SEX: The Heuristic Squelch Interview

October 1, 1994

Heuristic Squelch: Welcome, Sex. I’m so glad you could take the time out of your busy schedule to talk to us.

Sex: Don’t mention it. I always have time to chat with a loyal follower.

HS: Thanks. So tell me, what is your full name, Sex?

Sex: Just “Sex.” You know, like Sting, Madonna, Bono, Iman, that kind of thing. Actually, it used to be Sexovskivich, but my parents changed when we came to this country.

HS: Now let me ask you something the whole world is wondering: Does “Sex” have a significant other?

Sex: Well Jon, that’s a difficult question. You see, even though I am Sex with a capital `S’ I don’t actually have a biological sex. Kind of ironic, ain’t it?

HS: So what you’re saying is that, because of your Pat-like existence, you are the only person who is truly free of a patriarchally constructed notion of gender which traps, binds, and otherwise enslaves every so- called individual residing on this stinking pile of crap we have the misfortune of calling home?

Sex: Something like that.

HS: Tell me about the new album.

Sex: Well, the record is “Dark Side Of The Sex.” It’s a concept album, exploring, what else, the darker side of sex. The first single is “Necrophilia: Never Say Never.” The original title was “How Do You Know You Don’t Like It, You’ve Never Even Tried It?” but that wouldn’t fit on the album. The second single is one of my favorites: “Dogs, cats, and other furry things.”

HS: I know you like using lots of sound effects on your recorded material. What can we expect from this one?

Sex: Well there’s the usual moaning, leading up to sounds of passionate ecstasy, and finally ending in a grand climax of joy and emotional fervor. And a `ba’ thrown in for good measure.

HS: Interesting.

Sex: Not really.

HS: And how’s the tour going?

Sex: Not so hot. Just when things are looking good and ticket sales are booming, it just takes one of those Catholic countries to screw everything up. Fucking Pope!

HS: What was that?

Sex: Uh, Burning Taupe. Its, er, the color of my new car.

HS: Splendid. Let’s turn to something else. What are your feeling about the new U.S. sex survey?

Sex: Frankly, I’m appalled. First of all, did they ask my permission? No. Second, this whole thing is making me feel utterly unwanted. Maybe I should get rid of that AIDS thing.

HS: Perhaps.

Sex: Dammit, I’m not finished. I mean, what does a poorly fabricated, mildly unfunny personification have to do to get some respect around here? Monogamy! Infrequent sexual activity! Phooey!

HS: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.

Sex: Well, I am! Come to think of it, I’m kinda turned on.

HS: Wonderful.

Sex: Oh yes!

HS: Stop that.

Sex: I can’t. I’m so close!

HS: Please don’t.

Sex: Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

HS: Ew!

Sex: Oh, sorry ’bout that.

HS: Well, as usual, it’s been nice talking to you. Thanks for coming.

Sex: No, thank you.

Editor’s note: There should have been a witty drum “brump bump” after that last response. But budget problems being what they are, we cannot afford a Multi-Media issue at present. Sorry.

Volume 5- Issue 2

Important Dates in History

October 1, 1994

feature

Dating was invented accidentally by Ms. Grefrock Harding in the late 16th Century* as she was washing her father’s codpiece. As the jewel- encrusted accessory became more and more polished, Grefrock began to see her reflection. She was shocked. And stunned. And struck with an idea. Since then dating has evolved into an almost omnipresent entity. Every culture across the globe (except for Chinese) has some sort of dating ritual. In Central Africa, prospective couples must endure the Dance of the Seven Piercings before their first outing. Lovers in the Pacific Islands write long essays about why they want to go out with each other and submit them to the Squelch for grading and proper pre-date authorization. In Berkeley, fanciers grovel and whine for the chance to be humiliated in public by the one they love. These are only a few of the fascinating yet nauseating dating rituals seen around the world.

*Carbon dating indicates the exact year was 1734.

