Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
"Fear not, the Resurrection is close at hand."
The Obvious Truth
SIGMUND FREUD has established for all time that a cigar can be a penis substitute. At about the same time Rudyard Kipling observed that while a woman was only a woman, "a good cigar was a smoke." Lighting up and reflecting on this, Sigmund Freud agreed that a cigar could, in certain places, be "only a cigar." For nearly three decades now, millions of American men, including even politicians such as Nancy Pelosi, have been unable to make this fundamental distinction.
In any reasonable society this signal failure of perception would be a tragedy shared by both sexes. But fortunately for the future of the country, millions of American women have lately come to prefer cigars to penises. Their decision is not utterly without a sunny side since millions of American men have decided - faced with this doleful feminine reality and subsequent weight gain - to prefer penises to both cigars and women.
Both of these responses are islands of light in an era of increasing darkness, but the central tragedy still remains. If things are not clearly out of hand in America's sexual circus (And indeed the declining birth rate and rising divorce rate demonstrates that things are probably all too often in hand), then they are at least at sixes and nines. In this paper we will study the reasons for the decline of the American Penis, and what can be done to hasten its resurrection.
As all American men and gyno-Americans of good will and clear insight will acknowledge, the decline of the American Penis started with the end of the Apollo flights. When the final mission returned from the moon and left its golf cart behind (without replacing the divot), it was self-evident to everyone that all things bright, beautiful, large, grand and competent in the American soul had gone to the moon and stayed there.
In like manner and at about the same time, everything that was large, grand and proficient about the American Penis went into social orbit and stayed there.
Following the burial of the space program, the bug-out in Vietnam, the bug-in at Watergate, the election of a president who wanted to kiss Leonid Breshnev more than his wife, a president who wanted to kiss anything but his wife, a president who knew how to get an entire country to kiss his ass, and a president who told the world to kiss America's ass, the re-erection of the American Penis (Henceforth to be signified as "the AP." ) may seem out of the question.
But all is not lost and, as millions of Americans once again enter that trance state of hope for change, the AP may well spring back eternal.
It is possible at the end of the Ought's to detect vague tremors of lust pulsing through the body politic as well as "leg tingles" creeping into the more metrosexual of the punditocracy. Whether these wan flutterings can be manipulated into a situation that will raise up the AP from its flaccid state is a grave question confronting all red-blooded Americans of all 8 sexes.
It is especially serious since the trash and clutter of the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and 00s has risen so high in the cities, garbage dumps, government, and recycling centers that the act of springing Phoenix-like from the smoldering dung-heap of American culture may well be more than the AP can manage, even with the help of the ACLU - an organization that never met a dick it didn't like with the exception of Nixon.
Indeed, the attitude of American liberalism toward the present global state of the AP may well seem curious to most Americans with an IQ above room temperature. Just when many Americans think that they should stand up to the multiple threats to American hegemony, liberals are still urging them to bend over while claiming this policy has nothing to do with their core constituency.
The burning, infection driven question of our time is why the liberal few (whose penises have long ceased to perform any function other than elimination, but who still insist on wearing Patagonia/Gortex/Fleece jogging suits) continue to contribute to the general noise pollution of the Democrats after decades of the most brilliant political bungling since the reign of George the Third? Those in the know realize that liberals are under strict orders from their masters in Moscow, Peking, Tokyo, Havana and, lately, the South Side of Chicago to keep Americans confused, abused and bent over lest they straighten up and fly right.
But the truth will out. Even now, at this very moment, Real Americans from coast to coast are beginning to understand the real story of how the AP stopped being the big stick and started getting the big stick. And though this self-knowledge may be as painful as a New Year's day hangover, continuing in America's current posture promises only extended pain and death via a lingering illness. Self-knowledge is the first step to liberation. Eve knew this. Real Americans know it too.
But how did we get here?
"The Jaws of History"
In retrospect, one historic fact seems perfectly clear. The reduction of the AP was not at all your garden variety Communist Plot. It was, for the better part of the last 60 years, THE Communist Plot; laid in Moscow, smuggled into the country inside the commodious buttocks of Ariana Huffington, and hatched like a Raptor's egg by American liberals across more than 3 decades. It was even more effective than the current "You have no Enemy" advertising and PR blitzkrieg. As Richard Nixon knew, "Those whom the Russians wish to destroy, they first make mad. That's what Henry told me at prayer."
