONGER than Viagra--usually for TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.

Hard cock for 24 hours straight? Please correct me if I heard you wrong, but do you mean to say that from the moment I wake up...until the NEXT DAY when I wake up...I'll be aimed and ready to fire? I'll be walking around the apartment poking my shit in the fucking TOASTER. I'll be playing sandlot baseball using only my dick and a rolled-up ball of tinfoil. Mr. Publisher Man, reach into that magical satchel of yours and kick me down one of them there daffodils!

Another staffer had tried Cialis a few days prior and said it made Viagra look like aspirin. He said that unlike Viagra, it not only made him hard--it made
him almost unbearably HORNY. When I asked about the twenty-four-hour thing, he just laughed, looked away, and nodded his head.

The pill itself, a beautiful solid-blue gel cap, was quickly down my throat. I figured that within twenty minutes I'd be home, hand-in-hand with The Big-Boobed Jewish Pelican. A few months ago, that sassy, spicy, saucy lass had unknowingly allowed her vagina to serve as a snug little airplane hangar for the Jumbo Set-sized erection induced after I self-administered the terrifyingly effective MUSE urethral suppository. Tonight, without her knowledge, her yoo-hoo would again be used as a Test Cunt for yet another new Dick Drug.

We get home. I fix myself some hot cocoa. We watch some TV. She takes out her contact lenses and brushes her teeth. One hour. Two hours. Still no riot down in Crotchville. We slip into bed and start performing the ritual. I'm hard, but still no harder than usual...which, I'm pleased to announce even though you didn't ask me, is impressively hard for someone who's zeroing in on senior citizenhood like I am, much harder than it was when I was half this old...but still, this is just another one of my nice, everyday, Jew-ticklin' hard-ons. Nothing that seems chemically enhanced. My thick cock-veins aren't bulging as proudly as they do on Viagra. And it's nowhere near the pink plumbing pipe wrought by MUSE.

In the morning, my wakeup hard-on was no heartier than usual. Throughout the day, the cycle of goadus erectus proceeded no differently than normal. The only mild change I noted was perhaps an increased feeling of being sexy. Not horny--I just felt kind of sexy, like even more of a sexy guy than I usually feel I am. But after twenty-four hours, I had noticed no significant penile effects induced by Cialis...or tadalafil...or the daffodil...or the dud

pill. Maybe it was an off day for me, and I'd surely be willing to pop another one just to see if nothing happens again.

Next month, I'll review a new pill that promises an average 24% temporary increase in PENIS SIZE. We've ordered a case for the office! And it's a tax deduction to boot!

SO WHO'S THE FAG? A precious morsel of in-house gossip has recently crossed the Exotic news desk. Reliable sources tell us that our general manager, a man who can't let a day go by without calling us all "fags" at least five dozen times, sports a BELLY RING. Ahhh-HA! This must be why, although he toils in an industry that butters its bread with nudity, he has never ONCE appeared topless around the office. I should admit some bias and reveal that body piercings annoy me pretty much top-to-bottom. I believe that if the Lord wanted us to staple our bodies, He would've made us all into pieces of paper rather than human beings--can I get an "amen?" I can't recall ever seeing human flesh rendered more beautiful as a result of being PUNCTURED BY BIG UGLY PIECES OF METAL. But somehow, the idea of a belly-ring-wearing homophobe takes it to a whole 'nother level. An earring I could see. Maybe even one of those dumb-ass mini-barbells people cram through their nipples. But a BELLY RING? Who are you--Gwen Stefani? What's next--hip-hugger jeans that accent the soft curves of your child-breeding pelvis? Permanent eyeliner? Collagen injections? Sometimes you baffle me, Bybee. And by the way, I need another advance on next
week's paycheck...

THE ONLY MENTION I'll make of John Vogina this month will be to note his new nickname, which I've just done.

PORTLAND'S MOST NOTORIOUSLY UNPLEASANT cocktail waitress has been fired, and I feel somewhat responsible. In last month's column, to illustrate
the breadth of our publisher's
tolerance, I had mentioned his reluctance to fire "that one worker at Dante's who everyone in the city knows should have been fired a long, long time ago." A few days after last month's issue hit the streets, said worker confronted me at Dante's and, in front of a barful of patrons, asked if by "that one worker," I meant her, and if I did, she just wishes I had the FUCKING BALLS to say it to her FACE, blobbity blobbity blah yibba yibba yoo. Wishing to avoid an unpleasant scene in a place co-owned by our cherished, saintlike publisher, Flatchman...and unsure whether the waitress in question was so nutty that she'd escalate the situation to where she'd be the one who'd do something fucked-up while I, Mr. Ex-Con Woman-Beater Poopy-Pants, would be the one who'd get taken away in handcuffs...I merely said that

she's a "peach" and a "real charmer" before quickly leaving the bar. A few days later, switching over from her primary mode--"I'll-bite-your-fucking-head-off-if-you-so-much-as-BREATHE"--to her secondary mode--"I'm just a fun-loving, misunderstood girl--won't you be my friend?"--she coyly asked me if we could talk about what I'd written. I told her we'd talk about it, but since I was in an intensely FOUL mood, I didn't want to talk about it just then. (I wasn't lying.) She politely agreed that we'd talk about it later.

Within a day or two, after she threw yet another temper tantrum at Flatchman, he finally mustered the yarbles to fire her. So I never got a chance to tell her why I wrote what I did.

But if I had, what would she have said in her defense? That she wasn't really APPALLINGLY RUDE to patrons who hadn't provoked her in the least? That she wasn't CONSISTENTLY NASTY to many of her co-workers? That I'm lying when I say I've heard dozens of people vow they'd never set foot in Dante's again because of "that bitch waitress?" That most of Dante's comedians on Tuesday night didn't really make jokes about how horribly she treated
people? That over the years she's worked there, Frank hasn't really lost tens of thousand of dollars from potential repeat business that she killed with her oft-repellent behavior? That he really shouldn't have fired her a long, long time ago?

If she's reading this...look. I know how hard you try. I realize you've tried to be nice to me sometimes. But to be honest, that makes me even more uncomfortable than when you're bitchy. Maybe you're right that I should have talked with you before writing anything. Maybe you're not a bad person. Maybe you're the real victim in all this. Maybe you suffer from some sort of Tourette's-like disorder that compels you to snap at people. Sorry for any misunderstandings or bruised feelings. I just don't think you're cut out for service-industry work, that's all I'm trying to say. I wish you luck in future endeavors...ya
fucking bitch.

DUMBINATRIX I recently received a delightfully
psycho e-mailing from a self-professed "SSC Domme" calling herself "Furia Deae," and HOO, lemme tell ya, does this dame have some issues with men! The e-mail's header suggests that Lady Furia lumps me together with a bunch of those mostly pathetic men's-rights jackholes. Ms. Deae e-mailed me and twenty other lucky prizewinners her balls-to-the-wall...I mean, ovaries-to-the-wall...rant against Everything With a Penis. Calling herself a "Gynosupremacist, and entirely unapologetic about it!," she predicts that the coming war in the Middle East will bring about the patriarchy's long-overdue collapse. A bold new matriarchy will emerge from its ashes, a Chicktopia where "rebellious males will be made to serve the Goddess, according to ancient customs! LOTS of environmental work to be done, work-gangs and healthy, heavy labour, a simple, nutricious [sic] diet and enforced celibacy (for those males who don't fancy bisexuality! <lol!>)...unless they prefer neutering, of course! <giggles>."

Wow! Looks like we've found our New Chick Columnist!