SEX ADDICTS

I suppose that the world needs newspapers but I would be hard-pressed to tell you why, except to say that it’s easier than lugging around a computer. Except for one or two good newspapers like Le Monde of Paris or The Financial Times, newspapers are a total wash in my estimation. You can’t believe a word you read in them and the writers, if you can dignify them with that appellation, are a bunch of sanctimonious, hypocritical pricks.

This blog is to some extent an expression of my revulsion over having been a captive to these editorial dorks over the course of a lifetime. All those years of reading half-baked opinions of a group of imbecilic louts have caused me to want to hock a big goober of phlegm, if I may be so indelicate, all over the journalistic profession.

I don’t write journalism and I don’t write opinion. I write strictly for porpoises of entertainment, and a lot of porpoises read this blog. I know that because when they blow air out of their butts I can figure out their secret code. They’re telling me “Keep writing. We dig it!”

The big problem this country faces is one of sexual morality. There’s too much of it. If people aren’t passing judgment on each other’s sex lives, they’re vaunting their own preferences. What do I care if the hare lipped base-playing dyko in the back seat of your Hummer gets off being juked with a baby octopus and spewed-upon with creamed corn, or that she's gotta have it with a Yoo-Hoo bottle (or a Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda or a Cel-Ray) or she goes apeshit? Spare me all the gruesome details, just do it!

On the other hand you got the advocates to a return of the sexual repression That Made This Country Great, which is why 50% of the country is obese, from sublimating their sexual drive into Big Macs and Kraft Macaroni Dinners. The most noteworthy advocates of this climate of repressive morality are the half-wit jackasses who staff (or should I say, stiff) the editorial section of The New York Post, which spends half its time teasing you with adolescent titillations and the other half moralizing about the sexual degeneration of society. Blah blah blah…

The latest manufactured horshit is called “Sex Addiction.” In the final triumph of Anglo-Saxon prurience, people are now checking themselves into rehab to have themselves cured for being horny. Some moron with a cellphone camera catches A-Rod fooling around in strip clubs with a blonde while his poor wife is pining away in her 40,000 sq. ft. mansion with the baby, and right away The Post digs up an expert who says that A-Rod is a “sex addict” in need of rehab. (You don’t find Joe Torre complaining – A-Rod is having a very good season, and the Yanks will too, I guarantee you. Their luck is already changing)

These days you’re nothing if you don’t do rehab. Judge Garson gets ten years for taking bribes, he cries “I need rehab.” Mel Gibson goes into rehab. Amy Fisher and Joey Buttfuck? Rehab in Dr. Phil House. Lindsay Lohan, Mike Tyson, Robert Downey, Paris Hilton (oh no, not again!), Naomi Campbell, Brittany Spears, David Hasselhoff, L’il Kim, Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Jackson rehab rehab rehab!

And rehab doesn’t even work! It’s a revolving door. In and out, in and out. You dry out, and then you go out and get shitfaced and you go back in again.

The world is getting richer but it’s not getting any smarter. Some people are smarter but they’re not any happier. In Fellini’s epic movie about Roman decadence of the 1960’s, La Dolce Vita, the paparazzo Marcello places all his esteem in the stability of his intellectual friends who counsel him to abandon the superficialities of life and adhere to the eternal values to be found in classical culture. At the end of the movie he is dumbfounded to learn that this model couple has jumped off their balcony in a suicide pact, leaving their young children as orphans.

I like to work out. I go to work every day when I have a job. If I feel I need to inflict myself on people I write a blog or I go onstage and do my comedy act. What works for me is: I try not to let society or other people do my thinking for me. If I feel the need for guidance I read a book. Ninety-nine percent of the people who know me consider me to be a head case, but they’re more confused than I am.

My plan is to live out the rest of my days on a desert island off the coast of Mexico, swimming with the fishes and grilling lobsters on an outdoor fire. Do you think I’ll make it? Do you believe that the Mexicans will leave me alone?

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Posted on 6/9/2007 ( Permanent Link )
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