How to do the wrong thing right
Well, kids, somehow we miraculously skip-to-mah-Lou’d, through the whole summer without atomic Armageddon after all; knock on the wooden handle of Oracle L’Orange’s nuclear football. Hell, even The New York Times (that “fake media” witches’ coven!), deigned to smear a gloss of lipstick on our Bovine-in-Chief, expounding in one of its summer’s finale editorials that at least the Big Kumquat’s regime hasn’t calcified into outright “catastrophic,” merely “corrosive” (for now).
But me thinks the Times dost see through CLR-cleansed glasses the scum-buildup of a metastasizing autocracy. Invariably, despotic madmen’s regimes always start out (against all logical comprehension) with an economically ascendant first few years: Mussolini famously got Italy’s trains running on time, Hitler opened Germany’s universally-copied Autobahn and even Stalin trumpeted the triumph of his first Five-Year Plan’s “success” by showcasing his blackened teeth and his one good arm with a proud wave from atop a picturesque tugboat’s helm, chugging through the miraculously-constructed White Sea Canal.
As all you Arctic trivia buffs well know, that canal served about as functionally useful then to the U.S.S.R. as, oh, the Erie Canal does for us; Stalin ordered his battalions of arrested slave laborers to build the canal so quickly that its width was too narrow to accommodate even so much as a wooden barge. Its obsolescence was instantaneous… then again, functionality was never the point anyhow. The point was for little Stalin’s mug — airbrushed from all reality of its success-flushed pockmarks, crevices, craters, bloodshot-insomniac’s eyes and alcoholism splotches — to be internationally emblazoned above the frontpage folds of every newspaper on the planet… coincidentally, Drumpf’s sole motives for everything he does. Everyone knows in their gut something’s going to happen on Mr. Tangerine Tan’s watch — something elusively beyond all sanity, hideously gruesome, if not globally gory. Nonetheless, having safely somehow crossed over the Rubicon of summer’s official end, into the territory now of Halloween paraphernalia, the only unanswerable at this spooky juncture of limbo is… when?
History is larded with these agonizing waits. Miraculously, even Caligula lurched his lunatic tenure through four sadistic years of meretricious depravity before his Pretorian Guard simply snatched up his daughter by the ankles and smashed out her brains against one of his palace’s rare, lovely, lemon-colored marble columns. Fast-forwarding a couple millennia down this ignoble pike, at least those Teutonic debaucherers, the Goerings, allowed their children to suffer ignorantly the hidden cyanide capsules swallowed in the family’s final meal down in the bunker. The fleeing lackeys hitched to our modern-day Romanov clan, now all but forced to fortress themselves inside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue’s bomb-proof ramparts during the week and “The Southern White House” on weekends, are already cutting leniency prison-sentence terms, if not outright immunity deals. Thus, we all know exactly why the caged birds sing: Questions, questions everywhere, and not a strutting drop of thought does His Naked Highness think.
One must always be braced for reality to forever reside in fantasy: Let’s all just give a relieved “Whew!” that we rode it out safely through this nail-biter season. If you want my cordial suggestion — which, of course, you do — I think we’re all due a bit of fun with this issue’s column, sweet readers: I’ll be the one asking you the questions, and you get to provide me the answers. (Helpful hint: They’re all multiple choice, so if stumped, kidz, then by all means, please just cheat — the answers are located at the bottom of the page.) You game, class? Everyone have a writing utensil handy? All-righty, then, we’re gonna start out here nice and easy; but, we’re gonna end thangz nice and rough. So lick your no. 2 lead pencil tips, bitchez, and let’s just get right downtown to it.
1. In our land of enchantment called Gayville, what are the letters BBC acronymic of? a. Bitch Be Crazy; b. Bare-Back Cock; c. British Broadcasting Corporation; d. Big Black Cock.
2. How many calories does the average ejaculation contain (Translation, bois: your first BJ of the day, not your fifth)? a. Not enough for even a caged sex slave to survive exclusively on, regardless of how many feedings he’s permitted; b. 25 to 50; c. 50 to 100; d. I couldn’t begin to even fathom a guess, as masturbation/fornication/adultery are violations of morality, and ejaculate is solely intended for procreation; hence, upon hooking a hose up to the tailpipe of my running car in the garage tonight, I fully intend to wank my Johnson raw until the very gates of hell rise up euphorically before me.
3. Grand Marshal in this year’s N’Awlins’ Mardi Gras Parade was led by which most fabulous gay icon of all? a. Miss Piggy in drag as Kermit in love with Cookie Monster; b. RuPaul surrounded by each Drag Race winner from every season to have emerged as fellow superstars from her smash hit show (translation: a gaggle of one waving radiantly from atop Lady La Rue’s float); c. That one and only time-reverser herself, Cher; d. A svelte and stunning Susan Boyle impersonating Cher.
4. In the fetish world of BDSM, “figging” necessitates the use of what particular food? a. One large “hand” of fresh ginger root peeled into the shape of a butt plug; b. An extra-large eggplant generously lubed-up with Bengay; c. Duh, a bucket of fresh figs steeped overnight in stinging nettles’ juice; d. One very fresh, unpeeled pineapple fondued in a large pan of freshly drained Diesel.
5. Deriving sexual pleasure from “water, thunder and lightning” exhorts a life-in-the-fast-lane-friendly acquaintance with what? a. Water sports and explosive flatulence; b. Outdoor pool sex during severe thunderstorm warnings; c. Being electro-stemmed while bound helpless and urinated upon by a banging gang of male admirers; d. Slamming a trifecta-elixir of gamma hydroxybutyrate, a.k.a. G (water), with an abominably salivating Dr. Phibes’ chaser of heroin, a.k.a. smack (thunder) and crystal methamphetamine, a.k.a. Tina (lightning).
6. Which of the following is least necessary in order to blissfully master the rapture of “blowing clouds?” a. A handy glory hole; b. A penis in one’s mouth; c. A glass pipe/torch lighter combo; d. A marble-sized rock of crystal meth.
7. Match these five gay porn legends with their decades: Jack Wrangler, Ken Ryker, Dawson, Joe Dallesandro, Jeff Stryker 1960s, ‘70s, ’80s, ’90s and 2000s.
8. What is a rainbow kiss? a. Any spur-of-the-moment marriage proposal resultant from the serendipitously lucky sudden appearance of a rainbow in the sky; b. Kissing back into your sex partner’s mouth a delicious, swirled mixture of fresh sperm and menstrual blood you felched; c. The kaleidoscopic smudge on one’s face resulting from a kiss by some sneaky kid wearing every shade of lipstick they could pilfer; d.
An homage paid to Gayville’s greatest, most treasured icon ever, sung by every drag performance artist via introducing her encore while kissing all ten rainbow-painted, three-inch talons up to Heaven, trembling,
“And now, all you precious darlings of mine here tonight, this one’s for our girl, Judy.”
I’ve already answered this stupefying nonsense once, if not several times, in previous columns; thus, whatever you didn’t catch the first time around, you’ll unlikely comprehend any better this repeat. Blame it on a long, hot, exhaustive summer; regardless, sweet readers, dear Howard here is plumb frazzled. Fall couldn’t have arrived soon enough.
As promised, here are the answers: 1: d.; 2: b.; 3: c.; 4: a.; 5: d.; 6: a.; 7 In order, ’70s, ’90s, ’00s,’80s; 8: b.
— Howard Lewis Russell
Do you have a question — about etiquette, love, life or work — that needs a special spin from Howard? Send your problem to AskHoward@DallasVoice.com and he may answer it.
