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Authors: Carol Muske-Dukes

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THE RANDOLPH JORGE TUTMYER FOUNDATION

Randolph Jorge Tutmyer, Exec. Director

P.O. Box 69

Yorba Linda, CA.

Dear Randy (or may I call you Tut, Tut?),

Sorry, no handouts. We need all our money for breast augmentation. Big overhead, you might say.

WJB

Armchair Editor

Dear Mere Women,

Ever since Adam and Eve (that ballbreaker!), women have been trying to prove that they are superior to men. Men, of course, have never had to prove their superiority (it’s writ On High!). While chuckling over this unarguable Fact of Nature just the other day, I realized that we men have had, all this time, indisputable proof! And here it is: FLASHING is an occupation wherein men play Hard Ball and leave women choking on their exhausts!!! You wimpy little women libbers can’t reply when the world asks: Where are all the female flashers? Everyone knows that men are bolder, more death-defying by nature. Women are shy, cringing little pipsqueaks who should never attempt to become telephone repairmen or men’s room attendants. These are jobs that require guts and savvy and women just don’t have these things—no matter how much they blab about equality! Women say they are being kept back. Well, my dears, males are leaving you behind in the bulrushes in the field of flashing, and nobody is keeping you back from doing it. I’m
proud
most flashers are men. Still, I wouldn’t mind seeing a woman rapidly ascend through the ranks of flashers.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying that if a woman gets out and flashes she will become head of a large conglomerate or President of the U.S., or something. Flashing expresses the individual in one’s being, and women’s bodies (let’s face it) are just not that individual. Their bodies are woefully inferior to men’s, they sag in many places, and the most disgusting thing is, they shake like a bowlful of Jell-O when they run across a room naked! Have you ever noticed? This is why the public stands one hundred percent behind its male flashers! If you met a real flasher in a side street, you’d probably scream at his statuesque form, his lithe churning hips—and his proud hello! You’d run shrieking off for the police, you fat, fully clothed inferior chicks!

Sincerely,

Desmond Blatz

I did hear from a number of fat, fully clothed inferior chicks. Those on the track of sexist symbology wrote in regularly with new findings:

Dear Editors, I’ve had it! Take a gander at the logo below.

NORTH AMERICAN TRACKLINES

Do you see what I see? Well, if you don’t, you’re blind as a bat! Any hapless, train-riding wanker can see this subconscious sex symbol for what it is, to wit: a huge, hot, fully erect penile gland being rammed into a calm but retracting vagina! Thank you, Perversion Central (our friendly Advertising Industry), for this big gratuitous bone tossed smack into the slavering jaws of America’s rapists!

Please! Peruse this gonad gestalt! Realize, please, that now any ad-reading commuter–pervert who wants to cream his pants on the way home—can!! It’s a short track from this eye-popper to Rape itself. Meanwhile, he’s riding high, and he’s headed your way—this loose cannon, this venereal Crab on a fast-rolling P-word-on-Wheels!

I think I’ve said all that I need to say here, but I would appreciate your further investigation of the origins of this depraved violent visual assault. Remember, I wish to be kept posted!

Yours,

Mona de Rowster

Dear Mona,

Thanks a lot for alerting us here at SIS to this sexist marketing technique. However, I think that the penis-on-wheels notion is going just a bit far. I have to catch the 5:10 pecker to Scarsdale today, and knowing Namtrak, all we can count on them for is premature ejaculation.

Yours in struggle,

Willis Digby

I imagine you’re getting the idea now. Still, one letter I set aside as a kind of Weirdometer—I started rating the letters 1 to 5, 5 being the weirdest, based on the following letter as a 6. The letter was from Iris Moss.

Iris Moss was a little cagey about her residence, but it became apparent that she lived a brave life significantly restricted by the state or other concerned parties. While, in the main, Iris’s concerns were not mine, I felt a reverence for her obsessions, which began to feed into my own. Her style of thought grew on me.

Iris L. Moss

44 Gardenia St.

The Clark Building

Easterby, N.Y.

11:17
A.M.