No reasonable American would deny that America is currently the looniest society since Spain during the salad days of the Spanish Inquisition. Any doubters can be convinced by watching 15 minutes of daytime television (you can choose the channel),searching for a candidate actually worthy of a vote, taking a course in any elective at any of our "institutions of higher learning", driving for two hours anywhere in Los Angeles, walking for two hours in New York, or listening for ten minutes in Washington. That the present fabric of American society has been secretly woven by the descendants of yogurt-guzzling Ukrainian octogenarians with Groucho Marx eyebrow implants is obvious to any American of mature years who is not a candidate for office, the host of a TV game show, an employee of the New York Times, CNN, MSNBC, or involved air-conditioning maintenance and repair on the Ross ice shelf.
For those few who remain unconvinced that present day America is built of equal parts batshit and bullshit, we only ask that you reflect on the following.
The seven secret levels of meaning behind recent events such as: the assassinations of JFK, RFK, MLK, LBJ, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison, John Belushi, and John Wayne;
the deification of Andy Warhol, Jerry Falwell, and Andrea Dworkin;
the advent and demise of snuff-porn, cocaine suppositories, tie-dyed haircuts, computer games, and the Ralph Lauren lifestyle;
the highly-classified work in genetic engineering that links the Rockefellers, the Jackson Five, Pepsi Cola, the Symbionese Liberation Army, the Trilateral Commission, various snack cake bakers, and the Masonic wing of the NAACP;
Internet 8.0, the trans-continental computer whose memory banks are shared by the IRS, SSA, SSI, MI5, CIA, NSA, UFO, KGB, PLO, ABC, CBS, NBS, OPEC, and Publisher's Clearing House;
the marketing strategy behind the McDonalds Fishwich and its Strontium-90 tarter sauce;
how the Social Security Administration keeps tabs on hard-core heterosexuals BY CONCEALING A FLUORESCENT MICRODOT WITHIN THEIR NUMBER;
the transformation of hundreds of good truck stops, warehouses, and roadside diners into Yuppie nightclubs;
the minutes of the meetings of the secret triumvirate from Red Square that oversees advances in crystal healing, channeling, Primal Therapy, est, Scientology, and computer programming in Fortran;
the tainted rubles that pushed Wesley Clarke, Bob Dole, Paris Hilton and Jerry Seinfeld into guest slots on Hollywood Squares -- and Whoopie Goldberg into the center square;
the effort to bring back the 55 mile per hour speed limit;
the appointment of Iran's Supreme Leader to the star-chamber chairmanship of "A company called TRW";
the numbered account held by Henry Kissinger at the First National Sperm Bank of Mill Valley;
the declaration of Los Angeles as a "fast food free zone";
the resurrection and subsequent sex change of Truman Capote into Al Gore;
the phantom hand that edits People Magazine from deep within the Forbidden City in Peking;
the $10.00 movie ticket;
the public castration of Hillary Clinton;
and the untimely death of the Dollar Meal at McDonalds.All these events and many more are but separate teeth in "The Jaws of History" that are at this very moment, ladies and gentlemen, closing around the American Penis. A brief examination of the cast-iron bridgework embedded with well-honed titanium teeth would tell all but the blind that these dentures are clearly marked "Made In Der Black Forest by Der Elves of NOW."
In all fairness it must be admitted that the AP is not completely unaware of its clear and present danger. Indeed, the AP has felt this nibble coming from a long way off. But the AP is a perverse creature and thought for many years that it was made of sterner stuff than flesh and that the American Penis was bigger than "The Jaws of History".
But nothing is bigger than "The Jaws of History". Not even the AP.
At the triumphant conclusion of the Second World War, the AP was not only looking good, but doing good. Then disaster struck. It broke out in a classic case of Victory Rash.
The foremost symptom of this dread affliction (as the French, English, Germans, Japanese and White Rhodesians have learned to their infinite regret) is the swelling of the national manhood to dimensions far in excess of its natural endowment.
A secondary symptom compels the afflicted nation to choose increasingly smaller men as leaders so that the organ, when flourished, appears to be even smaller than it is; hence the term Napoleonic dwarfism.
At the same time, a side effect of Victory Rash is amnesia in the body politic causing citizens to actually believe the organ was always as big as currently perceived.
A more disagreeable side effect is a persistent itch for action that is often mistaken for a feeling of "Global Responsibility". Such an itch induces constant flourishing, itching, and handling. Needless to say this only serves to prolong the infection as well as making for very bad manners in mixed international company.
