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Weekend Review
The Nerve Sex Index

(UP) 13.45
to close at
1267.96

(UP 8%) Internet porn as political statement

(UP 100%) Gay Episcopal Bishops

(DOWN 785%) J. Lo

(UP 13%) Matt Damon

(UP 2%) Paris Hilton

(UP 20%) Public sex

The NSI closed mixed this week, as increased reports of castration and underage necrophilia increased worries about rising bond yields. The European market is showing signs of growth, however, as rising unemployment rates were offset by increased publicity for Kylie Minogue’s ass and a sharp jump in the number of people fucking the park by Grant’s parents’ house.

Britney’s Bum Rush!

Three cheers for Spears as the fresh-faced songbird treats fellow customers in a posh clothing store to a eyeful! After this shot was taken, Brit popped outside for a cig. With the amount of crack found on her person we’re glad it was only a Parliament she was sucking on!

Quotes of the Week

“It’s ridiculous — Lewinsky performs a sex act on the president, therefore we attack Iraq.”

— What with everyone with a SAG card running for office this week, George Clooney weighs in with his own take on world affairs, and bemuses all

“It didn’t work. We tried to fix it, but it was like putting a fish’s tail on a donkey’s head.”

— Ben Affleck uses a Dadaist appraisal of Gigli in an attempt to confuse venous critics into stunned silence

“I’d miss the sex. My first love is sex, not acting. I’m not Meryl Streep.”

— Jenna Jameson contemplates the end of her porn career

Hey Pindick!

According to the spam emails I have gotten this week, my pants no longer fit, I need a PhD to advance my career, everybody is laughing about my tiny dick, I would benefit heartily from discounted Xanax, and a loan from me is the last hope for several deposed members of Zimbabwe’s royal family. One of these things is certainly true. All of them are cause for concern. Yet I’ve never really considered responding to these solicitations because, despite my various afflictions, I am not BRAIN DEAD. Well, the same can’t be said for 6,000 people who responded to an email ad for penis-enlargement pills. This week, these hapless and insecure folk saw their identities revealed because of a security flaw in the inviting website. For the record, they include the manager of a $6 billion dollar hedge fund* and an elementary school lacrosse club coach.

*Can someone tell me what a “hedge fund” is?

— Carrie Hill Wilner

Daylight Knobbery

This week, UK newspapers reported that public sex has dramatically increased all over Britain. The fad is called “dogging,” and apparently Brits can no longer enjoy a leisurely stroll in the countryside without having to hurdle clusters of polyamorous thrill-seekers. The etymology of the term is in dispute: some say it originated as a nickname for voyeurs, who would follow, or “dog,” amorous couples in the swinging 70’s. Others say “dogging” is called such because when lascivious limeys are caught in flagrante delicto al fresco, they brush the grass off their knees and insist they were simply “walking the dog.” Dogging websites list hundreds of rural areas, from parking lots to country parks, that lend themselves to outdoor exhibitionism. I investigated http://www.melanies-uk-contacts.com/dogging/
and found that less than a mile from my family home, there’s a hotbed of carnal lust! Who knew? An excerpt from the listing:

Basildon, Laindon Hills Country Park — For full sex try the Laindon Hills area . . . from what I have gathered a lot of this is gay-type scene . . . Park outside the church in the road signposted One Tree Hill (off Dry Street), walk back to Dry Street and up the footpath into the woods. Mainly a gay site but has excellent potential for couples and nude walkers in the extensive woods. — GS

With Friends Like These…

Hillary Rodham Clinton has had a hard time of it since setting up shop in NYC. Lately, though, it seemed that she’d come out the other side, relatively unscathed and waving a best-selling autobiography. She’s had a little help from her friends, that’s for sure, but this time her supporters had an unpredictable side effect.

