Excuse me me miss. Could I have a moment of your time,  I desperately need to tell you, that I need to get something straight between us. My name is Lordy Tremain, and I am the Reichsmarschall over at The Truant. But don’t fall all over yourself about that. I come from humble origins, born to a Pipe-fitter and a seamstress in suburban San Diego, I was home-schooled by my dear mother, who despite her negligible Saxon heritage taught me the finer points of courtship and chivalry. I need to get something straight between us and I will not be denied.

The lost art of courting a beautiful person such as yourself is not lost on a nobleman like me, I’ve listened to many many Michael Buble records and have a very refined palate to which I can amaze you with knowledge of wines bottled in far-off places. I am going to assume you saw me over there by the bar, telling hilarious jokes to my friends and that you wanted to get to know me. Surely by me coming over here makes this almost a celebration for your sparkling eyes.  I believe you will acquiesce to me getting something straight between us.

Did you notice that elegant piece of art on the wall? I painted that, wouldn’t you say that its pretty great? Haha, well, at least we agree on something. I want you to know my intentions are good and that I will treat you all the class and distinction a woman like you deserves. You need to know, I need to get something straight between us.

I am such a fabulous lover, yet I am polished enough so that you will not feel bad introducing to all your friends and co-workers. I am a giving person and I will take my time getting something straight between us, make sure you are comfortable with the fact that I, Lordy Tremain, am getting something really straight between us. Shh, don’t speak…Just look into my dark gaze and defined forearms and you will be overcome by my rugged masculinity and soon we will be on our way to a magical world of joy and exultation. I will be getting something straight between us.

In the interest of disclosure, it is not totally straight, it curves up and to the left, but I just can’t walk up to you in a bar and tell you ‘I need to get something up and to the left between us.” It is not clever or funny and in all frankness, doesn’t make much sense.  Its just a lame pick-up line crafted into a long winded article.

Sorry for the digression, but allow me to reiterate that I will be getting something straight between us, hard and straight.

Alright, I am now going to stop listening to the words you speak and assume you’re finding me irresistible and want to take me home to enjoy having me feed you fruits while I whisper poems of unending devotion and unbridled passion. But I want to make it abundantly clear, I will be getting something straight between us.

Yours,

Lordy Tremain

“Good morning. Thank you for being here for this do-over, and let me assure you all that I am going to be sucking a lot less dick this time. First of all, as I look out at the  sports media assembled here today, I would like to begin by saying fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,”

/points out Gus Johnson in the crowd “you’re cool,

“fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. If your company dropped me as its sponsor, bidding to get me back starts at a billion dollars as soon as I start winning tournaments again, which will be as soon as I start playing golf again, which will happen when I fucking say it will, so stop asking. I mean damn.”

/Rick Reilly: “Tiger, a billion dollars per what? Is that your signing fee? Or is it per annum?”

/Tiger walks around the podium, comes down to Rick Reilly’s seat in the first row, and face-pushes him out of it.

“A billion dollars per second, bitch. Accenture, you’re a consulting firm, has anyone every met a consultant that wasn’t an alcoholic and wouldn’t fuck a catcher’s mitt? Gatorade? In real life, I drink Powerade Zero. I’ve been meaning to tell everyone that. All you public relations wunderkinds who think it’s smart to ‘back away from Tiger right now,’ I sincerely hope you choke to death. You all know Michael cheated on Juanita, right? Right?”

/Tiger returns to the podium

“I’d like to offer my thanks to Nike Golf for sticking with me, with the obvious caveat that they don’t really have a choice since I personally built the fucking brand by being the most dominant golfer of all time. After me, the face of Nike Golf is Stewart fucking Cink, say no more, am I right? So thanks, guys, I think we all know the deal here.

“I see members of the Golf media are still filing in, so let me repeat what I said earlier: Fuck you. And that goes double for all you two-faced bootlickers who jumped at the chance to stand in judgment of me, which, oh yeah, is all of you. And another hearty fuck you to every single pundit who said they were ’skeptical’ after my big apology. You are all such amazing judges of character now, it’s quite incredible that not a single one of you hacks ever raised doubts about my fidelity to my wife, or my overall credibility, until my reputation had already been smeared. Good luck ever interviewing me ever, ever, ever again, about anything.

“If any more of you inferior golfers take this opportunity to take shots at me, it’s on on-sight. I will knock Tom Watson the fuck out, do you hear me Tom? I will fuck you up. I really don’t want to bust up your artificial hip but I will, if you don’t stop saying my name. I’ll drop you like a two-club relief from a manmade structure in the fairway.