Dear SIS magazine,

Over the years you’ve published a lot of articles I’ve liked. Recently you published one entitled “Why I Stay Single”—I
think
that was the name of it! I was very impressed by the author’s viewpoints on the subject of why she never married and why she never wished to marry. I would like very much to share with you my own reasons for remaining single and for insisting on my own spouse-free space.

Mine, as everyone will admit, is a fascinating story, and I would be delighted to accept monetary renumeration for it. If, on the other hand, you don’t want to print my story—I’ll give it to you as a gift. By all means, retain it for purposes of educating other women to be as liberated as I am.

What is marriage? I have no idea!!! I also had no idea previously—because no one actually asked me to be his wife. Then, eventually, one or two did (against my will!).

One of these suitors happened to be Donald Irifune, ex-bonsai salesman and an executive-in-training at Baskin-Robbins, who asked me to marry him once while serving me a Big Mocha with jujubes—but he lost a finger in the Osterizer roughly five seconds after speaking—so I assumed that the offer would not stand up in court.

Then an old, very old man proposed to me in New York City: Ollie Mutzner. Ollie Mutzner was in a Special Geriatric Wing—sometimes in a wheelchair and occasionally on a respirator—but don’t let this fool you—he was a pistol!! Mr. Mutzner was a glittering bon vivant, a TV personality with his own cable access channel! What an M.C.!

He personally trained and introduced many of the Socko Senior Tumblers, including the world-famous Mrs. Fanny Wallatuse, but that is another story. Mr. Mutzner proposed to me on fifteen different occasions, but being a foolish young thing, I was put off by certain of his physical characteristics, you know, like long nose hairs and the self-conscious manner in which he sang “Feelings.”

Often I’ve regretted this youthful decision, but since Ollie Mutzner went into a coma not long after the last proposal (though I’ve heard he
still
does his show!), I think our life together might have been too explosive. We’re both Leos, which has to be faced.

Not long after my brief fling with Ollie Mutzner, I met a lad who laid carpet for Christ—or so he said. His name was Ronnie Larsk and he was Born Again. I was not. I usually find that being born once is entirely sufficient for a person. So we did not get along well from the first, ideologically speaking, yet I was attracted to his evangelical fire (which sometimes I admit was plain indigestion—the man had terrific Gas) and though I’ve always been an agnostic with cosmopolitan tendencies myself, I respected his Fundamentalist chutzpah. He told me, quite movingly, about prayer meetings he attended where people demonstrated their piety by leaping in the air and calling and signaling for Jesus as if he were some divine headwaiter. He also spent time elaborating on the horrible fates of the Non-Saved, who would be crisped in hellfire like Pork Rinds. He also proposed, though in his eyes, I was in the Dark.

Ronnie and I broke off one day when he was laying Astro Turf at my place of residence and began speaking in tongues. He caused tremendous upset among the other residents (who began answering him in tongues) and caused further dismay by farting a great deal during this episode—since, as I mentioned, he was a victim of Gas and he had just consumed a typical lunch in our cafeteria (
Cuchifritos
and creamed corn). By the time the staff got the corridors cleared, he had locked himself in my room (with me), still farting and speaking in tongues. I found myself looking at Ron the way one does when the flame has died. It was becoming harder and harder to fit him into my life. So I struck him a few light karate blows
*
(about the face and chin, avoiding the gaseous abdomen), knocked him out, and opened the windows wide. It took hours to get Ronnie hauled away (in the meantime, I simply stowed him in a Hefty bag), but the staff wanted to resuscitate him first. I won’t go into it, but it took weeks (as you might imagine) to crank open the airlocks and bring my room back to normal.

Well. Those are my reasons for never marrying before this. Now here we have a dilemma—we’re up to the present. Here I am, a woman of almost uncontainable sex appeal (and am I cognizant of it, you bet!) and a quicksilver mind and manner. I know the guy who got me would leap tall buildings at a single bound in gratitude. My face is haunting, and I have a pantherlike, smoothly coordinated body. I am brilliant and my conversation is original and scintillating. I know what it would mean to some poor Joe to hook me—PARADISIO! Yet I try to remain objective about it.

