I've been celebrating the fixed presidential election
by sleeping around the clock. But during the occasional
hours awake, I've been thinking--something we won't have
to worry about in the new Oval Office--that when a Republican
is in the White House, I always get more pussy. Being
older than the Internet has its advantages. I can remember
all the way back to the
Carter Administration (the last time I actually had sex),
and even Gerald Ford and Nixon before that: When those
Republican, blowhard, tin horn, bomb-the-enemy-du-jour,
ridin' the range, dumb as a post, sidewindin', sidesplitting
Republicans are in office, my stock rises faster than
wood in Aphrodite's 'hood. I mourn the day Clinton was
elected. Talk about droughts. You see, if you're a sorta
sensitive new-age guy (SNAG), the last thing you wanna
see is a Democrat (Yech!) in the whorehouse, whoops, White
House. Because at a grassroots, instinctual mating, genetic
code, anthropological level, human females forage in the
opposite romantic direction of the prevailing political
windbag in the White House. I know this theory is almost
like a leap into Quantum Physics, but there's no math,
so work with me.
During the Vietnam War, when Nixon was
sending all those boys home in body bags, there were not
enough hours in the day to fuck all the women throwing
themselves at my Gandhi-like feet. "You write poetry...
oooh, ahhh. You read J. Krishnamurti... Fuck me now! You're
vegetarian... eat my pussy till I scream like a hog in
heat!" At the height of this pussyrama, during the Gerald
Ford Golfing Regime, I made the huge mistake of settling
down and getting married. Of course, that didn't stop
the pussy parade. My poor wife, realizing you can't stop
it, you can only hope to contain it, told the women who
lined up to hit on me everywhere we went, "All right.
You can make out with him, but that's it. If you fuck
him, I will kill you in your sleep." Or words to that
effect. Then Carter got elected and the next thing you
know, my wife's left for a shitkicker, plaid-shirt-wearin',
tobacco-chewin' logger up in Alaska. And I was lucky if
I could get a date with a fifteen-year-old. While that
thoughtful, faithful, "I have sinned in my mind" Carter
was in office, every other woman I met could not be satisfied
unless: I ripped her pantyhose (big back then) to shreds,
half raped her, dry-fucked her in the ass and then spit
on her while calling her a filthy pig. If I didn't go
into jealous rages, complete with throwing things (like
her) across the room, then I didn't care about her. Poetry
and Krishnamurti over a bottle of Petite Sirah didn't
cut it anymore. More like bourbon and beer beatings as
foreplay to fucking her into the Stone Age. My stock plummeted.
My girlfriend at the time was unfaithful with about four
times as many men as I had women outside our open (pre-AIDS)
relationship. Sure, I could get a seventeen-year-old or
a psychopath anytime I wanted, but...
Then Rap Master Ronnie came ridin' along
and I was reborn. Unfortunately, I was too drunk his first
two years in office to truly take advantage of all the
'simply mahvelous' pussy throwing itself at my thinking
man's feet. And the coke only made matters worse. After
I dried up, there was a plethora of I'm-married-to-a-shitkicker
women who wanted my literary genius baby. They, of course,
had gotten hitched to the wife beater during the sensitive
Carter years. I obliged them with no-tell daytime trysts
while waiting for the big one. At the height of Reagan's
second term, I landed the Kahuna. She was a drop-dead-gorgeous,
Mensa IQ, actress/director, kinky fuck machine from NYC
that I was sure would be my wife. Just when things were
getting good, they went and staged that huge concert to
end Apartheid and The Berlin Wall came crumbling down.
In that disgusting outpouring of human emancipation she
left this sensitive soul to fuck money-grubbing Manhattanites
waiting tables and waiting for their stock portfolios
to kick-in while waiting for the world to end. As the
prevailing political circus sang, "We are the world...,"
her genetic code was crying out for the new nihilists
to fuck her like a dog. No matter. Bush was in office,
I was getting older, and young women needed to fuck the
sensitive fatherly type who actually listened. I was still
"It." The Iraqi War was very good to me. While bombs were
bursting over Baghdad, she was screaming, "Fuck me Daddy!"
so loud I was grateful the neighbors were all addicted
to late night bombing-run coverage on CNN. Two months
after Clinton took office, she left. What a surprise.
And it's been downhill ever since. First of all, with
Clinton getting that young-n-tender pussy in the White
House, you know, unconsciously, there had to be a huge
I mean, if you're an articulate, engaging,
slightly sly, charming sort of fatherly guy, then women
were compelled to vicariously punish you for what Clinton
got away with. Access denied! Women wanted the sort
of scoundrel who carries his philandering like a badge
of honor, not someone who might be smart enough to get
away with it, or, hire a flotilla of attorneys to keep
it buried for half a term.
But I survived. And I'm back. Because
that idiot fuck from the big Dubya ranch in Waco, Texas
is about as farm (sic) right from me as you can get.
And that old pendulum will soon be swingin' back in
my Sensitive New Age Guy face. I'll be carrying around
a J. Krishnamurti book in my black leather poet's bag.
And when I deftly slide out The Awakening of Intelligence,
her eyes and labia will widen with metaphysical longing
for an artistic genius baby. After I've fucked the Snaggly
bejesus out of her, I'll say, "If it's a boy, why don't
we call him Chad." And she'll coo, "And if it's a girl,
we'll call her Butterfly." Then we'll go back over the
hard, hand recount.
Thank God for the Supremes!