ILL HUMOR | BY IAN SHOALES Members only The Prez is still zipped up. But we have seen our nation's "distinguishing characteristics" -- and they ain't pretty.
Well, don't hold your breath. The presidential penis may indeed have "distinguishing characteristics," as Paula Jones has claimed, but they'd have to be pretty darn garish in order to justify a public display, much less to enter them as evidence in a court of law. On the other hand, if Paula Jones is telling the truth, and these characteristics are visible from across a hotel room, they must be some characteristics, if you know what I mean. Maybe the presidential penis bears an amazing likeness of Gary Hart, weeping. (I've heard that the president's penis has been glimpsed on a taco in El Paso, Texas.) Maybe it features elegant tattoos, totemic carvings or the words "If you're close enough to read this, you're too close," written in Braille. I couldn't say. But it is a presence, a sword of Damocles (if you will) hanging over our collective heads. The executive member is lurking in the shadows of the downtown of our soul. The semi-official John Thomas of the Beltway stands shrouded in mystery, fully prepared either to attack or to fight crime everywhere. Maybe it's the invisible presence of Oval Office privates in the psyche of our great nation, but it seems like we've become sex-obsessed of late. And I don't mean that in a good way. We're not renting more pornographic videos or buying erotic anthologies. The rate at which we are downloading Internet smut remains steady. We're only mooning slightly over David Duchovny or Gillian Anderson. There's been no major increase in pin-up sales or calendars featuring topless women holding pipe wrenches. As far as I know, Penthouse's circulation is still dropping, and Fabio remains a guilty pleasure. We're still covering the eyes and ears of the children whenever Howard Stern appears. We still want a television ratings system and we want it now. We're not taking each other on the couch, grabbing a noon quickie, having a little knee trembler before we do the dishes. We're not spiriting each other away for a sensuous retreat at a charming little bed-and-breakfast up the coast. We're not even timing our caresses to the cadences of Jay Leno's opening monologue. Our homes are now smokeless and lust-free. Instead, we're having work-related sex. This means either having sex with sex workers (à la Charlie Sheen or Hugh Grant) or in the workspace itself (à la Martin Lawrence or any number of Army drill sergeants). The Paula Jones episode allegedly began as a job interview. (A job interview! How un-erotic can you get!) But even sex in the workspace, a lunchtime interlude on a paper-strewn desk, say, leads more to sexual harassment suits than orgasms. Sexual harassment itself has become an erotic activity -- not for harasser, harassed or their legal teams, but for the rest of us. We soak up the spectacle like a john at a grindhouse. And we've forged a new obsession with adultery, that most furtive of sexual activities. 1997 has brought us adulterous sportscasters, adulterous pilots, adulterous generals, adulterous congressmen, adulterous Kennedys (what, again?), adulterous celebrities, adulterous advisors -- you name it. We're under their windows with SteadiCams before you can say, "We've got to stop meeting like this." We're becoming the puzzlement of the world. Lusty French and Spaniards are relaxing comfortably in post-coital bliss, muttering, "What ees zair pro blaym?" Stuffy Brits are slowly removing their clothing, holding up a copy of "The Rules" and frowning slightly, even as their breath quickens. What is up with us? I think adultery entirely represents our national sexuality. For participants, it's relatively safe sex. It's illicit, without being promiscuous. It transgresses the norm (whatever the hell that means), but is itself normal. Everyone from Thomas Jefferson to Dwight Eisenhower has been an adulterer, or at least accused of being one. It's part of our culture. What brought down Camelot? Lancelot and Guenevere messing around behind Arthur's back. What caused the Trojan War? Helen messing around with Paris behind her husband's back. (Well, in his face.) Was it worth it? You bet. The sex doesn't even have to be good. If an empire topples, that's pleasure enough. And observing adultery is even more erotic. Just thinking about perky Kathie Lee's public humiliation gets us all moist and quivery. Even the briefest glimpse of a sportscaster now makes our jaws go slack. We dream about a room full of Kennedys, cavorting naked with baby-sitters and legal secretaries. We imagine a military orgy, starched uniforms flying. Watching others get caught in an adulterous moment allows us to have the thrill of the sordid, without being sordid ourselves. The adulterers get the shame, fear, guilt, humiliation, public exposure and legal fees. We get to cluck our tongues in the privacy of our homes. We're not seized by a desire so extreme we throw our lives away. Oh no, not us. That'll never happen. Tongue-clucking is the sexual activity of choice. It was good enough for Grandma, and it's good enough for us. To gauge our true sexual nature, try this simple test. John Gray is the official arbiter of gender relations in the United States. His books and tapes have sold millions. His thesis, that men and women are from different planets, has been embraced (chastely) by every couple that have ever entered divorce counseling. Now, try to imagine John Gray having sex. See? It can't be done. It just can't be done.
Ian Shoales' new CD, "I Gotta Go," is an anthology of commentaries past, read very fast into a microphone. It is has been released by 2.13.61 Records, and is theoretically available in fine music stores everywhere. It can also be ordered by calling 1-800-989-DUCK. Ask for Steve. Tell him Ian sent you. |
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