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Good advice!!!!!!

If I was hugging a girl, and got embarassed because I suddenly popped a boner, I’d just tell her not to worry about it, because it’s not from her but just “leftover from something else that happened before.”

These are two rather rude thoughts.

1) Wearing a jaunty red hat with feathers while sitting on the toilet feels kind of weird, especially when you’re in a hotel where the mirror faces the toilet and you can see yourself.
2) I would like someday for a girl to say the following about me: “He’s so hot it makes my cunt hurt.”

WEEEEooooWEEEEoooo! Boner Police!

I overheard this woman — an eighth grade teacher — talking about nude beaches. She works with a guy from Costa Rica who was telling her that at the nude beaches in his country, “they” hand out pills to men so that there won’t be any accidental erections. She was wondering if this was true.

I don’t think we need to investigate this one too hard.

I mean, who are “they,” first of all? A public agency? Are they run by the city, or is there a Federal Agency in charge of tamping down beach bone? Were they empowered by an act of Congress? Or maybe they’re written into a very bulge-wary constitution? Central American History students — I smell something here, and it smells like “thesis.”

And where does the money come from? Property taxes? Public auctions of property seized from dudes who can’t keep it down? Or maybe there was a generous bequest from a late millionaire with a very specific hangup. If there was a TV show about a crazed sugar baron handing out money to keep his nation’s nude beaches free and floppy, I swear to God I’d watch it and buy something from every sponsor. Maybe it could star John Forsythe.

And what are the — ahem — mechanics of handing the pills out? Is there a stand at the beach entrance, where you get your parking sticker and a blister pack of soft-serve insurance? Or are there are roving boner cops, patrolling the beaches and handing out tickets and pills at the slightest hint of tumescence?

Most importantly, the sight of a field of Germans, their brick-red junk puddling across a tropical rock, is all the impotence pill this guy needs. And don’t tell me that we’re talking about Central America here — the Germans are everywhere you want to be, and when they get there they wanna strip down, god dammit. The Fourth Reich will be one of sunburned labia and sandy flaps.

Anyway, this woman insists that it “makes a kind of sense.” This a part of the world that has trouble with cholera — you know, the disease you can defeat by washing your hands once in a while — and we’re supposed to believe that they’ve got the problem of inconvenient tent poles under wraps?

I’d like to underline that she’s a junior high teacher. You may want to stay away from elections in about six years time.

I could be so rich.

If I owned a furniture store, I’d hire Public Enemy for an ad campaign called “Welcome to the Comfort Dome.”