Dear Readers:
As you perhaps read here previously, I will from time to time devote this column to solving your sexual problems. Since none of you have yet written in with your problems, I can only assume that you are repressing them and they are due to explode any minute in a paroxysm of acne and bad impulse buying. Hence, I have no choice but to once again make up all the questions, as well as the answers. Thanks a lot.
Dear Lost:
I have a strangely disfigured penis. My girlfriend, my track coach and the UPS guy all agree that it bears a striking resemblance to the late Casey Stengel, the famed, non sequitur-spewing coach of the New York Yankees. (He's the one who said, “There's a time in every man's life, and I've had plenty of them.”) I figured I may as well try to make this work to my advantage and called the Baseball Hall of Fame to suggest that they hire me as a greeter there. I was informed that, no, unless my reproductive organs resembled Ruth, DiMaggio or one of the other great swatters, they wouldn't have a place for me.
I didn't score high on my SATs and really have no other prospects. Do you know of any doctors who could do reconstructive surgery on me?
Allen Susamen Villa Park Dear Allen: I think you should consider something else the mighty Casey said: “Good pitching will always stop good hitting and vice versa.” Applied to your problem, what I think that means is rather than have a doctor dither with your dingus, look for a different venue in which to flaunt it. Can you sing? Can you throw your voice? Maybe you can get a job as a singing waiter. Just because your Johnson looks like Stengel to your coach doesn't mean it won't look like Bette Midler to someone from a more theatrical background. Are you circumcised? I ask only because neither Casey nor Bette was known for wearing turtlenecks, and you might want to get your brisket to a Bris.
Dear Lost:
I threw a potato at my neighbor's cat three weeks ago. The thing is that she saw me do it, plain as day, right from her kitchen window. One thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, we were screwing like marmots in her husband's Kris-Kraft cabin cruiser, a nice, woody little number I wouldn't mind owning.
Except for the weekends, when her husband is home, we have been screwing like marmots every day since. I mean, we start in at 9 a.m. and come up for air no sooner than 1 or 2 p.m. That first afternoon, we rutted away for hours. Then she gave me a simply unprecedented blowjob. Then we grilled some steaks. As I was leaving, she pushed her panties into my shorts pocket, and in a sort-of Jane Russell slurry way, she purred, “Think of me until tomorrow,” which pretty much took the White-Out to my Day Runner for the week.
Their boat is up on a trailer in their side yard, set back from the street a ways, and since it's only our two houses to either side, we might as well be at sea, privacy-wise. She's always got a pitcher of something cold in there, and I've quite taken to the yachting life.
Here's my problem: despite my certainty of our solitude, the 30-ish widow in the upstairs apartment behind our lots noted our budding interest in Ken's Chris-Craft and began documenting us on her digital camera. As I was gardening that first Sunday, she came by walking her megapoodle. She watched me weed with an unnervingly appraising look and then offered to send me some potting-soil tips if I gave her my e-mail address. Instead, she uploaded shots of Mrs. Neighbor and me pre- and post-rut, not to mention one in mid-rut when I'd given her what-for right there on the Bermuda grass once. We looked trim, and there's far more conviviality afloat in these glossies then you'll find in my wedding album.
The Widow Megapoodle demanded $40 per week to sit on these photos. I thought that was a realistic amount and was even looking forward to seeing what her shutter might record in the days ahead, but she also insisted that I show up at her apartment at 3 each afternoon. From then until perilous minutes before my wife gets home, she has me shirtless on my hands and knees, scrubbing her floors, bathing her dog and whatever. She has started trading me out to her friends now, and Mrs. Abramson has me in the mornings from 7:45 to 9, doing a lot of grout work. It's only a matter of time before my wife hears of my galloping all over the neighborhood, and she already gives me hell to pay just on general principle.
Lately, I have thoughts of donning scuba gear and dragging enough spare tanks out to sea with me that I could live on the ocean floor for a week solid. I can eat a Snickers underwater, so this is not an unrealistic notion. I'd have some explaining to do when I came up, but it would be worth it just to clear my head of all these distaff demands. How I'm supposed to return to Washington in a month and legislate is anybody's guess.
My question for you is: I have the solid food down, but how can I drink when I'm already underwater?
Sincerely,
Senator O-ring Snatch Dos Prompt, Utah Dear Senator: Use a straw, you idiot. I can't believe all the undeserved trim you Beltway types attract. I don't even like you having a franking privilege.
Dear Lost:
The man I love, he treat me oh-so mean.
I can eat no fat, and he can eat Eileen.
The man I love, he's so fine and mellow,
I asked for water, and he brought me lemon Jell-O.
The man I love, he's—pardon me, but someone's stabbing me, and I can't continue. Hey, stop that! How'd you like it if someone stabbed you? Get away from here! Scat!
I'm sorry, where was I?
Oh, the man I love, he hired an assassin.
Why'd he do that, if you don't mind me askin'?
A Bombed Blonde Shell of Her Former Self Costa Mesa
P.S.: Could you bring some bandages home with you? I've had a hankering for them all afternoon.
Dear Blonde Shell: Sure thing, honey. And I didn't pay that assassin. He owed me some work for my helping with his patio deck, and I couldn't think of anyone else to kill. See you at 6.
Dear Lost:
Why did the werewolf get married on the Internet?
Because he wanted to e-lope.
Lou Guru via e-mail I will not dignify that with an answer, particularly since I wrote it.
Dear Lost:
A bunch of us in our dorm at UC Irvine recently got a hold of some of that “date rape” drug we'd read so much about. We put it in a big punch bowl filled with a drink we call “Sleeping With the Fishes” (it's mostly vodka and guppies), and down the old hatch it went. We all drank it, some 28 of us, men, women and a gecko, and not one of us felt the least bit compromised or ravaged when we woke up the next day, except the gecko, who looked sort of like a naked Strom Thurmond when he came to. What's the big deal?
Ice Cream Jones Irvine