For decades Victory Rash made the AP forget good grooming, neglect to brush after every meal, wear silly shoes, and build millions of large and bizarre automobiles. Being in a constant state of excitation, the AP intruded its swollen self into many places where it was highly unwelcome. It often landed on beaches or dropped in unannounced in areas where its presence was neither requested nor appreciated.
For many years this habit of "date rape" was overlooked by much of the world since the AP was also in sole possession of the secret of the big atomic "O". Today, when Victory Rash is epidemic in almost every country possessed of an ocean of oil, six nuclear devices, or a Thirteenth Century Religion, the AP is being required to wash its hands, coat itself with latex, and secure a medical certificate before getting into bed with anybody -- even Mexico. This is quite humiliating. The fact that there are fewer partners at the International Singles Bar and that they want gold instead of dollars in advance is a further blow to the APs feeling of self-worth.
Hoist by its own petard and nipped by the Jaws of History, the AP has fallen on skint times. It has been driven into unsavory and untidy bordellos such as Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan. And even in the K-Mart countries it has found it difficult to seduce anyone for less than $500 million dollars. The AP is clearly all dressed up with no place to plonk itself other than the odd country in the MidEast.
Home Not-So-Alone: How did this happen?
It is true that the Russians tricked the AP into this situation in the way a salesman will buy a client a night on the town in order to cheat him at tomorrow's power breakfast. It is true that the Europeans have disliked APs since the Army slept with their mothers and daughters during and after WWII. It is true that the World loves American music, television, cigarettes, and denims and detests American citizens. It is true that it all really IS a Commie plot. But the whole truth is more complicated.
For while it is accurate to say that the AP was led up the garden path by its friends and its enemies, one still has to recognize that the AP really WANTED to go up that garden path for a quick tumble in the bushes. The AP wanted to risk its neck in the Jaws of History. Why?
Simplicity itself. Deep down the American Penis, like all decent peni, has never been looking for a one-night-stand, but for "a deeply fulfilling relationship". What made the AP believe that any life form more complicated than an amoebae has a deeply fulfilling relationship is information that is lost in the mists of antiquity. The APs compulsion, however, is well-documented to informed historians along with the moment on the garden path when it began its long journey to oblivion.
The signal error, the fatal mistake, the wrong move, began when the AP forgot the one rule that philandering husbands and wives the world over never forget: It is one thing to play around out in the world, but never do it at home. Defecation in the kitchen is never a sound policy no matter how easy it makes recycling.
At home in America, the AP began to foul its own nest early in the 1960s. Some might place the blame on the writings of Dr. Spock in the previous decade. This is error. Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Spock never advocated that adults adjust to children, but that children adjust to adults. The fact that America has failed to produce an adult since the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt is certainly not the fault of Dr. Spock.
No, the watershed event of the 1960s that led to the present state of the AP was an event peculiar to that peculiar time. It came about when the AP allowed its Pinko-Liberals playmates to release Free Speech from the closet during an LSD-infused Pajama Party, slap it in a tie-dyed jock strap, and release it into the streets.
Now Free Speech is a fine thing in its place. Its place, however, is not in the streets which are rightfully reserved for essential services such as drag races, police cars, gang wars, parades, fast-food restaurants, transvestite fashion shows, and the detonation of dead whales.
Although this should have been clear to everyone, Free Speech was dragged kicking and screaming and whooping it up out of the closet and into the streets. It was deposited there looking about as appealing as Jimmy Hoffa in a Jiffy Bag. Then the AP refused to come bravely forward and remove Free Speech from the streets and put it back where it belonged on the Op-Ed pages of the New York Times where it could only contaminated the lepers of the American intellect.
The Deluded Penis: Why this doleful failure of nerve?
The reason that AP did not crush Free Speech like a cockroach was an entirely selfish one. It had allowed itself to be convinced that Free Speech meant (soon and forever) Free Love. And it also thought that Free Love meant Real Love. Again, the gullible AP was taken in by an obfuscation that the Communists have known to be false ever since the Bolsheviks tried Free Love for a half-hour after lunch on May 1, 1918 and gave up sex completely right after.
Unknown to the AP, what Free Speech and Free Love really meant was not that it would get laid more often, but that it would be screwed more frequently.