“Just for the record, I love the fact that how I act on the course offends Tom Watson. Hey Tom: next time I offend your Depression-era sensibilities, please, say something to my face. I will stomp you the fuck out on number one tee box while the ESPN cameras roll. It would make my day.”

/mops brow with Nike Golf handkerchief

“Okay, now that that’s dealt with…

“The only people I owe any explanation to is my wife and kids. I think we can all recognize that this is going to be an extremely difficult conversation between my daughters and I in a couple of years, so can everyone fuck the fuck off for a minute? I mean, what the hell am I going to say? While you were all busy worrying about how badly my dalliances bothered YOU, you never thought about that, did you? I’m sorry if the notion of a pro athlete enjoying some road beef upsets you, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry, like what in the fuck I’m supposed to tell my daughters about this mess:

“‘When you were very little, Daddy met a very vibrant, exciting cocktail waitress after a wearying day of beating the best golfers in the world at golf, and Daddy slept with her. And the next morning, the exact same thing happened with the barista at Starbucks, and later that afternoon with a cart girl…’ Yikes. I wish I would have thought about this scenario back when I was running hoes like football scrimmage. Well, Tiger made his bed, now Tiger will sleep in it. Hopefully only with Elin from now on, if she’ll have me. We’ll see how this therapy goes.

“In closing, I would like to cordially invite everyone who is not a member of my immediate family to fuck right off and stay the fuck up out my business. You people make me sick, except for Gus Johnson, you are all diseased whores. Especially every golf magazine editor who wrote a preachy editorial about my ‘difficulties’ after steady riding my dick ever since I was a pup at Stanford, back when my dad was known as the Woods who fucked around on his wife all the time.

“Fuck you all, fuck you all very much. I’m out.”

No, not Deron Williams.

No, not Paul Millsap either.

No, look, it’s not a Jazz player. Not quite that big of a celebrity.

How big? Look, BIG, okay? At least as big as Marie Osmond’s dead teenage son. Maybe someday if you all are good and click on our ads, we will tell you who our super-secret celebrity contributor is, and when that day comes, you’ll be stunned. Anyhow, on with the article:

In what some are calling a brilliant customer relations scheme to repair Toyota’s tainted image, Akio Toyoda, president of Toyota MotorCorp., offered a tearful apology to millions of Americans affected by the defects in several of the company’s vehicles.  Toyoda agreed to testify in front of congress to address concerns over safety issues, and whether the millions of recalls are properly repairing the glitch.

“Our goal is to have safe vehicles for our customers, at a modest profit for ourselves, of course,” Toyoda said in opening remarks.  “Clearly, our growth may have diluted our commitment to safety and quality. And for that, I am truly sorry. I did, however, make a fuck of a lot of money last year. I mean, seriously. You should see the ranch I bought in Montana.”

Senator Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) confirmed that Toyoda’s ranch is off the chain.

“I just got back from there, Karl Malone and I shot a brace of quail and a few dozen elk, noble creatures,” Hatch said. “But yeah, Toyoda-san’s ranch is the shit.”

Toyoda had, at first, said he would not testify before congress, but his sentiment changed after he was nearly hit in a crosswalk on his way back to the hotel by an out-of-control Camry. Witnesses said he jumped “a good five feet or so up in the air” as the Camry careened through the intersection, crashing into a nearby bakery.  When asked if the incident had anything to do with his decision to testify before congress, he replied, “Ah, the 2010 Camry with the fuel-efficient 4-cylinder engine. One of our best models. Saved us a bundle when we installed a much smaller power steering pressure hose than we should have used. Increased profits on the Camry alone were nearly $600,000 dollars, based on the shorter hose alone.”

After congress and members of the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration grilled Toyoda for several hours over a memo that boasted a savings of over $1 million for a limited recall over what Toyota engineers call “a stupid little brake problem,” Toyoda began to cry and requested a recess in the hearings.

When the session resumed, Toyoda appeared in the traditional seppuku robes once worn by samurai.  “I have brought disgrace upon my grandfather’s company,” he said. With Yoshimi Inaba, president of Toyota Motors North America serving as his kaishakunin, Toyota sat on special moisture-repelling mats with his wakizishi pointed at him. “To the customers of Toyota in America and in the rest of the world, I am very sorry. Forgiveness, please.” He then plunged the wakizishi into his abdomen, deftly slicing his belly open in a swift left-to-rightcut.  As his bowels spilled out onto the floor, Inaba grabbed Toyoda’s katana and finalized the ritual with dakikubi, nearly decapitating the repentant Toyoda.

