“Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua,
Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be
assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita
La Chingada.”

“¡Hola amigos!”

“We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight
between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American
rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North
American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?”

“¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846,
when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and
made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there
for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and
mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English.
I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my
neck.

“Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get
back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak
Spanish.

“I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into
the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go
skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a
real Mexican chocha looks like!”

“Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos
rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos
are not going to give up all that loot without a fight.

“And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing
his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re
playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’”

“Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio
audience?”

“Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women
fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the
sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know
that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a
home to come home to.

“The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our
western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or
are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on
Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray
dogs hang out, behind the convention center.”

“How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?"

“I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in
the ropes and bite his knuckles.”

“Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero,
Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas.
He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers,
jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical
accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their
anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings
tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me
Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking
the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas,
my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s
romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing:

Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana
Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana
Chinga tú chinga tu madre
[Ed. See you in Acapulco
But first I fuck your sister]

“Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?”

“Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not
only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to
sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà
by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish
that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be
filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.”

“Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a
great warrior like El Grande Bush?”

“I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s
paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.”

“And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily,
looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked
referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we
know about El Misterioso?”

“Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South
America.”

“Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts
Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El
Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes
down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French
Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python
between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.”

“With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and
manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him
across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a
shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying
into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s
not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!”

“Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it
over the head of El Grande Bush.”

“The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del
Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’,
I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern
territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting
off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a
real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and
bullets are flying.”

“Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the
surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of
him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.”

“Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got
an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!”

“Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting
to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.”

“And I’m Rosita La Chingada…”

“Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!”
CHUCHA LIBRE
200motels POLITICS
Comedy
Tragedy
Nonsense
Bullshit
Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The
Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to
be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a
terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the
Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer
was able to obtain a copy of the script.


SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing
explosives in the body of a dead dog.


CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades,
two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper
shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup
of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer.
[Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy
meatball!
[Starts sewing the dog up, singing]
I’m singing in Bahrain
I’m friends with Hussein

Mohammed calls from the other room:

MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned
dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam?

CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe!

MOE: What are you doing in there?

CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get
back to you later!

Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens
the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages.

HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph!


CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door]


Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in
microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the
room.


MOE: I said, What are you doing in here?


CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb.


MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to
show you my latest invention.

They walk into the living room.


MOE: Well, how do you like it?


CURLEY: What is it?

/>MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of
an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to
play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron?


CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and
everything!


MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you
press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and
you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything!


CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius!


MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from
The University of Riyadh for nothing!

Abdul walks in.


ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank.
Look what I got for us.


CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one!


MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the
boss.


CURLEY: Who made you the boss?


MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh!

Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley,
who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley
crawls back in the window, all messed up.


MOE: Now who’s the boss!?


CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe.


MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in
kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam!


Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the
microwave oven.


MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the
microwave?



CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix
it.

MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it
is.


CURLEY: Moe, no!

Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on
the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and
bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is
a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with
their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces.


MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven?
THEY GOT GAMES!
200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS
Comedy
Tragedy
Nonsense
Bullshit
SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog.


CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets.
[Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it
needs is a timer.
[Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball!
[Starts sewing the dog up, singing]
I’m singing in Bahrain
I’m friends with Hussein

Mohammed calls from the other room:

MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog
Saddam?

CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe!

MOE: What are you doing in there?

CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later!

Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and
gagged hostages.

HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph!


CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door]


Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as
Mohammed walks in the room.


MOE: I said, What are you doing in here?


CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb.


MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention.

They walk into the living room.


MOE: Well, how do you like it?


CURLEY: What is it?

/>MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin
Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron?


CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything!


MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell
phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything!


CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius!


MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing!

Abdul walks in.


ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us.


CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one!


MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss.


CURLEY: Who made you the boss?


MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh!

Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window.
Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up.


MOE: Now who’s the boss!?


CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe.


MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam!


Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven.


MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave?



CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it.

MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is.


CURLEY: Moe, no!

Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place
explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles.
The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their
faces.


MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven?


CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget!


MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember! Moe starts chasing Curley around,
firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets.


CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop!
Scene fades as the theme music plays.

THE END
“Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua,
Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be
assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita
La Chingada.”

“¡Hola amigos!”

“We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight
between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American
rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North
American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?”

“¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846,
when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and
made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there
for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and
mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English.
I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my
neck.

“Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get
back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak
Spanish.

“I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into
the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go
skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a
real Mexican chocha looks like!”

“Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos
rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos
are not going to give up all that loot without a fight.

“And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing
his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re
playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’”

“Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio
audience?”

“Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women
fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the
sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know
that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a
home to come home to.

“The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our
western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or
are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on
Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray
dogs hang out, behind the convention center.”

“How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?"

“I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in
the ropes and bite his knuckles.”

“Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero,
Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas.
He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers,
jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical
accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their
anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings
tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me
Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking
the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas,
my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s
romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing:

Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana
Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana
Chinga tú chinga tu madre
[Ed. See you in Acapulco
But first I fuck your sister]

“Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?”

“Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not
only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to
sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà
by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish
that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be
filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.”

“Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a
great warrior like El Grande Bush?”

“I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s
paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.”

“And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily,
looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked
referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we
know about El Misterioso?”

“Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South
America.”

“Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts
Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El
Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes
down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French
Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python
between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.”

“With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and
manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him
across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a
shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying
into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s
not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!”

“Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it
over the head of El Grande Bush.”

“The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del
Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’,
I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern
territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting
off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a
real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and
bullets are flying.”

“Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the
surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of
him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.”

“Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got
an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!”

“Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting
to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.”

“And I’m Rosita La Chingada…”

“Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!”
CHUCHA LIBRE
200motels POLITICS
Comedy
Tragedy
Nonsense
Bullshit
THE DECLINING PRICE OF
WORLD PUSSY
200motels GLOBALIZATION
Comedy
Tragedy
Nonsense
Bullshit
My friend, a classical guitarist whom I call Segovia, used to brag to me
about his refined sexual techniques with women. “No woman can leave me
once I have touched her. The delicate fingering techniques I derive from my
classical guitar training drive the girls crazy until they are begging for my
cock.”

I figured, this guy is really smooth. His longtime girlfriend was real cute, and
the women seemed to admire his sensitive, artistic personality.

Compare that with me, whose philosophy might charitably be described as,
“Bend over and spread ‘em, Baby, here comes the Express Train to your
Butt!”

I’m the type of dude who comes to the bar and the women move down one
seat in the other direction. New Yorkers have never had a problem telling
me, “I don’t like your face. (Gee, thanks for making my day) The only people
who seem attracted to me are masochistic gay guys looking to get their
asses whipped. No Thanks!

So imagine my shock when the guy comes to me one day crying, “My
girlfriend moved out and left me.”

“What happened to banging out ‘Rhapsodie Espagnole’ on her box?”

“She hooked up with a harmonica player.”

I hit myself in the head like The Three Stooges. “You dummy!” I thought to
myself. “I should have learned to play the harmonica.” Lips, tongue,
sucking, blowing – harmonica players must get laid a lot, because the girl
figures she’s going to get “Follow Me Down to Old Virginie” blown on her G-
Spot while her clitoris gets tickled with “Under the Boardwalk.”

It just goes to show you that sex is a no-win situation like the paper
scissors rock game. Somebody is always going to beat you out.

But my friend Segovia is a musician and not a philosopher. He didn’t care
about the philosophical triangulations of the situation, only that a totally
lovable piece of ass had escaped into the wild. And he happens to be right.
Your sexually horny years can’t be replaced, so all that fun goes right out
the window if you don’t use it, like all your money disappearing because you
didn’t spend it. A lot of prudes will fight me on this, but people should make
hay while the sun shines.

I explained my insight to Segovia. “Where you are going wrong is that you
are confusing love and sex. Love is a process and sex is an act. You think
that you are devastated because a woman left you. In reality, you are really
unhappy because a specific part of her left you.

“Love you can get later, even when you’re eighty. Sex you need right now.
You have to think of the pussy as separate from the woman.”

“200motels, I think you’re an idiot!” he cried, inconsolable in his grief at
being abandoned. “How can you relate to women like…like a commodity?”

“Since you invoke the law of supply and demand, I just happen to have this
news article from The New York Post (it’s gotta be true!) dated last week
announcing the arrest of Eliazar Juarez, 23, of Long Island City, who offered
an undercover cop two hookers for $40.00.”

“Wow! Two girls for forty bucks!” he exclaimed, immediately brightening.
“That’s really cheap!”

“Why do you think I kept the article? I’m going over there myself. Imagine
what you could buy with a c-note!”

“That works out to FIVE GIRLS.”

“Six, if you bargain the guy.”

“He might not have that much pussy in stock. But six girls! Even
Schwartznegger probably never did six girls.”

“Forget Schwartznegger. Body builders don’t have big dicks, or at least they
look smaller because the rest of the guy is so big. Also, the steroids shrink
it. All Schwartznegger has got is his little skinny wife, and she don’t look so
happy.

