Comments On Last Night’s Orgy.
From: Hank Harris
To: Orgy Mailing List
Subject: Comments on last night’s orgy, upcoming potluck
Hello everyone! Chuck set up this handy e-mail list for getting in touch with everyone – let me know if anyone’s been left out so we can toss them on.
Great orgy last night, guys. Really – give yourselves a pat on the back. Everyone looked great out there, grunting like pigs in heat on my couches, ottomans, and floor, but the night was also slightly marred by a handful of minor orgy no-nos that I’d like to bring to everyone’s attention. We’re not trying to embarrass anyone here, but by shining a light on these indiscretions we can hopefully avoid such incidents in the future, which, as you can imagine, will result in a smoother and more enjoyable orgy for everyone. And who doesn’t want that, right?
First of all, when we agree on a time, it’s really important that everyone try to be as punctual as possible. Again, we’re not pointing any fingers here, but when most of the group is already partially nude and engaged in some light oral or manual stimulation, the sound of the doorbell buzzer can be downright unnerving. Latecomers will be admitted, but please try your hardest to make it on time. If tardiness cannot be avoided, I would encourage you to disrobe and try to slip into the mix subtly, rather than announcing your entrance with lewd phrases like “Who’s ready to get nastay?” or “The fuckmaster has arrived!” The former is irrelevant (everyone is already getting “nastay” – you’re the one who’s late, remember?) and the latter is simply uncomely.
Assuming you’ve arrived on time (and again: please try your best to be punctual!), you will soon find yourself in a pile of writhing flesh. Good for you! This is what you came here for, isn’t it? It’s time to get out there and show everyone what you’ve got, but although it may look like an anarchic sea of hedonistic impulses, there are some general rules of propriety that we like to advise all of our guests to follow. For starters, while we’re sure that you are quite adept at the physical act of intercourse, yelling things like “Check out my style!” to nobody in particular is probably not the best way to get people to notice. A bit of braggadocio is welcome, even encouraged, but yelling “booyah” or licking your finger and making sizzling sounds while touching your own backside is not on our list of acceptable ways of expressing it.
Also, air-thrusting before the party starts, while waiting in line for the bathroom, or while walking to your car at the end of the night is not necessary. This should be obvious.
One last note regarding climaxing: while we encourage everyone involved to express themselves, making explosion sounds or yelling “whammo” while climaxing is completely unacceptable. Natural guttural sounds can get the point across just fine without souring the experience for those around you.
Again, I’d like to thank everyone for coming out last night and stress that a great time was, for the most part, had by all. Next Sunday is our annual June potluck – feel free to RSVP by responding to this email! Hope to see you all there!
Hank “The Shank” Harris, Orgymaster
The Worst Marketing Campaign Of All Time.
Dear Peanut Butter Industry Executives,
I have found the key to your urban demographic. Don’t hit delete yet – let me explain.
Earlier this year an up-and-coming think tank met for a Sunday brunch brainstorming session. Their goal? To invent a new signature cocktail. Not just any signature cocktail, mind you – a signature cocktail that would transcend race, gender, and class lines. What they came up with probably won’t surprise you: Goldschlager and Grape Juice. What’s surprising is that nobody thought of that before! The garnish, on the other hand, came as a bit of a shock to all of us, and if it shocked us, I’m sure it’s going to blow your fucking minds, Peanut Butter Industry Executives:
A smear of peanut butter around the rim.
Do I have your fucking attention yet?
Okay – so we’ve got Goldschlager and grape juice on ice with peanut butter around the rim. What do you call something like that? What name could possibly do it justice? It would have to be something edgy, yet elegant. Smooth, but rough. Creamy, but kind of crunchy – catch my drift (hint: you can get either creamy or crunchy peanut butter around the rim)? The name of this soon-to-be famous signature cocktail, gentlemen?
The Rusty Trombone.
Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Well sure, the cocktail sounds fantastic, but what does this have to do with me, a humble Peanut Butter Industry Executive?” Let me remind you: there’s peanut butter around the rim of this cocktail, this “lifestyle” cocktail. This is going to be a cocktail that people identify with. This, my friends, is where the urban demographic comes in to play.
