How to do the wrong thing right
Personally, November is my favorite month… and it’s nobody’s favorite month. When it arrives, everything suddenly begins to die — a perfect launch pad for that old wives’ tale proclaiming most suicides occur during the holiday season. In reality, the polar opposite is true: Most suicides occur in high spring, from late April (Easter time!) through May, with any given Monday, in May, receiving the preponderance of them.
This comes as quite a relief to know. I was awfully worried how most of the world outside the U.S. even makes it sanely through November at all, lacking its frigid fourth Thursday celebratory feast welcoming everyone’s safe-shore arrival out of this month of the living dead! I mean, let’s just face the giblets-and-gravy here, pilgrims: Without the anticipation of Thanksgiving to savor, November would strut even less sex appeal than that runt-month, gray turkey carcass of the calendar litter, February.
Which, my little gobblers, takes us to the stuffing of this issue: If you’re a regular reader of my column, and you’ve been perhaps wondering why many of your questions I answer seem to read, oddly, as though Howard of Oz here may have had a hand in them himself, well, guess what, Butch? Not just a hand, but try both arms… clenched in a fist and elbow-deep!
Translating my sweet readers’ punctuation-free, hieroglyphic gibberish (of eggplant/peach emojis, swirled with lazy, text-speak acronyms) into the Queen’s English transcends even the phantasmagorical: Do schools no longer teach such arcane subjects as readin’ & ’ritin’ anymore? Honestly, kidz, I spend far more time simply metamorphosing you all into witty wags-of-the-round-table, than I do penning my answers to your queries. So, please, do help yourselves all to a sampling few morsel leftovers here from some of my most recent slush pile howlers — tantalizing tidbits too delicious to just shove down the disposal, not quite hearty enough to stand as their own individual course. They nonetheless make quite an unexpectedly saucy little Thanksgiving pastiche; so, what does it matter if the turkey’s a tad too Stygian-crisp on the outside or Neptune-balmy in the center? That never sank the Mayflower. It’s the holidays, everybody! Take a chill pill, spike the eggnog, hang some mistletoe from a hook, and let’s just get all plentifully horny — excuse me, horn-of-plenty — right to it.
Dear Howard: Does such a thing really exist as having two penises? — (No Name)
Dear Two of Spades: One in but every 5.5 million men is born with diphallia, but it does happen. And in still rarer instances, both Johnsons actually function fully-sized and independently of the other — rather than one of them just being a vestigial, shadow appendage — as the majority of most second-string, cream machines usually are. A famous Hollywood film producer of the ’70s was blessed with diphallia, and rumor has it that Noah (yeah, that original old water rat, himself) swung a fine, dangling twin pair of Louisville sluggers.
Now, where such tawdry gossip originated from, I wouldn’t know… especially considering that the sole biographical source for the “father” of us all alive here on Earth today comes courtesy the very first chapter in the world’s inaugural anthology of fairytales. And as with all masterworks of edited fiction, perhaps that uncomfortable little side note regarding Noah’s diphallia just, somehow, disappeared onto the (ahem) cutting room floor — one could imagine it quite easily straining the general public’s suspension bridge of disbelief just a girder too far, what with everyone already being expected swallow as gospel such side-splitters as (just throw a dart anywhere) a talking python offering forth a mealy, temptation-free Red Delicious to some long-haired, naked hippie-chick, telling her she’d possess all the knowledge of the universe with just one bite.. and the bimbo skank fell for it!
On the other hand, Noah’s diphallia might go a long way toward explaining why we’re all not, logically, just a global-wide clan of toothless, chinless, buttless, banjo-strumming inbred hillbillies: Perhaps each of Noah’s penises pumped out an entirely separate double helix? I mean, hey, if you can believe the entire planet went underwater for 40 days and nights, whilst an opposite-sex pair of every animal inhabiting Earth coexisted in perfect harmony within the putrid, lightless confines of an oversized wooden shoe box supplying pantry accommodations sufficient to the nutritionally individualized diets necessary for placating everything from platypuses to penguins to pangolins well enough to witness them descend Mount Ararat still functionally alive and itching to fuck beneath a rainbow — then you’ll most certainly have no problem swallowing Noah’s sperm came dispensed in two separately genetic flavors.
