FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1998 All Rights Reserved.
| MR. SMUTTY As Stompin' Tom Connors could've sang, but didn't: "Ketchup loves potatoes, and Canada loves phone sex." For a glorious yet brief 4-hr period last week, callers to the electric company's customer service line (Calgary, AB) were accidentally switcheroo'd to a phone sex line. The electric company is playing it all, "Oh how could this happen" and "We're so sorry for our customers," but the real question remains unaxed: if you rung up the electric co. and got phone sex, what happened to everyone trying to get a li'l Ma Bell Wink-Wink? Were they put thru to the electric company? Were the electric co. customer service representatives inundated w/ hard-to-answer questions like "What are you wearing?" and "Mmmmm. You like that, doncha?" ("Let me assure you sir, altho all our electric company clients are important, I am only hot for you.") Over in Kenora, ON, the town is writing off close to $1M in unpaid phone/ water/etc. bills - including hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid phone sex bills. But in light of the Calgary fiasco, one must wonder whether the phone sex bills were really people trying to ring the water company. ("Hi, I'm just calling to say my payment's gonna be a little la... huh? Um sure, I guess I like to watch, but I'm just phoning about my bill and... really? Sisters, you say? And you've both been very naughty? [long, loooong pause] Oh me? Uh, coffee-stained rugby pants & a too-tight Jazzercise T-shirt....") Why are these kinda consumer report flip-flops always sex-related, anyway? Seems like there's always some incident of a kid sitting down to watch Bananas In Pyjamas one morning and instead catching A Banana In My Pyjamas 2: Happy To See You. Then his parents are mad 'cuz he didn't tape it and blahblahblahetc. But as they taught me in writer skool, if it ain't sex ("So I dialed up my local crack house and, get this, got the social sciences desk at the library by mistake!") it ain't news. Ugh. I fear all this smug college boy snickering has got me (to quote clever 'n' perverted college boy Rivers Cuomo) "tired of sex." Skimming thru a year-old Mr. Smutty in search of forgotten jokes I could, uh, "recycle," I was shocked to discover musings re: how the then-breaking Zippergate scandal - get a load of this - lacked details. Boy was I ever a stupid idiot in my youth. As anyone w/ a dog-eared copy of the Starr Report (secreted in sock drawer) can tell ya, there's waaaay too much Bill/Monica info. There used to be a time when fellatio gags were a special thing exchanged between friends, but I can't even smoke a bodily-fluid-soaked cigar anymore w/out feeling clichéd. Dr. Laura Schlessinger, she of the high-horse radio call-in show, just received a court order to prevent her alleged ex-lover from publishing nude pix of her on the 'Net. Any other time, this would be sleaze of damn-near Shakespearean proportions. The s'pposed ex-lover, now 80 years old, claims he & the good doc engaged in extra-marital boots-knockin' in the '70s. The Martha Stewart of Morality caught in a compromising position? And there's pixxx? It pains me to say this, but not today. Anyway, while awaiting the collective cultural sleazegeist to right itself, my ongoing quest for the proverbial shits 'n' giggles has led me to brazen displays of insanity. In this age of "spin" and "damage control," it's kinda quaint how J.Chretien is free to say whatever crazy stuff pops into his head. "Pepper-spray" gags are the new double entendre, the new guilty punchline that leaves ya simultaneously sullied and elated. And just the thought of a baseball bat makes me... oh my, is it getting warm in here? Next week: humorous reflections on catching two dogs humping in the back alley. |