You may have heard of another popular “lifestyle” cocktail that’s all the rage down in the “dirtay” south. I’m talking, of course, about the “sizzurp” craze (aka “purple drank,” aka “oil,” aka “lean”). Well guess what, Peanut Butter Executives? The “dirty” south is sick of the purple stuff! They’re tired of sippin’ on lean! A man cannot subsist on prescription strength cough syrup and Sprite alone! The people (read: the urban people) are ready for a new cocktail, Peanut Butter Industry Executives, and that cocktail is going to be The Rusty Trombone.
And it will have a smear of peanut butter around the motherfucking rim.
Peanut butter isn’t cool – you guys know this better than anyone else. Every labored ad campaign designed to popularize peanut butter practically screams “this shit is lame!” You lost the urban demographic because the urban demographic is cool and peanut butter is not. The urban demopgrahic is concerned with things like style – things like LIFESTYLE. Guess what? This is a lifestyle cocktail with a smear of peanut butter around the rim. Just picture it: the most famous dirty south rapper in the world rapping in his videos about “lickin’ creamy skip’ off the rim,” or asking his listeners “wut ya’ll know about Creamy Skip?” or maybe just screaming “AWWW SKIP SKIP MOTHAFUCKAZ!” Sound good? Sound like it’ll move some units? Sound like it could maybe, oh geez, I don’t know, pull your whole industry out of the shit? That’s because it can, Peanut Butter Industry Executives. It can if you let it.
So now you’re thinking to yourself, “Alright, you sold me – the drink sounds delicious, the marketing plan sounds perfect, and we could really use a revenue boost in the urban market! Where do we go from here?” I’m glad you asked. I’m envisioning a chain of clubs throughout the “dirty” south that specializes in serving Rusty Trombones. Exclusively Rusty Trombones. We could call it “Rusty’s,” and we could have rappers (read: Rusty Trombone enthusiasts) play live at the shows, and we could make a million fucking dollars. You’ve been very successful at selling a product, Peanut Butter Executives. Now it’s time to kick it up a notch. It’s time to start selling a LIFESTYLE.
Let me worry about generating a buzz – you guys sell peanut butter, for fuck’s sake. Let me get the word out on the street, let me handle the rappers, and let me figure out the perfect blend of Goldschlager and grape juice. All I need from you guys is a whole shitload of venture capital.
Hit me back with the exact amount of money you guys want to throw at this. Remember: the more you spend, the more we make. I will be sending identical email to all of your competitors as well – the contract goes to the highest bidder. Let’s make some fucking cash.
Dear Swishahouse Marketing Executive,
I represent the Unilever subsidiary Skippy Peanut Butter, and we’re currently developing a fairly radical ad campaign for a fairly traditional brand (and a traditional product, at that – the peanut butter demographic tends to skew “family”). I’m sure you’re wondering at this point what in the name of G-d Skippy has to do with Swishahouse. See, that’s the problem right there: Skippy HAS NOTHING to do with Swishahouse.
And that’s what we’d like to change.
By the numbers, there is a huge dip in sales in the peanut butter industry with the youthful, urban demographic. We’d like to capture that demographic if we can, and quite frankly, we think that you, Swishahouse Records, could hold the key to it.
We’re both busy so I’ll get to the point: We want to market a new drink to replace “purple drank,” “lean,” “oil” – whatever you want to call it. Your artists have been rapping about it for a long time now, and we think your audience is probably about ready to give it a rest. The new drink we are developing consists of Goldschlager and grape juice with a smear of Skippy peanut butter around the rim. It’s called The Rusty Trombone, and we’d really like to have your artists (Mike Jones, Paul Wall, et al) pushing it for us on MTV. Some example rhymes they could use include the following:
“What ya’ll know about creamy Skip?” (Nothin’!)
“Lickin’ that candy Skip off the rim in the turnin’ lane”
“Candy Skip drippin off the frame”
Not that they would HAVE TO use these lines, they’re just suggestions obviously.
What, you might be wondering, would Swishahouse Records receive in return? How’s a huge fucking bag of money sound? Pretty good?
We think so, too.
Let’s help each other out.
Hit me back and let me know how you’d like to proceed from here.
Responses: None from the Peanut Butter sector. Head of Marketing for Swishahouse replied with his phone number, but subsequent calls remain unreturned.
Two Letters To People Whose Email Addresses I Could Not Find Who Will Hopefully Find These Letters One Day By Googling Themselves.