Volume 5- Issue 2

Wet Shins & Other Sins

Confessions of a Piss Champ

October 1, 1994

feature, Matthew Thomas

When I was a little kid scampering around the house, exhilarating bolts of urine saturating the crotch of my that-much-darker blue jeans, I’d dream of being the first unified world’s title piss champion. Even though my mom tried to get me to stop, I practiced every day. The scars from layers of uric acid fermenting between my legs stay with me to this day. They remind me of my first steps on a journey that brought me world-wide fame and a huge fortune in endorsement money. Don’t you remember me as Kohler-boy and those commercials for Gatorade’s Kidney JuiceGA$A3 sports drink? But I digress…

They say that the mechanics of the mind restrict child prodigies to the fields of mathematics or music. Not so. Mozart had his concertos, I my fetid pools of liquid waste. Long before my first days of grade school, my prolific hosings had already re-cultivated acres upon acres of fire-scorched lands for state and national park services. The money I made went to pay for the extensive havoc I had wreaked on the local sewage system.

I made the varsity team the first time I tried out. A daily regime that included drinking 14 quarts of Evian a day paid off and by my junior year my bladder could emit at pressures up to 70 psi (about half the force firefighter hoses are capable of attaining). Urologist scouts from across the country found time to come see me relieve myself all the way to three consecutive state championships. When I finally went pro, I won rookie of the year. The ever-growing legions of my fan club affectionately dubbed me “High Coulee” — as in the dam. Crowds would chant it for hours on end as I, with the help of the 400 or so vitamins I popped daily, showered dark, rich streams of piss.

At the time I entered the pro circuit, there were several separate pissing world titles. One title was strictly for duration, another for volume; the last rewarded a combination of the subtle skills of color and smell manipulation (for the piss must appeal to the eye as well as to the porcelain). Wearing my trademark fishing waders, I unified all three world titles at the Anheiser Busch Pro-Am Shout at the TV it’s Pro Football Godammit! Sunday Classic (the women’s league was not yet formed).

In becoming the first person to unify the pissing crowns, I had surpassed my wildest dreams. Of course endorsement offers flooded my mailbox. I also got to pee on the Main Street Electrical Parade at Disneyland. Little boys across the globe imagined themselves in my place as they pissed all over their toilet seats. Girls squatted gleefully as they dreamed of being Mrs. High Coulee.

Unfortunately, my glory passed quicker than fiber through an old woman’s bowels. The sheer speed and ease with which I broke record after record incurred the wrath of the World Pissing Federation’s rules committee, which was itself a panel of former champions and world-record holders. I suspect they were also uncomfortable with where I was taking the sport. It didn’t help that I accidentally drowned a son of one of the WPF committee members in an innocent swordfight contest gone wrong.

Artificial performance enhancement, though perfectly acceptable in Australian rules pissing, is a strict no-no in international competition. WPF looked the other way as my rivals had themselves fitted with state-of-the-art Japanese prosthetic bladders, each capable of storing hundreds of gallons of liquid waste. Trying to stay abreast of the competition, I contracted a vicious series of bladder infections. My urethra developed the equivalent of metacarpal tunnel syndrome. Major reconstructive surgery for my urethra and prostate — upon opening me up, doctors saw that the damage extended far beyond the scope of the original diagnosis — was successful, and I wouldn’t be hobbled by a catheter, but my professional career was over.

I blew all my prize and endorsement money on a waterslide theme park. A group of patrons filed suit when they found out my methods of cutting food coloring costs for the rides, and the park went bankrupt. After that episode, I spent a couple of years in Germany, as a sideshow freak at Oktoberfest. Now all I have are bittersweet memories and the bills from the Betty Ford Center, where I spent half a year kicking a nasty pyridium habit. Now the IRS is after me for back taxes. They want me to do some free commercials for the National Kidney Dialysis Foundation.

Now I’m 26 years old, but I have the piping of a man three times my age. Each tardy, sporadic stream of lifeless urine spurting painfully from my once-mighty geyser reminds me of my all too short glory years. And I ask you as I ask myself every night, holding my Colt 45 to my head — much like the tortured soul Mel Gibson portrays in Lethal Weapon — is it more ironic or fitting that my life has gone down the drain?

