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xmag.com : January 2001 : Girl Trouble

:Girl Trouble: January 2000: Snagglepussy

Lately 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 women's backlash.

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!




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