Exotic Magazine Online Uncovering adult entertainment online since 1993
xmag.com : Febuary 2002:The Industry

So I'm downstairs at Dante's during deadline doing my Dice Clay fake-doorman routine as one of those events peculiar to THE INDUSTRY transpires before my cynical, world-weary eyes. Some emaciated male with a hot-pink mohawk is swinging around onstage, suspended by meathooks plunged into his shoulder muscles as an appreciative crowd whoops, hollers, and enjoys whatever sense of "community" such a spectacle engenders. An ocean of "modified" people mills about with sewing thimbles plunged through their earlobes and "tribal"
tattoo work denoting tribes to which they have absolutely no ancestral connection. An arrow through the head--now, THAT's hardcore. But a bottlecap in your earlobe? Why don't they just go the whole nine yards and put dinner plates in their lips? If they were to set foot on soil where this sort of "self-expression" originated, they'd be instantly cannibalized.

Supposedly, this is a fundraiser for some "troupe" of body-modification rapscallions. I was unaware they were strapped for cash. I was under the impression that, no matter how they try to emulate their oppressed brethren in Zaire, this was a "scene" populated by ultra-rich, ultra-bored, ultra-uninspired trendy snotrags. Don't they already, like, charge millions of dollars to punch holes in other people's bodies? Are staple guns getting that expensive?


EXOTIC EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH Let's face it--Exotic is now the only interesting publication in Portland, and perhaps the country. For years, if I may be so bold to state this, the five or so percent of the magazine devoted to editorial content flailed about like a dying fish on a wooden deck, choking to death on a dreadful, sour-tasting "sex-positivity" which postured itself as intellectual but was actually the rankest sort of infantilistic self-absorption.

I will state my case for the record--there is NO NEED to be positive about sex, just as there's no need to be positive about defecation or nose-picking. People are hard-wired to enjoy sex, and writing about how a base animal function is spiritually empowering merely RUINS the experience for those of us who have sex in the flesh rather than in front of a keyboard.

It took one man's bold efforts to remedy the mag's editorial crisis. Because of this man's tireless dedication, people now realize that Exotic actually contains articles you can read. There's a buzz about town regarding the "new" Exotic, a buzz engendered and nursed to fruition by one man with a messiah complex and an indomitable drive to prevail.

That man is me. My name is Jimbles Lee Deuteronomy Goad. And it's high time I selected myself Employee of the Month. Unlike those who've come before

me, I've been to prison. But also unlike my predecessors, I've had a book (The Redneck Manifesto) published by one of the world's top book companies, a book now in its sixth printing. Unlike my predecessors, I have a new book (Shit Magnet) due to be published in April. Unlike my predecessors, whose only brush with fame might be when they've interviewed a famous person, I've actually been interviewed and featured in just about every mainstream publication you'd care to mention, both locally and nationally.

So no matter how much they moan about me being a talentless schlockmeister, the truth is that I've got them all--combined--beat in terms of both underground cred and mainstream success. And I could whup all their asses in a Spelling Bee. Fuck all o' y'all. Seriously. I hate other writers.


EXOTIC EX-EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH Speaking of despicable writers, it has come to my attention that my immediate predecessor, regarding whom I've tried to be quietly gracious for lo, these many months, recently made an appearance at Dante's to pick up an installment check of the blood money he so undeservedly drained from our esteemed publisher as severance pay. No matter that while in our publisher's employ, said predecessor made it a habit to talk shit about our publisher to whomever willingly endured his whiny milk-cow voice, or that the consensus opinion among other employees is that said publisher just may be the Coolest Boss in World History. No matter that my immediate predecessor was still receiving blood money AFTER he LIED to our esteemed publisher about not trying to snitch him out to governmental authorities about (falsely) alleged illegal employment practices.

The bitter little unsung hunched-over, fingerless-glove-wearing, hand-rolled-cigarette-smoking, too-late-to-be-a-beatnik made it a point during a conversation with an Exotic staffer that he couldn't even bring himself to read the new Exotic, so horribly juvenile and anti-literary was the mag's new direction. He's threatening to take his bad self and his stable of newly unemployed, scarily talented, world-renowned ex-Exotic writers and start his OWN magazine, an announcement which understandably had me trembling.

It's notable that when I started working here over a year ago, I had never heard of our former editor, although he knew who I was. And this disparity, I fear, is what caused all of his animosity toward me. For months, he'd systematically shoot down my article ideas in favor of TERRIBLE, themeless, ill-conceived, rock-band Q&As and aimless cuntly navel-gazing by female scribes on whom he apparently had crushes. On the odd occasion I actually had something published, he'd bury it in the back and made sure it wasn't printed in color.
The suggestions he gave for "improving" my articles were always dreadfully misguided, especially since he let verbal atrocities fly from other writers which never should have seen ink set to paper. I'm sure it irked him that the only articles in the magazine people were talking about were those I'd written.

His own writing smelled like bad feet. This is a man who could pen things such as "my zipper whispered of things to come" and "I was never the hunter, always the hunted" without a hint of the comical irony such phrases beg.

He was curt and graceless in all his dealings with me, despite the fact that I covered his ass by finding hundreds of typos--both in articles and ads--which he was being paid to catch.

He was the sort of person who sucks all the charm out of a room when he enters it. He was a rude little dismissive cunt to friends and girlfriends who'd call or stop by the office looking for me. His repellent personality would have possibly been warranted had the man possessed the merest shred of talent, yet it quickly became apparent that his behavior was engineered precisely to compensate for a lack of talent. No one I know ever had a positive thing to say about him.

The guy was paid a living wage for coming in three hours a month, handing over e-mailed text articles to me from his stable of crappy, unknown writers, then going home. That was his job as "editor," and he should have been grateful that he was getting away with it. Instead, he bleated like an old goat about how horrible it was to work here and what a dick Frank supposedly is. He once told me, with a straight face, that he was the only Exotic staffer who had any vision or integrity, and it was an effort to keep from laughing heartily and spraying saliva all over his shaggy goatee.

I truly felt bad for him because he's old, bitter, and headed for nothing. I appreciated this fact. But I kept my feelings about him to myself.

This all changed back in August when he commanded me to shut my "fucking dog" up because it was barking and apparently interrupting his concentration on a canon of work that he probably feels will one day--not in our lifetime, of course--be appreciated for the genius that it is. I then, somewhat angrily but certainly not threateningly, told him I'd bitten my lip for months and endured his pissiness, but that he'd better be respectful regarding that slobbering little pug I love so much.

"You lay one hand on me," Mr. Bohemian Radical stated, "and I'll send you back to the jail where you came from." I sort of half-laughed and said, "You really are an old Jewish woman, aren't you?" Fucking little snitch faggot. Yeah, fuck authority, dude, until you get a little scared, and then you go dropping a dime and begging for police protection.

I'm a better writer than you are. I'm more well-known than you are. I'm fucking far better-LOOKING than you are. I'm a better dancer than you are. And I could beat you at arm-wrestling. So just shut up, go away, and try to repair your mess of a life.

You tried to sabotage me as best you could while you were editor, but my kung fu is too strong. What are you gonna do now? You CAN'T beat me with words--we both know who'll win every verbal altercation. Are you gonna pull another bitch move and call my parole officer with some made-up story? Guess what? I'm not on parole anymore, bee-yatch! Now what?

You can at least take comfort in the fact that you never sold out. Not that anyone ever offered you the opportunity.

He should at least be grateful I'm giving him the attention no one else in the publishing industry seems willing to give him. But since he says he doesn't read the magazine anymore, he shouldn't be bothered by any of this, right?





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