February 3, 2012

Dear Doc: In these exciting times, I often wonder: Why haven’t we seen a resurgence of quality programming like Battle of the Network Stars. Wouldn’t that be just great? (Your attention to this matter should include a clear addressing of the most up-to-date whereabouts of one Miss Joyce DeWitt.) – Kris

In the words of Thomas Wolfe, “You can’t go home again.” Touché, Tommy. Really, who wouldn’t want to see a reanimated Howard Cosell hosting a star-studded physical competition featuring swarthy, athletic folks like Gary Burghoff, Gabe Kaplan, Dick Van Patten, Loretta Swit, Vicki Lawrence, and Delta Burke? In fact, you may want to pleasure yourself just envisioning that pasty B-list ménage 20-plus years after they reached their physical prime. Ideally you find liver spots, stretch marks, and dense, abrasive tufts of gray back hair a turn-on because you know you’re going to have to do Loretta Swit first. She’s a wildcat! I would wish that for you Kris, but sadly, the future happened. Sometime back in the Nineties, the major networks were challenged by hundreds of tiny upstart cable channels that barely had two dimes to rub together. Lacking the production funds to even come up with shows as embarrassingly fatuous as Harry and the Hendersons and Alf, the smaller cable channels mined a previously underdeveloped vein of stupidity: reality television. Turns out all you really need to create fascinating television is to strap a camcorder to a cocker spaniel’s head and turn it loose in a double-wide full of toothless, meth-snorting hillbillies – or the East Coast equivalent, a rooftop hot tub in Seaside Heights, N.J. That’s it: no high-priced actors, sound stages, lighting, costumes, or craft services, just poorly shot video of knuckle-dragging half-wits on the prowl for unprotected sex. That’s all you need to sell boatloads of pimple cream, tampons, Hot Pockets, and Axe body spray. Plus, 30 minutes watching Snooki wet-hump a Jacuzzi full of mooks and you’ll forget Joyce DeWitt ever existed. However, if you still want to rub up against some Wood (as in Janet Wood, aka the brunette/the smart one/the real pants-wearer of the cutely implied threesome on Three’s Company) she’s busy as a one-legged woman in an ass-kicking contest. Most recently, she starred in the film The Great Fight with superstars Robert Loggia and Charles Durning, and in 2011, she also starred in the off-Broadway hit Miss Abigail’s Guide To Dating, Mating, and Marriage – yet another threesome that probably leads frustratingly to nowhere. You may want to check out Jersey Shore instead.

January 27, 2012

What does the doctor do to you if you have a hard-on for more than four hours after taking Viagra? And why is a four-hour hard-on a bad thing? – Chuck

It’s called priapism, named after Priapus, the Greek god of fertility who had an absurdly large and permanently erect penis. As exciting as it sounds, priapism doesn’t make your dick absurdly large. Bummer, right? Seriously – how awesome would it be to have someone look at your johnson and say, “Dude, that thing is absurdly large. You may need to consult a physician.” That is the point at which you say “Right?” and then bump knuckles and blow it up (the knuckles, not your penis). You’ll be feeling swell all right … well, until you develop gangrene and your pecker falls off. OK, here’s an important disclaimer: Even though I am a fake doctor, I have to admit I have never seen a gangrenous dick fall off. That was hyperbole. In fact, I have never even seen a gangrenous dick. Color me blessed. To answer your question, however, if I were a real doctor and I were treating someone for priapism, I might give them and ice pack and a pep talk, or perhaps I would inject the affected corpus cavernosum with alpha-agonists … or, if necessary, surgically insert a shunt, which sounds really nasty (did the doctor just say the “sh” word?) but it’s really just an artificial plastic hole to keep your fluids flowing. Yep, that still sounds pretty nasty. If things took a really desperate turn, I might aspirate the penis. Though it sounds pleasant, “aspirate” is actually a tricky doctor term for the process of sucking fluid out with a bigass syringe. If you’ve ever had a tennis elbow or a trick knee aspirated by a doctor, you know enough to first request a tea glass full of strong whiskey and a leather strap to bite down on. Sounds bad, eh? Well, Chuck, it is. Even if you’re having trouble putting together a mental image, rest assured nothing positive comes from any association of the words “needle” and “dick,” even and especially if it’s what your partner is muttering during sex. Truth is, most people outside the porn industry hadn’t even dreamed of a four-hour erection until they heard the disclaimer at the end of erectile dysfunction commercials. They probably hadn’t heard the term “anal leakage” either – at least until the advent of fat-free potato chips. The modern world is a scary place, Chuck. Try to keep your dick in your pants.

January 20, 2012

Dear Luvdoc,
My husband recently got himself a pair of metallic truck nuts and hung them on the back of his Silverado.
I have to say a line’s been crossed.
How do I break it to him gently, Luvdoc, that I don’t want to be driving around in any vehicle that’s got a pair of chrome-plated faux bull testicles attached to it?

Sincerely yours,
Teabagged in Tarrytown

Two words, Teabagged: truck twat. The time has come. It’s what Fox News would call “fair and balanced” (which, by the way, are the names of Rupert Murdoch’s testicles). If your husband has the temerity to tool around River City (or even Buda, for that matter) with a bovine scrote swinging from his hitch, there’s a good chance that whining about his insensitivity won’t put the kibosh on his freeballing. You need to hit him where he’s sensitive … and believe me … people with big cajones are more sensitive than you might think. Once he sees your bitch hitch has wizard sleeves, he might just castrate his Silverado without even being asked. Remember, just like balls: the bigger the better. Make sure your truck twat is massive enough to intimidate even the most confident bull. That should to the trick, but be prepared to up the ante. With a couple of quarts of pig blood, some polyethylene tubing, an IV bag, and a modified fuel pump, you can design a truck twat that hits all phases of the menstrual cycle. Don’t cut him any slack. If you do it right, he will be out there at least three days of every month scrubbing the red stains off the driveway. You might also want to drive a little crazier during those times as well: Cut people off; stop short and get rear-ended; run some reds. He may not get the brilliant symbolism, but rest assured that after a few months’ worth of dealing with a bovine-sized red tide, he’ll be looking for a way to compensate for his small penis that doesn’t involve chrome-plated mountain oysters.