So let's start with following up the results of last month's bold, adventurous, groundbreaking, and maliciously defiant edition of Erotic City. Over the past few weeks, several individuals were personally (and rightfully so) insulted.

Last month, let's see...how about I begin with the truth? Shortly before deadline, while I was in the process of detoxing from my current porn overdose, I was unfortunately locked in a padded cell prior to being able to complete Erotic City's final edit. My therapy was not on the calendar, and well, shit, these things happen sometimes, what can I say? I had asked Jim Goad to step up for me and cover this column, but with him being so busy writing about Hitler's use of Viagra on homosexual trucker midgets wearing strap-ons, he was obviously buried in more work than he cared to handle. And then our publisher Frank, well, we all read Frank's column last month, right? It was a cool, nice easy read that showed just about how much time and effort he cared to contribute. Fortunately, his cat Disco stepped up at the last minute to share a bit of feline prose to cover Frank's butt.

So as far as I recall, Erotic City was actually never written last month at all. So who wrote it, then? I don't know nothin', man, but we're gonna find the bastards responsible and lock 'em in the stinky Exotic bathroom.

When the photo shoots end and all the naked babes leave the studio and head back to wherever the hell they came from, I am left alone in an oversexed and extremely unsatisfied state of psychosis. So what do I do when it's all over for another month? I write this fucking column, that's what I do. Sometimes I remember it, sometimes I don't. But the column does tend to take on a very reflective tone depending on how life in Porn City has been treatin' me at the time. And to tell you the truth, when the passion of the sadistic, the scandalous, and the remorseless spirits possess me, it's probably not the best time to sit down and write this shit. So if I was responsible for these upsetting words, rest assured...I WAS ABSOLUTELY APPALLED AT THE VICIOUS, BITTER and CRUEL words that violated Erotic City's normally upbeat, happy-go-lucky tone last month.

You're probably saying to yourself, JESUS CHRIST...what is this guy's fucking problem!?! I mean, he's got a job where all he has to do is take pictures of naked women and hang out in strip clubs. He struts around the goddamned clubs like he's God's gift to the clothing-deficient in his faggy clothes and out-of-date butt-rock hairdo. And still, not only does he bitch and moan about how fucked-up his job is, now he's taken to insulting your favorite clubs and talking trash about your favorite dancer. Pretty fucked-up, isn't it? Well, I unfortunately have to agree with you, my friends. Spooky has gone too far this time. I mean, what the hell is my problem? You want the truth? I'll cut through the bullshit this time. It might get a little personal, especially if you know me, but it's high time the guilty let the target fall on their foreheads in hopes of sparing any more innocent bystanders from shrapnel.

loyalty cease to exist. This is Doc's Bar & Grill, baby, thanks for comin', guys.

And I guess I forgot one very important reason that I love to hate these people with such passion. She is also the reason that alcoholic strippers rate so high in the book of my favorite things. I'm talkin' about my lovely EX-girlfriend of the past two years. She was one of Doc's top performing drunks, and through her expertise in alcoholic abuse and Doc's contribution to her continuous intoxication, I was forced through a very educating experience. I should have left the drunk bitch there after having to rescue her from the first date-raping pieces of shit she brought home from Doc's. Hey, but forgive and forget...right? Fuck that...I'm gonna stick with forget...as in...forget her. What lessons have I learned through this? Well, to start...never...never...never fall in love on Ecstasy. And if your object of affection is a crazed blackout drunk when you meet her, might I suggest simply fucking her hard and dirty, then run, do not walk far, far away. Unless you're a stupid masochistic idiot like me and think that love may truly exist. It's all an illusion, just like this industry.

But the single life seems to be working out pretty good so far. I've been living at the Exotic office crashing in the studio for the past week or so now, and it's definitely missing a lot of the comforts of home, but on the positive side, the absence of an insane alcoholic in my life is probably for the best. Waking up every morning at the Hotel Exotic is like having six brothers and the sister I never had. I'm treated to being affectionately known as the cock-blocker whenever I interrupt my cohorts' attempts at sordid sex in the back room (the room I've been sleeping in.) Our esteemed editor, Mr. Goad, apparently did a little piece of performance art one night that was the talk of the office for several days. And Goad takes good care of his friends, man. While sitting at my desk, polishing off a half a bottle of my vodka, his sidekick Josh was treated with the opportunity to watch Mr. Goad in action. The rest of the staff arrived from a hard night of drinking and was a bit confused to hear Goad's grunts of passion behind the closed studio door. Especially when a shirtless Josh (Mr. Man-Boobs himself) stepped out of the studio looking quite tossed and tumbled. Writer Fags in Denial? Not quite sure what to make of these people sometimes.

Maybe I'll be a nice guy now. And I'll start writing about how much I love all of you again. And don't forget the best part...it's spring in Portland, and I am now single again for the first time in a couple of years. Maybe I can really start enjoying the perks this job has to offer. I actually started enjoying what the possible future has to offer me last night as a matter of fact with a fiery vixen that reminded me of all the pleasures I've been missing out on. On an ironic note, even though we just love talkin' shit about those wacky knuckleheads over at SUX magazine, I have to admit, some of their covergirls are incredibly talented. They can leave a smile on your face that you'll wake up with the next morning. As a matter of fact, I believe Frank can even back me up on that one as well. We might have to amend the previously published code of responsibilities to be a covergirl. How about this...in order to be an SUX covergirl, it is requested, not required, that you sleep with any member of the Exotic staff within 90 days of cover publication. I mean, shit, the Exotic covergirls seem to be very cooperative with this responsibility as of late, but unfortunately...the only one catchin' any action on the home front seems to be our young stud for hire, the mighty Darkstar.

So watch out, Portland, spring fever is ragin' with a vengance and there's only one dumbass in this entire office that's NOT single now. Lock up your daughters, and keep those covergirls at a safe distance, Marty. Because the bad-boys of Exotic are BACK!