But there’s something more to be considered. Let me put it this way. I know what is repugnant to me in another person, and I am committed to never being repugnant to another. Let me correct that: another blameless person. Naturally, if some bozo, out of nowhere, began forcing his penis into my vagina (under some weird trance or hypnosis), I would try very hard to be repugnant to him.

I would feel completely righteous if I suddenly came to (from the hypnosis) while he was shooting his sperm into my vagina—to eliminate him.

What right do these types have to go around hypnotizing women and blasting their seminal fluid up them? I’ve had my fill of this sort of thing in my life, and to deliver death to just one of these violators of my precious body would be the apex, the shimmering peak of my life. Think about it, would it not be of yours?

These attackers come out of the mist—sometimes in satanic garb and sometimes in doctor’s uniforms—the average unsuspecting female has to be eternally vigilant.

You see, my underwear is my witness. I’ve been taking the time to sniff my panties a lot lately and, lo and behold!, I noticed that they reek of seminal fluid! What does this mean? It means, I suspect, that someone has been coming into my room to hypnotize me and pump huge quantities of sperm into my vagina. Then the perpetrator leaves me, spread-eagled there on the carpet, with seminal fluid pouring out from between my legs.

I’ve never seen these predator-fiends, but that’s the way they work—you’re hypnotized,
conk-ola
—then they hook up their pumpers.

I know what you’re thinking: This woman does
not
like men.
Wrong.
I simply do not like the male member in my kit bag if I don’t want it there. Got it? Simple enough to understand. The point is—I just don’t want wet sperm trickling down my thighs every five minutes. I don’t want to walk around all the time with a womb full of seminal fluid—or various strange penises—if I don’t have to. It’s a free country. If the lady is out for the count, don’t stick it up. Simple enough to understand.

I love my room. It’s quite beautiful, on the sunny side of the building with yucca and spider plants in the window. I am happy and peaceful in it. But, after the other night, when I awoke and felt seminal fluid gushing out of me, I put a big sign on my door:

WARNING LOCAL PENISES: ARMED VAGINA BEYOND THIS POINT

Hypnotic rape is no fun. I added a p.s. to my sign stating that Basil Schrantz was the only man who would now be allowed to enter my room. I like Basil. I am fairly sure that he has no seminal fluid at all. Naturally, I do not wish to marry him. However, he is a helpful fellow who understands my strong sexual convictions and never asks about them. He comes in to talk and help me redecorate occasionally. I have my bed in different places: sometimes in the middle of the room, sometimes against the wall. The windows let in sun and cooling air, and I have the radio playing my favorites, which include Don Ho and Mabel Mercer. I put up a mirror or two occasionally, but not too many, because my beauty is distracting. I have a bulletin board with Peanuts cartoons and some of my favorite sayings from Socrates to R. D. Laing, and in the corner sits my desk and typewriter, where I write my letters. What else do I need? NOT SEMINAL FLUID!

I wasn’t born yesterday! (Only the Born Again can say that!) I was born thirty-five years ago, and I know a gnocchi from an orange hat! Wait a minute—God’s talking to me. She says that I would be thumb-sucking, drooling insane to ever want to change my life by matrimony. So now you have it: I enjoy the occasional companionship of Basil Schrantz. Once in a while, I even shake up a mean martini, which I share with God, and most important, I stand up valiantly and alone against the threat of seminal fluid. Got it? That’s me in a nutshell!

So marry? That would be dumb, wouldn’t it? The day I waltz down the aisle with some sperm-shooting yahoo, they can declare me a loony, put me in a hula skirt, and give me a free ride to the popcorn factory. I’m too far ahead of them all. I think of myself as a SIS cover: standing here in my room in full karate garb, the sun shining behind me, standing next to the warning on my door against the violators of my precious body—my beautiful eyes, hair, teeth, breasts, yes! yes!—IRIS MOSS, primo representative of the primo single state!

Hoping to hear from you soon,

Iris Moss

BOOK: Dear Digby
10.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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