Republican members of congress questioned the sincerity of Toyoda’s apology and ensuing
seppuku, saying, “How can we be sure the little fucker is really sorry?”  Others blamed the Obama administration for the lack of quality in Toyota’s products. “This is just another example of Obama’s failures,” said Hatch.

Local reaction to the ritualistic suicide on the floor of congress was mixed.  Smithfield, Utah resident Blaine Riley said, “People shouldn’t a’been buyin’ that Jap junk in the first place. What the fuck do you expect from shit not made right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.” He then got into his Dodge Ram pickup truck that was assembled at a plant in Mexico and drove to the nearest Wal-Mart to purchase a 30-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a set of wrenches that were forged in China.

Chevrolet and Ford are reacting quickly to capture the surge in patriotism caused by the Toyota safety issues. In the summer of 2010, Chevrolet plans to launch a compact Hybrid minivan called the Little Boy. Ford Motor Company also unveiled plans to launch a new full-ton pickup truck, the F-350 Fat Man. A brand new Chrysler sport-sedan is set to debut in early 2011. An inside source confirmed that the working name of this new sedan will be the Enola Gay. It is expected to roll out with Chrysler’s new slogan of “Our Cars Won’t Surge Out Of Control And Kill Your Family In A Violent Crash.”

“Oh this sweater? I found this ish(sic’d) at the D.I. Pretty cool huh?” Kanderton, appearing as if Urban Outfitters threw up all over him, remarked. “Yeah man, I find cool shit there all the time. but you really have to have an eye for the good stuff.

“I really want to find a pair of wing tips that I can wear to church, nothing overstated. I don’t want to seem like a dick, Jesus hates fashion statements,” said Kanderton, ascribing even more man-like qualities to a God who probably doesn’t exist, but if he did, probably wouldn’t give a shit what you wore to worship him.

Kanderton is balding from all his Christian guilt and nearly catatonic from his soul-crushing existence as pencil pusher at the local Wells Fargo bank. It’s a job he went 20k into debt and spent four years getting a degree for, so he could get a mediocre home on a small lot here in Cache Valley, keep up with the mortgage and try really hard to get one of those callings in the Mormon Church where he gets to sit on the dais and judge everyone who comes to sacrament meeting late. You know, all powerful and shit.

“If we were in Austin, or Los Angeles, this vintage 1998 Old Navy half-zip sweater would be 40 bucks in any authentic vintage clothing boutique you’d be lucky enough to find it in,” said Kanderton, who always matches his belt with his shoes. The irony being that the late-model sweater is only $14 a mile-and-a-half away at the actual Old Navy.

Kanderton showed off his Ralph Lauren windbreaker, which to the layperson looks just like a regular ass zip-up, and explained how it is actually a treasure that would fetch over $400 at a vintage clothing shop. Friends say Kanderton is no stranger to sartorial elegance and has been pointing out their faults for years. Kanderton reminded us how it doesn’t cost a lot to look nice, and that people should express themselves more through their clothes.  Kanderton  explained, “I’ve have always fancied myself a bit stylish, I grow a lazy beard a few times a year and wear black rimmed glasses occasionally, but not enough to wear that look out. And I never roll up my pleated khakis, especially ones with triple pleats. How boorish!”

“I could really use some nice mother-of-pearl cufflinks, but you know, I’d have nowhere to wear them,” Kanderton said while experimenting with different tie knots on this his new-to-him end on end, spread-collared shirt with french cuffs. “I’ll just take these shirts down to the local haberdasher and have then taken in a bit, so they fit me perfectly,” Kanderton said, admiring his Oscar De La Renta blazer. “I wish this thing had a sash lapel, rather than a peaked one…oh well.”

“You take a nice pair of madras shorts and match it with a nice American apparel deep-V shirt, you’ll look all dope,” Kanderton noted. He wistfully hopes that LDS will change its stance on alcohol, as it has with plural marriage, black people holding the priesthood, and soon to be ‘the gays’. “I think a  Pabst Blue Ribbon might be the only thing missing from my carefully crafted look and/or personality.”

The announcement, much like the one proposed in France last year, comes on the heels of a string of problems (other than just believing in god), all of which have involved members of the news staff wearing burqas and headscarves while at work.

“I just can’t take it any more,” said a noticeably irritated Chennault. “I’ve got [Nixion] Dickhouse coming in late every goddamn day, but when I approach him about it at his desk, he reminds me that there are dozens of people who came to work that day in head-to-toe burqas and that I’m being racist. Racist! Islam isn’t a fucking race!”