The AP failed to recognize that Free Speech was more addicting than crack and would infect millions of citizens who, left to themselves, would never have thought of it. As a result Free Speech and Free Love not only stimulated a lot of harmless clones like Jerry Rubin, Eldridge Cleaver, Germaine Greer, and Johnny Carson, but also created some really dangerous enemies of the social order like Oprah Winfrey, Jann Wenner, Michael Moore, Keith (Overbite) Olberman, and "A Company Called TRW".
Still, the 1970s were a time of deep and dreamless sleep for the AP and it ignored the alarming phenomena of Free Speech in frothing mode. Why? Because for many years the AP WAS getting laid more frequently and with greater intensity. After the 1950s this was a relief. Still, as the years rolled over the AP became dimly aware that the number of bodies involved in its nocturnal activities seemed to be increasing to crisis proportions until the American bedroom was seeing more heavy-breathing foot traffic than the men's room at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City.
Hot Tub Haven
The immediate solution, one that worked for about ten years, was to install a hot tub outdoors or down in the rumpus room with a gigantic filter system to keep the water from getting too milky along with a huge stereo system to drown the shrieks and screams coming from the bedroom where many people not tied in place were down on their hands and knees sniffing the rug while scuffing their knees.
At some point, the AP noticed that its date didn't seem to be the same person it went home with. It noticed that the refreshments were no longer fruit juices and delicate smoking herbs, but cortical stimulants and powders that numbed the skin. In addition, more and more people were asking it for a doctor's note.
Late in the dark and steaming nights of the 1970s, all the females had had enough of Hot Tub Haven and, when recruiters in overalls came through the rumpus room waving maps to the long lost Camelot of Clitoria, they packed up their bags and left the party with not so much as a by your leave.
The next thing the AP knew it was no longer in a cozy rumpus room and redwood hot tub, but somewhere on the waterfront in a tiled and humid series of rooms surrounded by people wearing needlepoint bath towels and silly mustaches. It was shortly thereafter that the AP came to the painful realization it was no longer getting laid, but being screwed.
Clearly, in order to find a deeply meaningful relationship it was going to have to find its way out of this tiled maze where more slippery petrochemical byproducts were being consumed than sunscreen on the surface of Mercury.
After staggering out into the grim cold dawn near the New York docks at the end of an night that had started in a rumpus room in Mill Valley, the AP began to wander aimlessly across the trackless leisure world of America. Amazingly enough, it found that everything had changed from what, to the AP, was only the day before. For the AP it had seemed to be but a day, but it was really more like fifty years and the AP felt like Rip Van Winkle's winky.
Where had it been? What had it ingested? What had it done? To whom and with what? Why did it have a two-toned mohawk hairdo and a bone in its nose? How soon would the marks on its back heal? Would the rash on the buttocks continue to spread? Should it make an appointment with a leading proctologist? The last thing it remembered was letting Free Speech out of the closet and into the streets, and...
Free speech had so besotted the AP with Free Love that the American Penis had forgotten to close and lock the American closet. Suppressing a shudder, it took a bus to its rose-covered bungalow in the heartland and looked into the closet.
And the Closet Was Bare
Not only had Free Speech and Free Love come out, but everything else in the American Closet had tumbled out and rolled away into the streets. This was an unmitigated disaster!
For centuries, the AP had been taking every half-baked notion that had come to the door and stuffing it in the closet. It was getting very crowded in there by 1965, and the AP had meant to get it organized someday and toss most of these ideas whose time should never come into the dust bin of history, but it always seemed to have better things to do--such as creating The Dustbuster and Lemon Scented Pledge. Now it was too late.
Yes, all the raving idiocies, tacky trends, and flaky modes of living of more than two centuries of brilliant repression were amok in the land and drooling on the sidewalks. Not only Free Speech and Free Love, but far worse ideas such as:
The Free Press, The Freedom of Information Act, Computer Dating and Conferencing, the ERA, The Right to Life, Television Evangelists, Lesbian Mothers for Peace,
The Gray Panthers, The Gay Panthers, Gay Lib, Women's Lib, Kid's Lib, Animal Rights, Junk Bonds, Risk Arbitrage, Debased Coinage, Single's Bars, Porn Calls, Manifest Destiny,
Pass-Fail college courses, Ms. Magazine, Mother Jones, People, Ramtha, The Whole Earth Shoe Company, Gortex, Marriage Counseling for Homosexuals,
Designer T-Shirts, Perrier Ice Cubes, Blush Wine, Do-it-yourself divorce, and "A Company Called TRW".All the worst of the American way, all the off-brand lifestyles that no sane society would allow outside of its zoos or trailer parks. It was a hearty "Hello Sailor" to the 21st century. It was the Peta Dream of releasing every captive monkey in every pharma lab into the streets with a $5,000 debit card, a ticket to ride, and a guest slot on "What Not to Wear."