Dear Howard: How many people does it take to make a gangbang? — I Like Arithmetic
Dear It-Takes-More-Than-Two: An “official” gangbang requires, minimally, five naked participants—the bang-ee, plus four bangers. Sexcapades of less than five enthusiasts risk the quicksand equivalencies hell-bound of any old milquetoast-ordinary twosome, a threesome or a foursome (or “fourgy”). Technically, within the insider, hidden-hetero “swinger” world of Straightsville (where going daringly “commando” to the office on 100-degree days tickles the heights of wickedly-naughty coolness), a textbook gangbang consists of multiple men and one female participant (a “reverse gang bang” comprises multiple women and one male — from Gayville’s perspective, heading straight to the nearest funeral promises the lure of more guttural moaning than does a hetero gangbang).
“But, Howard, wait?” you may ask: “What’s the difference between a gangbang and an orgy?”
Well, to put it in as clarifying a Milton Bradley light as possible: The rules for any basic gangbang versus an orgy are quite sleazily easy to grasp: Gangbang instructions emphatically state that just one preselected receiver gets to enjoy, exclusively, every single erection at play; whereas in an orgy, the distribution of boners to recipients permitted to enjoy being boned by them, is entirely but a chance matter determined by your sexual attractiveness… as perceived by each individual to which said erections come winningly attached. In an orgy, the odds favor no singled-out sphincter enough opportunity to sample every swingin’ dick in the room; conversely, neither will any predetermined player get to noncompetitively monopolize all the jizz in the room solely for his own creamily glistening rosebud of puckered happiness and delight.
In essence, it boils down to an XXX-rated spin on the squeaky wheel proverb: At any given orgy’s narcotized apex, whomever currently leads with having greased up the most hotdogs tossed down his own personal hallway (“Over here, guys! New flashy receptacle taking all your fresh cream pie deliveries — nothing’s oversized! Right this way, cum where it’s fun and warm to play!”) wins the must-have new gizmo of this year’s entire holiday season: Orgy ’Hoes Vs. Gangbanger Holes —The Only Game That Guarantees Everyone Will Have A Blast! Silence, indeed, may be golden.
Dear Howard: I’m back on the dating scene again — the first time in 22 years! Could you explain to me why every guy I get intimate with now always moans into the pillows, word for word, this following exact phase: “Yeah, daddy, breed my ass!” Howard, are these idiot Millennials hoping I’ll knock them up? Is that the level to where our educational system has now sunk—producing leaders of tomorrow who haven’t even a clue which gender of mammals give birth? — T.B.
Dear Twice Bitten: That’s precisely what they’re moaning for—to be charged up… although just not with a fetus resultant. Oh, but to live in your fantasy Eden where the skies are always sunny, the glass is always half-full (of Fiji water) the ice cream has no calories, and any gender can give birth to blond, azure-eyed supermodels — my, what a prettily Potemkin Village is your world, indeed! Unfortunately, the powers-that-be here at the paper frown upon my going down this toxic road if I can at all avoid it; thus, I’m afraid you’re on your own here with this self-discovery mission of finding out just what the definition of gay “breeding” actually is. (Hint: Any random few Treasure Island Media videos ought to more than elucidate your miseducation.)
Dear Howard: Everybody tells me I throw shade good as you, that I could write a column that twinkles every bit as good as yours. Maybe funnier, even. Any advice you care shade on me? — I Ain’t Nobody
Dear Second Fiddle: Like a sequoia, I sure could; hell, Twinkles, I could probably change out motor oil good as you, too. Every bit as good. (Funnier, even, for certain!) Point is, anyone can write an advice column on something, just as anyone’s life would also make for a No. 1 international bestseller. All you gotta do is find the right voice to tell it in… a feat not quite so easily accomplishable as it sounds: In the immortalized lyrics of Sondheim, You gotta get a gimmick if you wanna get applause / Do something special, anything special / You’re more than just a mimic when you got a gimmick / Take a look at how different we are / If you wanna make it, twinkle while you shake it / If you wanna grind it, wait till you’ve refined it / If you wanna pump it, pump it with a trumpet / Get yourself a gimmick and you, too, can be a star. To which Howard might asterisk, “Well, that, and be irreplaceable at whatever worlds you set out to conquer.”
Best of luck to you, my young Mr. Shade. Truly.
All of you enjoy a happy, hearty Thanksgiving, my twinkling pilgrims! And boom, shika-boom, shika-boom … boom …boom!
— Howard Lewis Russell
Have a question about love, sex, etiquette or anything? Send it to AskHoward@DallasVoice.com and Howard may answer it (after rewriting it first)