Volume 5- Issue 2

Herb Came column

October 1, 1994

feature, Herb Came

Caught wind that some of you felt the last issue wasn’t “harsh enough.” Kudos to each and every one of you. All too many times my ideas and expressions get quashed because one or two of the editors can’t stomach them. Some of my fellow editors feel the need to apologize on my behalf to those editors who have left the room in disgust, reinforcing this behavior. And issue after issue ends up “not harsh enough.” It’s good to know that there are people out there who don’t shrink from reality. They aren’t sick, and I’m not sick. I only speak the truth. I did get a hard-on that day at the nutritionist’s. When I poked my finger into the seam in between the block of fake jello and the cup that held it, it did feel like a clitoris, a slightly dry clitoris, but one nevertheless. Yes, I admit that maybe this was an inappropriate thing to remember out loud in the Chinese restaurant. But I’m certain those little kids will be OK after mommy and daddy explain what the bad man said …

To you Deadheads out there, on shows: the thought of taking hallucinogens with 20,000 people who haven’t bathed since Spring equinox and want to spin with you while really really really bad music (sorry Jon) is being played does not appeal to normal human beings. I think if I got to bring a fully loaded AK-47 and several frag grenades to the show with me I could have a good time, but until then, ixnay on the eadshowday . . . Thought for the day: if Jesus loves you, why won’t he swallow?

Remember that first tryst with Telebears? You’d listen, shaking in the anticipation of each message’s end, frightened you’d miss any of the instructions. Ever so carefully, sometimes after triple and quadruple checking the class entry codes, times, and exam groups, you’d punch the digits on your phone that soon brought you joy or pain. Two or three semesters later, it’s hurry the fuck up bitch as you press your ID #, personal access code, and the class entry code all within a four second span. You chuckle to yourself when you hear that asshole who tells you how much your parents owe the Regents get interrupted . . . Bumpersticker of the month: Fuck animals, Don’t Eat Them (seen on a burgundy Minivan) …

From the Ahn files: it’s all true, height is everything. She shares a prime tidbit with us: tall men tend to have tiny penises while short men tend to haul a king-size sausage. Now how many do you have to go through to discover that? And what about medium-sized men?

If you like porno like yours truly does, go out of your way to see “Above the Rim,” just out on video cassette. Also noteworthy, the latest installment of Giovanni Rostoglio’s Shakespeare series, “As You Lick It…” A Proposition that’s not on the ballot but should be would provide Universal Costco/PriceClub card coverage, so that all of us could buy cases of Henry’s for nine & half bucks and those halogen Torchiere lamps.

Volume 5- Issue 2

Raves

October 1, 1994

feature, Rush Limbaugh

Albacore tuna with dolphins has always been a favorite at the Limbaugh household. Granted it doesn’t pack the punch a steriod-enhanced piece of USDA beef does, but my friends, if you want protein and you want to kill those dolphins, (they always get in the way when we go fishing) there’s nothing better. Have to maintain that physique.

For hobbies, a friend recently introduced me to the world of ultra-leather domination & bondage. You know, it’s really a kick. And that’s what Americans like. It appeals to that Calvinistic/Puritan streak in all of us. We all would like to pay a woman to affect an English accent as she flagellates us. God knows I love it.

My favorite offering from the big screen would have to be the first hour or so of Schindler’s List. Those poor Jews. But, oh well. They had their chance.

Something I do that my viewing audience doesn’t know about: well I’ve always felt more like a Rushlin than a Rush, so you won’t catch me not wearing my favorite electric-blue Ferragamo pumps as I rant obnoxiously on the E.I.B.

Without a doubt, “Straight Outta Compton” has to be one of the finest albums to emerge in the history of the industry. The shit is raw. The poetry and lyricism of N.W.A. moves me to tears each time I listen to it. Another one of my fave-raves is Ricky Nelson. A fine musician and an even finer Aryan.

For mood altering, I definitely prefer Prozac. First, it’s a brand name item that you can trust. Second, it’s infinitely respectable. Just try and find a politician or someone in the corporate elite or the military- industrial complex who’s not on it! As for other drugs, my favorites are children’s Tylenol, for the neat orange flavor, and Percodan, because it makes me feel pretty.

Although William F. Buckley Jr. likes the Koreans, I personally prefer the old standby, the Chinese. Great potstickers, and excellent launderers. How can you go wrong? Also, unlike the Japanese they don’t go around corrupting the economic stability of this great nation.

What does the single most listened to radio personality in the history of broadcasting like between the sheets? Personally, I prefer being on top, usually so I can watch my bulk engulfing my wife. Occasionally I’ll acquiesce to her requests and masturbate quietly in the rec room.

Well, obviously my three books have to take top honors: The Way Things Ought To Be, See, I Told You So, and my latest, due to arrive this November, White Makes Right.

Volume 5- Issue 1