“Hill’s Angels” is a collective of HRC devotees that sells Hillary coffee mugs, signed copies of Living History and all sorts of other useless tchochkes. But a funny thing happens when you go to www.hillsangels.com: instead of being hounded to buy a Hillary nightlight or a limited-edition print of the former first lady turning water into wine, you’re transported to the masturbatory online fantasy world of the late British comedian Benny Hill.

Ever wondered where former British television starlets are put out to pasture? Look no further! In any event, it’s certainly a more interesting read than the senator’s book. — GS

Ceci n’est pas une gay reality TV show

Generally, watching TV makes us wonder if the nasty older kids slipped acid in our soda, Go Ask Alice-style. Take that Snapple commercial, where one Snapple bottle is a tourist in Spain. Several Spanish Snapple bottles are standing around. When one of them blows a horn, all these guinea pigs come rushing out. And you are forced to think, “Am I really watching this? Are guinea pigs really attacking a bewigged bottle of iced tea on my television screen? And even if it made sense, what would this have to do with Snapple? Am I missing something really obvious, or are ad execs like, steeping themselves in the works of Tristan Tzara?” Right.

Well, as far as we can comprehend, this summer’s healthy crop of gay TV shows (make that “two”) is a good thing. But no sense in having high hopes! It seems that gaycentric basic-cable channels are plunging to depths of absurdity from which no meaning will be dredged. Next week, the documentary The AMC Project: Gay Hollywood begins airing on, well, AMC. The show follows five openly gay men as they try to launch or further their careers in entertainment. This sounds straightforward enough — until you start talking to the producer. Trying to explain that the documentary has expansive appeal, he states, “The title should be Five Guys in Hollywood Who Happen to Be Gay.” Of course, just when you’re about to hand him the trophy for Most Perplexing and Ultimately Meaningless Statement, he says, ” Gays aren’t like a pet rock. It’s not like this is our moment and then no one will ever be interested in us again.”

If you, like me, made this mistake and thought that gays were indeed pet rocks, here is a list of demographics that are NOT short-lived trends of the past thirty years, lest you embarrass yourself at a dinner party.

– Samoan expats are NOT jelly bracelets.

– Single mothers are NOT colorful mechanical pencils.

– Members of United Auto Workers are NOT Lisa Frank notebooks with dolphins on them.

– Teenage overachievers are NOT Shrinkydinks.

– Elderly men are NOT scratch-and-sniff stickers, DESPITE popular misconception.

— CHW

A Nation Challenged

Some people say that dogs are like their owners. Fair enough. I happen to think that people are like countries. Charlton Heston is gun-toting, meat-eating and vaguely senile. He is the USA. Carmen Electra is better in theory than in reality. She is Soviet-era Russia. Britain is preoccupied with past glories, a stranger to the gastronomic arts and completely obsessed with Kylie Minogue’s buttocks. I must conclude that I am Great Britain in microcosm.

Seriously, England has gone berserk for the antipodean starlet’s pert behind. First, Madame Tussaud’s unveiled a waxwork that depicted Kylie on all fours in see-through panties. This week, the UK Sun devoted its center pages to a “life-size” poster — yes, an actual-size reproduction — of the petite Aussie’s derriere.


And Thursday, the BBC — yes, the voice of freedom in occupied Europe during WWII, the “finest news-gathering entity in the world” — ran a lead story on its website about an ice sculptor who’s rendering a chilly version of Minogue’s bum for a bachelor party. (The article doesn’t specify how the sculpture would be used, but I’m guessing it’s a particularly ornate “S’liquor slide.”)

Now, proving once again that where there is a void in the cultural discourse, there is Jean-Claude Van Damme, the muscles from Brussels has weighed in on the subject. Specifically, he’s claming credit for Kylie’s cheeks, insisting that she benefited from glute exercises he taught her on the set of the 1994 film Street Fighter. “She mentioned my buttocks because I’ve shown them in a few movies,” Van Damme says in the documentary Kylie Entirely, which will be shown on British television this weekend. “I got my buttocks so tight I could crack walnuts with them. So I showed her some special moves I learned when I was doing ballet.” Kylie is purportedly miffed at all the attention aimed at her behind — and relieved that she declined Van Damme’s repeated offers to come to his trailer for his famous Waldorf salad. — GS

Hell on Wheels!