“And [Lordy] Tremain,” continued Chennault, now covered in a heavy while pounding his coffee mug on his desk, “don’t even get me started on Tremain!  I can’t even tell if it’s him who is coming to work anymore!  All I see is someone in a full fucking dress and face mask clocking in and heading in to the steam room.  Honestly it could be fucking anyone.  I wouldn’t put it past the barely-not-unemployed son of a bitch to pay one of his old homeless friends to put on that fucking outfit and clock in for him.  Jesus fucking Christ!”

In the company newsletter that Chennault writes and decorates with stickers on a bi-weekly basis, Chennault explained that the problems in the office are nearly all stemming from the burqas, so it only makes sense that the burqas have to go.

“It’s as simple as that,” Chennault wrote in the news letter. “And to those employees who say they would ‘feel naked’ without it, too fucking bad.  No one seems to have a problem with taking off their clothes for Casual Sex Friday, so I can see no real difference. Not to mention that as a news organization we are expected to be educated and based in reality, so I can not allow anyone to stoop to the point of pretending to believe in god just so they can wear a fucking dress to work.”

Inside sources say that what may have sparked the initial lashing out at Muslim culture around the office was when an eighteen year-old intern, who was hired by Lordy Tremain, for her “organizational skills and ass like an eighteen year-old intern” converted to Islam and started to cover up what she was good at.

“I really couldn’t communicate with her anymore,” said Tremain, or whoever it was faintly smelling  of Everclear behind a full Muslim face mask. “I hope she doesn’t suicide-bomb anything before next Friday; I want one more crack at that before we fire her.”

As of press time there was no comment from Allah the Goat Herder but sources say that Salman Rushdie thinks we’re next.

“My super-cool, secretive plans are too important for anyone to find out,” Bauer said. “Facebook? I tell even the vaguest acquaintances that I don’t use it.”

Since most of Bauer’s friends are college-age kids, he is one of the few remaining people he knows

without a Facebook account, something Bauer takes a lot of pleasure in telling virtually everyone he meets. And whenever he overhears someone else talking about their own Facebook account, Bauer is always there to make a jerking-off motion with his hand, and derisive remarks.

“He… he is just so principled. Principled, brave and handsome,” Bauer’s girlfriend of three years, Kelly Jones, said. “When he takes a meaningless, arbitrary stand against something, he makes sure you know about it.”

“I also don’t have a Myspace page,” Bauer, who is apparently unaware that no one else does anymore either, said. “Don’t bother searching for me because I’m not on there!”

According to official statistics provided to The Truant by Provost Raymond Coward, Bauer is the only student left on USU’s campus who doesn’t use Facebook, not counting the 45 blind kids who can’t use it for reasons that should be obvious unless you are an insensitive clod, in which case, it’s because they can’t see.

Coward called Bauer’s refusal to use Facebook “a stunning achievement” and “something that [Bauer] ought to bring up in conversations as often as possible, so as to draw attention to himself for not doing that.”

Bauer admitted that he sometimes does wish he had a Facebook account, if only because the status bar seems like a useful utility for bragging about not having a Facebook account to a large number of people at once.

“Also, I have a really good idea for a group I could start on Facebook,” Bauer said, “But putting the group on Facebook would defeat the purpose of the group, if you follow me.”

“Then I could put up a bunch of neat pictures on it,” Tavares sighed wistfully, “and other stuff.”

Tavares’ roommate, German exchange student Klaus Von Zauderberg, has been encouraging Tavares to follow his dream, and begin his cork collection.

“I tell him all ze time, ‘to ze victor go ze spoils!’” Von Zauderberg said. “Initiate your cork collection, und before you know it, you will have more zan enough corks to construct your board!”

Tavares, however, is unsure if he drinks enough wine to make the project worthwhile. “I’m more of a ‘Domestic, Light & Cold’ type of guy,” he said. “Maybe when I’m older.”

Tavares’ girlfriend, Tonya Reading, said she wants her darling Jakey to follow his dreams, but she is wary of the whole-cork-board-made-from-real-corks scheme.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” Reading said. “Remember his astronomy phase?”

Sewing seeds of doubt is the third roommate, who Von Zauderberg said everyone secretly hates.

“I don’t want there to be a bunch of random corks everywhere if I have company over,” said Dan Revere, a graphic design junior who is always bragging that he is a direct descendant of Paul Revere.

Tavares has been spending more and more time in his room lately, sketching possible designs for his corkboard. “I could build it really fast if I started drinking a glass of red wine every night for my heart, like my dad does,” he said. “I don’t know. It just looks kind of satsifying to glue the corks down two-by-two. But am I really a make-my-own-cork-board-from-real-corks guy?”

“It’s just so fucking pretentious,” Revere said. “People who make those cork boards out of real corks are just covertly bragging about all the different kinds of wine they have had.”

