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Weekend Review
Quotes of the Week

“‘If a girl comes on strong and says, ‘I really dig your body and I want to fuck the shit out of you,’ I just decide whether or not I like her. If I do take her home, I try to make sure I get just as much out of it as she does… I can look at a chick who’s a little out of shape and if she turns me on, I won’t hesitate to date her. If she’s a good fuck, she can weigh 150 pounds, I don’t care.”

— California gubernatorial candidate Arnold Schwartzenegger in a 1979 Oui magazine interview, unearthed this week by The Smoking Gun.

“If you have millions and millions of dollars, what’s $5,000 to go out with a pretty blonde? There’s a lot of old guys with nothing else to do with all their money. George Bush charges $200 a plate to have dinner with him and I think I’m a little more exciting than he is. I have bigger boobs.”

— California gubernatorial candidate and porn star Mary Carey. To raise funds for her campaign, Carey is offering potential contributors a date with her for $5,000.

Image of the Week

Britney and Madonna at the Video Music Awards. Friday morning, a CNN commentator strained to make sense of the carnage: Is Madonna passing the torch? Is she crowning Britney an equal? Our money is on “Godfather-style kiss of death” or creative soul-searching: they’re spelunking for the remnants of their careers in the first logical place.

Mars Attacks!

This week, every newspaper ran a story that panted, “How close is Mars to earth right now? Really, really close!” I dunno. It still looks like almost everything else in the sky to me: little and white. Wake me when there’s an Aurora Borealis or some flying monkeys or something I haven’t seen, you know? And now a Portuguese astrologer is claiming that the Mars’ proximity to earth will cause an worldwide increase in sex drive, especially for men.

Considering that this has been the strangest summer ever, I’ll go along with this. Aphrodesiac planetary alignments, why not? It makes about as much sense as using global-positioning satellites to track sex offenders, as they’re doing in Washington State. No joke: they’re giving sex offenders little sex-offender bracelets, which send special super beams back to a satellite. The satellite then beams them back to this company called Pro Tech — which I’m not so sure about; I think it’s some kind of ray-gun factory — and then, if the sex offender is somewhere he’s not supposed to be, like Mexico, Pro Tech pages the offender’s “supervisor,” which is a probation officer or the head spaceship pilot or something.

Okay, I have a question. What if the special Mars horny-making rays got crossed with the sex-offender tracking rays? That would tres suck, and I think someone should point that out to all the cops and astrologists in Washington State. It’s a big scary universe out there, and our feeble attempts to tamper with its energy for sexual ends will only get us in trouble. The only good thing to come out of space has been astronaut ice cream, on which I vote an emphatic yes. — Carrie Hill Wilner

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?

Chief among Shakespeare’s talents was his ability to create a story with legs. Somehow, he knew that four hundred years of human advancement wouldn’t blunt the dramatic impact of Romeo and Juliet and its themes of family loyalty and destructive passion. This week, those ageless themes played themselves out in Sao Paulo, Brazil, where Carlos Alberto Canuto was charged with murdering his parents after they disapproved of his soul mate. The object of Canuto’s affection? An inflatable sex doll. Said a police spokesperson: “He told us the rubber doll was his companion and his lover and that his parents would not accept it because they were living in sin.” Apparently, Canuto, forty-four, decided that because his parents were so staunchly religious, he had no choice but to do away with them entirely. Yes, it’s a story as old as time: boy meets girl, boy inflates girl, boy thinks girl is a real person, boy’s parents disapprove, girl’s in-laws meet a grisly end. — Grant Stoddard

Study Break

It’s not that we aren’t excited about the 25th anniversary DVD release of Animal House. We are. Terribly so. But we take issue with the presentation of college as a ceaseless party fueled by self-aware youth and beauty. Your average college student wears pajamas all the time because s/he just doesn’t see the point of changing anymore, and as we speak, is throwing his/her copy of Hobbes’ Leviathan across the room and curling up in dirty sheets to contemplate his/her nasty, brutish and short life, and to cry. Sure, students drink and fuck a lot, but not because they like to – they do it to forget the emptiness in their souls. Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you liked college, there is something very wrong with you, and although I know it’s not really my place to suggest this, maybe you should see someone.