“But the reason I’m showing you this article is that as a commodity, the
price of pussy is actually dropping.”

And it’s driving the pimps crazy! I interviewed this one guy, Willie Cadillac,
who runs a string of whores in Hell’s Kitchen, and he told me that the price
resistance is ferocious.









“How’m I supposed to keep up my front? Cadillacs ain’t cheap! My bitches
need crack."

"Yeah, we need crack!"

"And these m’fuckahs coming in from Jersey and they want a blowjob for
twenty bucks. What can you get for twenty bucks these days?What do they
think, that blow jobs grows on trees?”

His aspect grew dark. “These Spanish mutherfuckers with their cheap
imported hookers are killing a market I done spent my whole life buildin’ up.
Pussy is my whole life. If I get my hands on this sumbitch Juarez, I’m gonna
pop a cap in his ass!”

Like the real estate market, the market for Manhattan pussy is totally
inflated. The women are using subliminal psychology to build up the price
points by working out hard in the gym and letting you know in advance “I’m
High Maintenance,” so that you don’t complain about the sticker shock.

But as with so many products in the marketplace, the actual customer
satisfaction is much less satisfying than the packaging. The women are not
showing any artisanal expertise for satisfying a man’s cock. There’s no
culture, as in the cultural erotic traditions of the ancient Chinese and
Indians, or the depth of European civilizations. The pussy is too much like
modern culture, raw and unrefined. It’s like a blow up sex doll with a string
you pull at the neck and it talks. Only when you stop pulling the string, these
Barbie Dolls don’t stop talking.

The only sexual refinements they have taken any interest in developing
seem to be in those that end the encounter sooner. In a lot of cases the
energy you have to expend convincing them to spread out in the first place
leaves you with hardly any animus to achieve the act. Second, like a
carnival barker or a waiter at a sidewalk café, New York girls have
specialized techniques for getting you on your way soon, in time for the
next customer.

“See, I have this thing I do with my hand, and the guy thinks he’s getting a
blow job when he’s actually getting a hand job,” said Daisy, who I met at
Cha Cha’s bar on the Coney Island boardwalk, where I actually conceived
the concept for this commentary. “With the condom on he don’t know what’
s happening anyway.”

Latex aside, compare this last statement with Madame Chang, proprietress
of the Shining Lotus Friendship Club on Pell Street in Chinatown.

“My girls love you long time. When they suck your dick, it’s like the rising
sun of the east. I always tell them, No use hand, only mouth.

“My girls make happy ending and never a complaint. You come now?”

Maybe later. With the intense foreign competition and the cheap Asian
imports the price of pussy is collapsing in Manhattan, where the aging
population of men and the increased interest in sports and computer
games is depressing the market. The situation has become so critical that
the market is in danger of collapsing completely and wonderful
moneymaking opportunities could be lost forever. Like a syndicate buying
the rights to a particularly exquisite piece of ass and selling time-shares.
And don’t tell me this is exploitation of women. A lot of these girls just don’t
feel like getting jobs. Hell, I’d to the same thing, except I’m ugly, and there’s
no market for men’s butts.

Since chains of brothels have already had IPO’s in Europe, it wouldn’t be
absurd to suggest the same thing in this country. Imagine a bond issue
where the bonds are backed up with the butts of hookers like the New
Jersey Turnpike. Or even for private capital to invest. Like Wal Mart. Now,
there’s a concept! Let’s see, I need barbecue briquettes, new tires and , oh
yeah, a blow job!”

The revenue possibilities are endless. Women’s butts could provide a
continuing source of tax revenue for states and municipalities. Just attach
a meter to the pussy and charge for all the dicks going in an out. Hell, that’s
a job I fight would for – reading the meters on women’s asses.

But before America can reap the rewards of women’s asses, we as a
nation have to take responsibility for intelligent exploitation of this valuable,
pardon me, asset. And that involves protecting domestic pussy against
cheap foreign imports.

The way I see it, this could be done by the President appointing a National
Pussy Department and paying subsidies to the women not to give pussy,
like wheat.

Or, better still; issue the women vouchers every time they get fucked. The
voucher would look like this:

RECEIVED
ONE PIECE OF PUSSY IN GOOD CONDITION
from
HELEN SCHWARTZ
signed
200MOTELS

This way, you get the pussy, the girl sends the voucher to Washington, they
send her a check, and everybody's happy.
Click Here For HOME PAGE
CLICK HERE
FOR HOME
PAGE
jewelry, sunglasses, barbecue,
cameras, baseball, video games,
hamburgers, compact disks, iPods,
sneakers, surfboards, athletic
equipment, team jerseys, lingerie