FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1999. All Rights Reserved

Mr. Smutty by James Martin It’s quaint how sex-minded Jerry Falwell is nitpicking his way thru Teletubbies. Shouldn’t he be scrutinizing White Zombie T-shirts for penthousegrams & 669s (the position of the beast) & similar crypto-satanic stuff instead? Besides, Falwell doesn’t have clue-one as to what Tinky Winky carries in that alleged purse: could be auto parts or a deck of nudie playing-cards (hetero, natch) or a hunting license. A purse does not a gay man make. Unless it contains gay stuff. Falwell is a hopeless throwback to when sexual innuendo/euphemism/etc. actually carried weight. Does innuendo even exist in a blowjob-jokes-on-Leno world? (Larry Flynt is America’s self-appointed moral watchdog, fer christing out loud.) Append "I’d been admiring my president’s sexy ass and rock-hard foreign policy for a long time..." to The Starr Report and you’ve got a pretty hot edition of Penthouse Forum. Monica Lewinsky has become an all-purpose, makes-her-own-gravy punchline. But who is she? Dean Rohrer’s Monica-as-Mona-Lisa New Yorker cover (02/08/99) was brilliant: she’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a blue Gap dress. (Monica’s endorsement of The Gap’s jizz-absorbing qualities – it’s the sicker picker-upper! – was the best/worst press since the Promise Keepers’ "Stand In The Gap" sloganeering.) (There’s a "banana re-pubic" gag in there somewhere, but I’ll let ye merry mall-rats tease it out.) Like the mysterious Mona, Monica is a silent icon. Unlike the mysterious Mona, the general public knows a helluva lot about Monica’s sex life. ’Tis a faraway-so-close contradiction: before last week’s TV testimony (discounting the whiny Tripp tapes) we didn’t know what those MonicaLips sound like, but we sure knew where they’ve (shudder) been. Guess that’s why it was creepy hearing her finally, y’know, speak. Remember back in Junior High, when everyone picked on that one quiet kid until he finally shrieked, "I’m going to kill you all!" at the top of his lungs? And how stealing his lunch just wasn’t the same after that (but you did it anyway)? Same deal. Justice, schmustice: all that perjury/obstruction/acquittal biz was just a smoke-show to justify the seamy titillation. Anyway, here’s 12 happy thoughts that zipped thru my head while watching the Divine Miss L on the tube: 1. You’ve had a cigar in your vagina. Explain. 2. Then again, no. 3. k.d. lang once recorded an entire album (Drag, 1997) of sultry, smoking-themed songs. Now it just seems gross. 4. I see your lips moving, but all I’m hearing is "cigar in vagina." 5. You’re not "holding" right now, are you? Not even "for good luck"? 6. From today’s classifieds: the circus is looking for a Human Humidor. Must enjoy travel, meeting new people. Pets and dog-faced boys OK. 7. Remember that time you had a cigar in your vagina? 8. Like the stogie, the martini has become an E-Z-Read icon for the "swing" revival, as led by bands w/ (go figure) lascivious names like Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Cherry Poppin’ Daddies, and Brian Setzer Orchestra. The martini, again like the cigar, is also acknowledged by hillbillies the world over as a shortcut to the "classy" life. That said, tell me Bill didn’t also, uh, you know. 9. Even if he did, a girl’s gotta keep some secrets. That’s an order. 10. Marijuana (& the smoking thereof) has been effective in treating glaucoma. But why’d you think cigars would help your angina? 11. Word to the wise: I saw this baseball player on TV once and his lower lip was wall-to-wall cancerous rot. 12. Zipper is to Water as Clinton is to Nixon. Does that make you G. Gordon Liddy? Aw heck, let’s make it a lucky thirteen & call it a nite: Where’s that foxy beret?

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