In the America of the late 000's all these very sick monkeys were washing fruit in the gutters of the American streets and, in truth, the streets were looking a lot like the zoos. They were looking almost as bad as the AP felt and, after thirty years in the Paradise Room at the Crisco Disco, the AP did not feel very chipper.
There's More At the Door
Depressed to the point of eating its gun, the AP moved away from the closet and looked out of its chintz-curtained windows down along Main Street which was now a fetid mass of Hamburger Hamlets, Pop-Tart Take-Out Stands, Porno Shops, Junkies, Bad Poets, Hookers, Orange Juice Carts, Politicians, Illiterate Urchins in BMWs, Smegma Lattes, and Miles-O-Malls advertising a week-end special in inflatable Michelle Obama love dolls.
As it meditated on this bleak vista, the doorbell rang twice.
When the AP answered it he found himself face to face with a bearded young banker in a day-glo leisure suit brandishing a coffee table sized Filofax. The obviously organized banker informed the AP that the mortgage rate on the American bungalow was now reset at 33.3%, compounded hourly with an adjustment for the stagflation expected sometime in the next decade. He then noted that 5.6% of the AP had been a party animal on Facebook the previous night and had been out of work for fifteen minutes. Because of that the AP couldn't make the new mortgage payment of $1,200 an hour. Hence the bank was foreclosing on the house, but giving the AP an opportunity buy it back for $850,000 which was only 10% of the going rate for a one- bedroom bungalow in this desirable part of town. With that the banker suspended the AP's credit cards, blew it a kiss, stripped down to a Polynesian penis gourd and asked it for a date.
First Kiss is the Deepest
It was at that moment that the AP felt the first real nip of the Jaws of History as they began to tighten. It woke up from its pastoral stupor. It began to get angry. It turned red. It started to swell. It itched to invade yet another Mideast country and cut off Islam's supply of Artisan web porn. Let's see, which country had the ruler with the most advanced case of Napoleonic dwarfism?
Feeling a bit like its old self, the AP sighed, packed its knapsack with a few light neutron bombs, some rusty B-52s full of Agent Orange, and an All Third World Volunteer Army who'd just re-uped in Tiajuana, drew Three Trillion Dollars out of the Bank of We'll-Pay-You-Tuesday, let the Democrats nominate their dream boy and the Republicans nominate their park statue, and bid a sad farewell to Main Street. On the way out of town, it forced a marked-down Michelle Obama love doll in a "We Support the Troops" t-shirt to give it a kiss, and stuck out its thumb at the Freeway entrance under the sign that said "Armageddon Country This A Way." After all, it had nothing else to do with its time and no where else to go.
Waiting for a lift from a passing Prius, the American Joint felt that times were out of joint. Money didn't help, the recession was just around the corner, and it was still not any closer to a really fulfilling relationship. What had gone wrong? What was it to do? How would it ever get its sex life on track and teach pipsqueak countries to respect it? If war was not the answer, what was? What was to be done?
"What Is To Be Done"
To any acute observer, foreign or domestic, the root cause of the present American Penis Crisis is that the AP simply does not know its place.
Though the AP is seen alarmingly often these days, it is rarely spotted in or near its natural habitat, the American Vagina (the AV). Search any of these traditional nesting grounds for this elusive form of life and you will almost assuredly fail to flush it out. When the AP is sighted it is usually flitting around something it has no real interest in such as Darfur, The Persian Gulf, or Ron Paul. Or it is endeavoring to penetrate something it can never hope to fill, such as the continent of Africa.
Alas, the AP pops up where it is least expected, usually in ads for designer jeans, Italian shoes, or Yassar Arafat headwear. Like Jerry Brown and Ralph Nadar it lingers where it is no longer wanted, but is seldom found in the State Department or the Pentagon. Long ago, the AP walked and talked like John Wayne or Cary Grant. In the mid- seventies it began to resemble Burt Reynolds (in itself a very bad sign). In the eighties it began to mince Travolta style and has lately been looking like Arnold Schwartzenegger in one of David Rockefeller's suits. This is merely nature's way of signaling imminent extinction.
