"a fish, a barrel, and a smoking gun"
for 10 July 1997. Updated every WEEKDAY.

Hit & Run XCI


[Remember McGruff The Dog?  He has nothing to do with this guy.  He is really just an image that we shamelessly stole off of the website that it is linked to.  (Well not shamelessly, we did provide a link.)  It's just our style.]

With the news this week that the

state of California has released

a CD-ROM containing information

on 64,000 known sex offenders in

the state, dating back to 1944,

the possibilities for a new dawn

of public awareness awaits.

After all, if sex offenders can

be cataloged, let's get to the

other crooks. Who wouldn't want

a list of say, 64,000 doctors

guilty of malpractice? Lawyers

who mishandle cases? How about a

Product Liability Cases

Squelched Before They Got to

Court list? Heck, we'll put our

money down for that Auto

Mechanics Who Pathologically

Overcharge disc right now. One

reason we may never see them is

that some crooks, unlike sex

offenders, can form professional

associations like the AMA that

lobby to keep professional

misconduct records confidential,

no matter what harm their

members cause. It's easy to list

sex offenders, social pariahs

that they are, but what about

the crooks with unions?


[Hi.  This book is silly.  I just don't get it?  Every guy is multi-orgasmic, and don't let anyone tell you different.  Sheesh.  Every teenage boy has choked his chicken four or five times in row at least once in his life.  Guys are just like that. It's just that we have to _want_ to be multi orgasmic. Just wait till you get a load of the cigar coming up later (no pun intended).]

Nerve Magazine was created "less

to celebrate the gymnastics of

sex than to appreciate the way

it ... makes us honest and human

and trims our paunchy egos."

Uh-huh. As a great man once

said, "Make up your mind, who

you want to pump the butt?"

Let's get it straight (as it

were): Who says sex needs to be

redeemed? And why via the kind

of solipsistic, New Yorker-style

generalizing that makes anyone

who really cares about culture

reach for their revolver?

Fortunately, Nerve does what it

does, not what the editors say;

it's most thought-provoking when

its contents ooze away from its

comforting, edifying mission.

Joycelyn Elders' masturbation

article includes an anecdote

about a little girl and her

mother looking at each others'

pussies that screams desperately

to be taken out of context, and

tells the whole story about why

this sober and moral Surgeon

General was fired: The American

religious imagination is, as it

was from the start, obsessed

with a story of sexy, demonic

corruption from within. As the

14th volume of Black Cheerleader

Jerkoff hits the stands, we also find

here Evans Hopkins' genuinely

sweet piece with a section on

"Ho-ology." And while we could

do without Ruth Shalit's musty

review of Candance Bushnell's

roman à clit (didn't we

see that in Salon?), Sam

Lipsyte's pun-filled review of

two sex self-help books (wherein

lay "sad sacs," "priapic

praxis," and a wickedly clever

ejaculatory use of "cunctator")

reminds us that while the brain

may be the largest sexual organ,

laughter is the best lubricant.


[Holy Jesus Christ is all I've  got to say about this image.]

Sometimes a cigar is just a

cigar, but when it's a really

fucking big cigar, well, it

makes us a little nervous.

Perhaps Manuel Guzman wasn't

trying to prove anything when he

pounded out his

9-and-a-half-foot stogie, but

you know what they say about men

who roll their own. At a ripe

old 70 years, we should probably

just be glad he's not getting

some kid to do it for him. Of

course, it's only a matter of

time before the honchos at one

of the nation's growing pack of

tobacco books read Guzman's

trans-Atlantic smoke signals for

the fantastic publicity

opportunity they are, and

attempts to circumvent American

law and good taste to bring the

monster macanudo to the States.

Whether or not they could

succeed, you can bet the stunt

would send smoking rates wafting

up a notch or two, especially

among teens. How can we be so

sure? Because, as studies have

conclusively shown, teenagers

are stupid. Last month, the

Centers for Disease Control

reported that 27 percent of

American teens have tried cigar

smoking, and as if that weren't

idiotic enough, their elders are

convinced that it was

Dutch-Master grade stars like

Wayne Gretzky and Demi Moore

that got them to do it. (Must be

a bigger market for Striptease

II than we thought.) Then again,

if you believe that kids are

easily swayed by bad

advertising, perhaps you're

excused for using bad

advertising to fight back. The

Wall Street Journal reported on

Tuesday that anti-tobacco groups

have begun a campaign to curb

underage cigar smoking with an

ad that "features a fancy

tortoise-shell cigar cutter

resting on green velvet. Nearby,

a fat cigar burns in a crystal

ashtray. It looks like another

glamorous image of a cigar." The

catch is supposed to be the

"pointed tagline," which scolds,

"You can also use it to cut the

tumor off your lip." The flaw?

Anyone dumb enough to smoke

cigars just because Arnold

does probably can't read.


[This bouncer guy looks suspiciously like the guy from the Spanker.  I liked the Spanker.  Yes, he was angry, but his anger was indignant anger.  Righteous.  In a way, that makes me like the spanker even more.  Anyway, this is an image of the Bouncer.]

As you come to terms with Hong

Kong under a red flag, we ask

that you also find time in your

prayers for another faded

reminder of Britannia's glory,

the one situated to our north.

During our recent contretemps,

the Canucks frequently cited

their comedy as evidence of a

manifest cultural destiny.

Adding fuel to the cedar and

balsam-scented fire is another

piece of Canadian agitprop,

Stand and Deliver: Inside

Canadian Comedy, by Andrew Clark

(Doubleday Canada, 259 pages,

CAN$29.95). But as Leatrice

Spevack's review in the 21 June

edition of Vancouver's Globe and

Mail makes plain, Canada's

attempt to present a unified

front on humor with an extra "u"

is faltering. "The section

devoted to strip-club comics

claims to disclose a 'piece of

missing history.'" writes

Spevack. "What's really missing

could fill volumes.... Absent is

the tale of comedy duo MacLean

and MacLean's headline-making

brushes with the law. The

contribution of Don Cullen

(Canada's dean of early comic

development) sadly scores only a

few lines. Early sketch troupes

such as the Jest Society and

London's Perth County Conspiracy

go unrecognized, as does the

'folk club' circuit that spawned

them." Egregious, no? Also

missing are "stories of modern

eccentric Sheila Gosstick, the

late Marjorie Gross, or Jenny

Jones, winner of the TV talent

show Search for the Stars."

Andrew Clark has done his

country a grave disservice by

neglecting the forebears of such

titans as Ackroyd and Meyers.

And surprisingly, even with so

much face at stake, a fellow

Canadian called him on it.

Spevack's review is the first

confirmed crack in the

façade. It's only a

matter of time until a simple

discussion of how the "Westray

mining disaster" impacted the

national comic sensibility

dissolves into partisan


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