So is it really surprising that a recent national study revealed that college students were having unprotected sex at high rates? Researchers attribute this to the usual suspects – youthful bravado, inadequate parenting, keg stands – but no mention was made of a constant and unrelenting death wish, of the soft, honeyed voice in every undergrad’s head urging him on to new depths of self-destruction. No, instead, Helen E. Johnson, co-author of the coyly titled Don’t Tell Me What to Do, Just Send Money: The Essential Parenting Guide to the College Years postulates, “I think part of it is people at this age really do feel immortal; they don’t understand that their behavior has real consequences.” Au contraire, Helen! They have realized that, in fact, in a larger sense, their behavior has no real consequences, and their actions are precipitated by that realization which you will probably never have, you bourgeoise tool. I suggest you retitle your book I Have Been Reading Too Much Beckett, And I Am Going To Steal All The Percocet Left Over From Dad’s Hernia Operation When I Come Home For Christmas: The Essential Parenting Guide to the College Years and TRY AGAIN. — Carrie Hill Wilner

Further Sex Doll News

What with Russia being all sorts of Western these days, they’ve feeling a bit behind in the ridiculous national competition department. Spain has the Running of the Bulls. England has the Cheese Roll.* This week, St. Petersburg, Russia, played host to the first Bubble Baby Challenge, in which a group of people went whitewater rafting on inflatable rubber sex dolls. The race was staged on rapids in the Vuoksa River, which is usually used for canoeing. Pravda reports that the participants praised the dolls for “floating wonderfully,” being “nice to the touch” and for “not wanting to get married.” Perhaps even funnier than the image of Russians hurtling downstream on their inflatable mistresses is this English translation of a story on a Russian website recounting the event:

Special attention deserves names used by participants to nickname their builds: “Mary and her Popins”, “Black Fatima” or “Rash Sterlet”… By the way, one of the conditions to participate is to have one’s own build. It’s right, because one’s own adopted woman which is well-know to a participant, must be much more reliable than any unknown, restive, capricious and slippery one.

A man named Alexander Korolev rafted to victory on an unnamed doll he had taken out on lease. — Grant Stoddard

* – A 100-pound wheel of cheese is thrown an incredibly steep hill. A herd of idiots throw themselves down the hill, trying to get to the bottom before the runaway dairy. People that beat the cheese get to keep it. Most of the time it accompanies them to the hospital in the ambulance.

Concept Wars

Your basic John Hughes movie plot: a teenager, or group of teenagers, with
counterculture tendencies indicated by their charmingly offbeat style which
involves the wearing of vests, are faced with some obstacle. This is either embodied
or exacerbated by an adult authority figure/villain. This person is perhaps, but not
necessarily, a principal, who is most certainly NOT their pal.

Now replace “teenagers,” with “porn producers,” and
“adult authority figure/villain” with “John Ashcroft,” (which surely isn’t too difficult), and you’ve got a John Hughes movie of epic proportions being played out on the
American stage. Yes, we are compelled to report that Ashcroft has begun his long-promised War on
Obscenity.

Now, I am not so much for these “concept” wars. I like wars on
concrete entities, like Estonia, cured ham or Steve. But I am not
Attorney General, possibly for this very reason. Anyway, the targets in
Ashcroft’s War on Obscenity include California and porn producers. So if you’re
a Californian porn producer, as are Rob Zicari and his fiancée Janet Romano,
you are basically going to be shot — sorry!

This week, abcnews.com reported that Zicari and Romano face up to fifty
years in prison and $2.5 million in fines for making and distributing “obscene” films through their company, Extreme Associates. According to the news report, these films contain graphic scenes of women being spat upon, raped (simulatedly so) and murdered (also simulated). Not to minimize my discomfort with rape, murder, spitting and California,
but the idea of John Ashcroft being in charge of porn  is a scary one. It’s
as if in Pump up the Volume, Christian Slater had ceded control of his pirate radio station to Mr. Woodward. It would be a much greyer world. But that’s where we’re headed, mark my words. — Carrie Hill Wilner

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