But it is no longer good enough to blame Islam, the Communists or even "A Company Called TRW". They have done their dirty work and departed to let nature take its course. The duty of all true Americans is to save the American Penis not from its enemies but its own bad habits; habits that have drained this once vital organ until it is a mere self of its former shell.
Hoping to Change the American Penis - The Reformation in the Year of the Erection Election
It's a tough job and a dirty job but someone has to bring in the warm damp towels. Yes, the AP must now give up oral sex, masturbation, and the missionary position.
Draconian measures, to be sure. Critics will say that such a wide-ranging reform cannot be accomplished without massive economic dislocation, spiraling unemployment, a purge in the standard of living and the central committee of the Communist party, and overall loss of consumer confidence in the American orgasm. To these wimpy-comsymp-liberals we make two iron-clad responses:
1)The only alternative is the extinction of the American Penis and the end of sex as we know it.
2)Even if all the above situations were to occur in the wake of reform, most Americans would not know the difference.
Since no demur is possible to these conditions, let us examine the bad habits of the AP and how we are to break them and restore it to the apple-cheeked, plate-breaking rigidity of its youth.
First They Came for Oral Sex. But I Did Not Protest..
It is not an historical accident that the rise of the Women's Liberation movement parallels the rise of the AP's experiment with sexual parody. Thousands of articles in leading and underground magazines along with millions of hours of wheezing radio call-in shows and turgid afternoons with Oprah have all conspired to convince the AP that the American woman not only enjoys oral sex, but demands it. This is a base canard that deserves to be hoist by its own petard.
The notion that American women crave to spend their leisure time emulating Linda Lovelace in her classic crystal meth period, teenage virgins striving to make prom queen, or Keith Olberman during his last job interview is false on the face of it. When one reflects that no woman had even heard of oral sex before the inflight inauguration of Lyndon Johnson, it is further evidence that the American woman views oral sex as but a means to an end -- alimony, in or out of wedlock, or as a way to decrease the tedium of long bus rides.
Many self-styled senescent authorities such as Masters and Johnson and Calvin Klein would have us believe that oral sex is an act of love, of giving, of submission to the great tidal surges of the universal sea of the self. Pure humbug. Oral sex is a quickie, pure and simple. Always has been, always will be.
Today's modern American executrix, if she has not given up on men who cannot advance her career completely, knows at long last what she wants. And she does not want a quickie. She wants a longie or cash-on-the-barrel-head head. If oral sex cannot lead to multiple orgasms or multiple millions, the American woman, following the lead of Brook Shields, wants a ticket out of the whole disgusting business. Besides, with the advent of "Revenescence by Revlon", sperm is no longer necessary to maintain a flawless complexion.
In view of the debasing nature of oral sex when forced on the previously unsullied mantle of spiritually-virginal American womanhood, how did the AP come to prefer it to all other forms of interpersonal communication? We return to our fundamental proposition that the AP simply does not know its place. And this failing can be laid at the door of only one group in American society, the Environmentalists.
Green Eggs and Penis
It is not to be gainsaid that during the last 60 years the Environmentalists have convinced the AP to leave its traditional habitats to their care and conservation. As a result, the rootless AP has sought out odd and exotic, eco- niches such as South-East Asia, Leather Bars, and the porn parlors of the San Fernando Valley. This migratory malfunction has, like the unbridled lust for oral sex, struck so deep into the pith and fiber of the AP that it is, at this very moment, seeking to insinuate itself into openings much smaller than itself (dwarfsex.com), or into those that do not exist at all (hotshadowpuppets.com). Such a derangement can be glimpsed in all the chatter about making the Libertarians a viable third party instead of a safe haven for political loonies of all stripes, or converting grade-A American corn into gasoline instead of reserving it for essential items such as Bourbon or Aunt Jemima's Microwavable Corn Muffin Mix.
Oral sex, a prime element of the decor in the environmental labyrinth of the 1980s, is an evolutionary cul-de-sac if there ever was one.
But does the Environmental Lobby point this out? Not at all. They prefer to keep the AP out of the AV so that they can use a number of otherwise prime sites for nuclear breeder reactors and brothels for such obtuse uses as breeding sites for Whooping Cranes and Passenger Pigeons. This when every urban core in the land has more pigeons than rats and not nearly enough landfill for public housing which could affordably be built on radioactive waste sites.