Dear Michael Münzing and Luca Anzilotti (aka Snap!),
Rhythm is not actually a dancer. The dictionary defines it as “a. The pattern of musical movement through time. b. A specific kind of such a pattern, formed by a series of notes differing in duration and stress,” or “c. A group of instruments supplying the rhythm in a band.” There are several other definitions I haven’t listed here, but rest assured that none of them are “a dancer.”
It is true, however, that it’s a “source of passion” and that you can “feel it everywhere.” The other part is all fucked up, though.
Dear John Hughes,
In the Michael Keaton vehicle “Mr. Mom,” Michael Keaton has kind of a rough time. After he gets laid off from his engineering job he sits around for a while and sort of lets himself go. He gains some weight, grows a beard, wears a flannel shirt… for a while it looks like he’s given up altogether. The house gets filthy. The kids suck on frozen peas for dinner while he drinks beer and watches soap operas. Eventually it proves to be too much for his wife, a suddenly career-minded ad executive who learns a lesson about the importance of family in the end. She yells at him for his untidy appearance and lackluster housekeeping skills, and I think he spends a night on the couch. The next day, Keaton begins an amazing transformation into the ultimate stay-at-home dad. Into “Mr. Mom,” if you will. Here is how we know that this transformation is occurring:
He shaves his beard off.
What exactly are you trying to imply here, Mr. Hughes? Are you saying that beards are a sign of laziness? That a clean-shaven cheek is the hallmark of the proactive man? I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you of a few bearded historical figures who I think might object to that:
– Ulysses S. Grant
– Abraham Lincoln
– Oh, I don’t know… some guy named… uhh.. what was it? Oh, yeah: JESUS.
Would a smooth face have made Confucius any wiser? Could Lincoln have not only freed the slaves, but also given them each a little pat on the back, too? Bullshit. If anything, a beard says “I honor my commitments,” not “I’m too lazy to shave.” A properly trimmed beard probably requires MORE effort than shaving regularly does. For shame, Mr. Hughes. For shame.
P.S. Unless someone photoshopped a beard onto you in this picture, it looks like you really let yourself go in 2001. Dick.
I decided a week or two ago that I really wanted to interview a Satanist. I’m not talking about a teenager who hates his parents either, or one of the members of Slipknot. No. I’m talking real, bonafide Satanism. Like, an actual member of the Church of Satan. I’m curious about how many real, actual Satanists there are in Chicago and what they’re up to. Plus, well, Satanism is just kind of funny. Do they feel persecuted? Do they feel the world is more or less evil as a whole than it was twenty years ago? There’s only one way to find out. I sent off an email to High Priestess Magistra Peggy Nadramia asking if there was anyone in my area who could possibly give an interview. I got this reply this morning:
We do not have any members who serve as spokespersons in Chicago at present. Our members there and nearby are rather private and thus underground regarding their affiliation.
Generally speaking, since our church isn’t about doing “organized” things, we don’t comment on the “state” of our church in any particular area, as that state is defined by the productivity and creativity of our members, and is only public if they choose to make their efforts and affiliation known.
So, because of the focus of your piece, there isn’t much we can do for you. Our News page and the archives of News pages for the last several years demonstrate what our members are doing, and we think that is a healthy barometer for our organization’s public face. Of course our members in politics and other fields remain resolutely “in the closet,” as such is required for their success in today’s climate.
Magistra Peggy Nadramia
An Open Letter To The Woman Standing In Front of Me In Line At Arby’s Who “Can’t Wait” To Try The New French Onion Beef & Swiss Sandwich.
Monday January 23rd 2006, 10:52 pm
Filed under: letters
Dear Woman Standing In Front Of Me In Line At Arby’s Who “Can’t Wait” To Try The New French Onion Beef & Swiss Sandwich,
I know what you’re thinking, lady. It’s 12:30 and we’re both in line at Arby’s in the food court at the Merchandise Mart. We’re in the same boat here. We’ve paid for our food and are clutching our receipts, occassionally looking at the number at the top and wondering how long it’s going to be before we’re sinking our teeth into a delectable mix of beef, swiss cheese and, of course, onions. We’re both hungry, both on our lunch breaks. But that is where the similarites end, because you evidently “can’t wait” to try the new French Onion Beef & Swiss Sandwich.