Generally, antisocial teenagers are preferable to their perky counterparts. A fifteen year old sitting in the back row, chewing on her own hair and drawing pictures of knives just has a firmer grasp on reality than anyone else in the room. But sometimes teen misanthropy can go too far. Case in point: recently a fifteen-year-old Montana boy mowed down a jogger with a car in hopes of having sex with her corpse. The woman spent a month in the hospital, but escaped both death and violation. The would-be slayer was arrested after he confessed his intentions to his driving companion and then to the police. It’s been reported that officials at the boy’s high school had been alerted to his less-than-sunny disposition when, as an assignment for a typing class, he handed in a list of New Year’s resolutions that included “taste human flesh” and “shoot someone on a camping trip.” Which isn’t objectively funny, but when you think about it as an assignment for a typing class, it kind of is.
— CHW

Goul-lash!

In my school, before a bully would kick a little kid senseless, the bully would say, “I hope you like hospital food.” The terrified shrimp would barely have time to squeak before he was thoroughly pummeled for calling Dan Ross’s sister a fat slag, which I never did anyway, Dan, you bastard. In any case, no one really likes hospital food, and here’s another reason why. A South African hospital cleaner sits down for lunch after several hours’ toil at her thankless job. What’s on the menu in the staff canteen? Goulash. Mmmm. Sixty-year-old Sophie Matlala took a couple of forkfuls of pasta before “tackling the meat.” She says it was slippery and she couldn’t cut it with a knife. Being the curious sort, she took it in her hand and placed it in her mouth, like a pirate testing the legitimacy of a doubloon, but found the “meat” so tough that she couldn’t bite through it. She took the offending morsel out of her mouth, inspected it with her colleagues, and they all concluded that it was a penis.

Ms, Matlala said she vomited for the rest of the afternoon, and who can blame her. Here’s the fucked-up part: Because it had been cooked, it could not be established whether the penis was from a human or an animal. C’mon, really? With hundreds of medical professionals in the building? Goulash is made of beef, and a bovine penis is about twenty-eight inches long. Who’d they think fell into the pot, Uncle Miltie?

Matlala recently filed suit against the hospital, claiming that food they provide isn’t fit for human consumption. But this week Judge Phineas Mojapelo threw out her claim; more than three years had elapsed since the incident (it occurred in 1999) and the statute of limitations had apparently run out.

If the gristle in question was a bull’s penis, Ms. Matlala needn’t fret too much. I did some poking around and found that Bull’s penises — or “pizzles” — keep your breath fresh and teeth clean — at least if you are a dog, according to Farm Meats 2000. Also, caldo de manguera is a traditional Ecuadorian dish; it literally means “hose-pipe soup” and is a polite name for bull’s penis stew. — GS

Recipe of the Week

From http://www.funlinked.com/testicle/recipe.html:

Penis Stew

1 pound of penis, ram’s or bull’s

3 tbls. oil

1 large chopped onion

2 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped

1 tsp coriander seeds, crushed

1 tsp salt

freshly ground black pepper

Scald the penis, then drain and clean. Place the penis in a saucepan, cover with cold water, and bring to a boil. Remove any scum, then simmer for 10 minutes. Drain and slice.

Heat the oil in a large skillet. Add the onion, garlic, and coriander and fry until the onion is golden. Add the penis slices and fry on both sides for a few minutes. Stir in the remaining ingredients with a good grinding of pepper, add enough water to cover, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat, cover, and simmer for about 2 hours, or until tender. Add a little water from time to time if necessary to prevent burning.

The ladies say this was originally a Jewish recipe from Marcelle Thomal. Apparently innards, including penis, once played a major role in Jewish cooking. Oy vey! — GS

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