While the Environmental Lobby and the ACLU stress the clear and present dangers of providing IUDs to Iguanas, they do not take one second to speak about the dangers of oral sex to ourselves and our posterity. If they even think about it they swallow their thoughts. Their very silence convicts them.
It cannot be stressed too forcefully that oral sex, in most cases, comes equipped with teeth. And when these teeth are implanted into the Jaws of History, the AP ventures into such humid realms at its own risk. The obviously debilitating effects of oral sex can be seen in the seriously declining birth rate in the film, recording, and fashion industry, or by how far the number of declared transsexuals exceed operations performed under the auspices of the American Medical Association and/or "A Company Called TRW".
Getting a Grip on Masturbation
"Self-abuse" is not a misnomer. It is a wet dream from which the AP must struggle to awake.
For when oral sex is not to be had, due to a shortage of partners or funds, masturbation takes ahold of the imagination of the AP, and deposits money into the pockets of Polaroid.
To make up for the fact that masturbation lacks the risky thrill of oral sex, many besotted environmentalists have advocated the rape of oven-warmed citrus fruits. (A position condemned by People For the Ethical Treatment of Plants.) Is this a good thing? We note that while this indulgence may prevent the AP from contracting scurvy, it does little to restore its self-esteem or hold down the cost of Florida grapefruit.
Masturbation, like oral sex and free speech must be expunged from the memory glands of the AP like other similar concepts such as the Conquest of Space, the Summer of Love, and Jimmy Carter -- all of which "seemed like a good idea at the time."
Once and for all, the AP must be made to see that masturbation is not only strictly for jerks, but actually does induce curvature of the spine. This alarming side effect not only makes autofellation possible but necessary since no sophisticated American woman would be caught dead with a hunchback unless he happened to possess a lot of supertankers, several Greek islands, and an inoperable melanoma.
Clearly oral sex and masturbation are the central compulsions that have put the AP in its present not-so- special state. Modesty forbids us extending our analysis into the love that dares not speak its name. Not that there's anything wrong with that nameless thing.
Decompulsifying the American Penis
How then can we cure the AP of its compulsions and put it back in its historic position on top of the American woman?
Leaving aside the logistical difficulties of convincing any American woman to get back on the bottom, we propose enlisting her aid in a forceful method that is sure to put the AP back in the perked-up pink. It may be forceful but it is necessary. Like any addict, the AP has only one path to a cure. Yes, it's cold turkey time for the AP.
Luckily, the American Sexual Circus has come up with one healthy set of sexual rituals that is tailor-made for the AP in its current condition: Bondage.
In this caring and compassionate therapy, the American Woman simply ties the hands of the AP (eliminating masturbation), applies a bright red ball-gag (eliminating oral sex and pathetic whining), and inserts a cork (eliminating the unmentionable). Then, donning appropriate protective gear, she simply sits astride the AP and waits.
Sooner or later, after denying it all other possibilities for a meaningful relationship and fulfilling self-expression, the AP will come to its senses and beg for release. Any release. Even straight heterosexual release.
It is then, and only then, that the American woman can apply her own rigorous discipline and wean the AP from its jaded lifestyle and lead it back to its rightful place in the Family of Man -- under the American Woman.
Thus once again do we demonstrate that the only hope for American manhood is to be found in the ruthlessness of American womanhood and its determination to erect a penis it can live with, and be proud to show off in in family photograph albums.
Nothing less than a strict application of the ties that bind can save the AP from destruction.
Only if the American woman can comprehend recent historical trends and, through sacrifice, reverse them by applying the Dialectics of Discipline can Phallicus Americani be rescued from the waters of oblivion. It is rumored that the Supreme Leader of Iran has already had a glass and mahogany case that once contained a Dodo cleaned out and placed next to his daybed in Tehran; a daybed that glows in the dark. Only a rumor, but the warning is clear.
Two hundred years ago, our forefathers, faced by a threat from without and treason from within, had the discipline to buckle down, get straight, and thus keep their heads, lives, fortunes, sacred honor, and APs. We urge all Americans still in possession of a penis to pay close heed to our review of recent history, and to meditate seriously on our proposal for triumphing over a situation that has already claimed the penises of millions of our fellow countrymen.
Remember, the member you save could be your own.Posted by Vanderleun at January 23, 2017 11:42 PM