As of press time, Reading was at the liquor store, debating whether to bring over a bottle of wine for her date with Tavares tonight, or if that would be too manipulative.

Salutations. I am Provost Raymond T. Coward, and I’ve suffered from painful hemorrhoids for years.

For the uninitiated, hemorrhoids are an embarrassing, awkward condition of the rectum, wherein the veins become inflamed and bulge out into little cushions of blood vessels that burn and itch like the dickens.

There are many causes of hemorrhoids, and I, Ray Coward, have them all: poor diet, heavy smoker, lack of exercise, poor wiping technique, and, like the long-haul men of the road who gave “trucker’s disease” its name, I have a job which confines me to a sitting position for hours and hours, placing terrific pressure on my pelvic region.

Oh, how did I suffer, at the hands of the two hemmorhoidal bulges in my anal tissue. I began to call the twin demons I carried with me everywhere Urim and Thummin, and they gave me no relief. Up late nights straining on the toilet bowl, I cursed myself for mocking George Brett back in 1980, when hemorrhoidal pain took him out of game 2 of the World Series. I was convinced that karma had bitten me on the anus, and left two fang marks there which burned like coals, and occasionally bled profusely.

However, nothing could compare to the pain I felt during the workday, sitting there in a dreary tenure promotion meeting, my entire body weight resting on Urim and Thummin. It felt like gravity was sucking all the blood in my body into my hemorrhoids, each heartbeat threatening to make me leap out of my chair and scream in agony. It was like having a scorpion lodged up my ass, or sitting on one of the bile-belching fire flowers from Super Mario Bros.

Of course, in my role as provost, I could not betray the unending torment my of my ass to anyone on the outside. The provost can’t have hemorrhoids, you see, or all the deans will take it as a sign of weakness. My face remained grim and my tone measured, even as a fire-breathing lizard burrowed up my butthole with needle teeth. Oh, I’m sure my colleagues occasionally noticed me shifting around in my seat, transferring my body weight from side to side, and some may have heard me occasionally grunt or gasp in severe discomfort, or even seen beads of sweat running down my face, but it gets hot in those conference rooms in Old Main and tenure promotion meetings are long and arduous. There is no possible way anyone but my wife knows about my severe problems with hemorrhoids.

Nothing worked. Not aloe gels, not a donut to sit on, not any of a dozen soothing balms and lotions I tried, they just left big greasy blotches in the seats of all my drawers. Urim and Thummin seemed to be mocking me. As for Preparation H, don’t get me started. If I could prove what I believe, I could sue Wyeth for billions, because I believe that Wyeth’s product, Preparation H in all it’s insidious forms, actually perpetuates and worsens the disgusting varicosities it claims to treat.

The ever-present pain coming from my ass took all the joy out of my life. The only outlets I had for the pain and frustration of my constant burning rectal itch were dressing down my subordinates in meetings, and fucking professors out of tenure promotions. Ironically, after having what President Stan Albrecht called “the best season of any Provost in the history of Utah State,” denying 21 out of 23 tenure promotions, my hemorrhoids were inflamed so badly that it felt like a cackling devil was poking me in the backside with a scalding meat-fork, and I was bed-ridden for my own trophy presentation, with my wife holding an ice pack up to Urim and Thummin.

I am happy to report that my tale of woe took an abrupt turn for the better when, in desperation, I searched the internet for natural hemorrhoid remedies. And there, on a website called Earth Clinic dot com, I learned about how ancient druids in England who suffered from ferocious hemorrhoids first unlocked the healing power of the Apple Cider Vinegar, which they bought from their local Smith’s for $1.89 a jug, $1.59 with a Fresh Values card. Compare THAT to the $8.99 those criminals, Wyeth, charge for a tiny little tube of goop that doesn’t even work!

Cautiously wary yet eager, I bought my own bottle of Apple Cider Vinegar and took it home with me. After living with the pain of hemorrhoids for so long, I didn’t want to get my hopes up over some stupid fermented apple juice that was only going to let me down just as every other false ray of hope had done. Speaking of false rays, I can’t seem to hire a dean who lasts longer than a club hockey season, can I? But I digress.

“Just breath, Ray, try not to think about the fact that if this really works, you’ll finally be free to perform the duties of Provost of USU unhindered by incredibly painful hemorrhoids,” I said to myself as I took off my pants and dipped a Q-tip into the Apple Cider Vinegar.

The Apple Cider Vinegar burned like hell as soon as it touched the irritated flesh of Urim, the slightly larger and older hemorroidal growth. But somehow, it was a good kind of burn, a cleansing burn, the kind of burn that signified change, and freedom from the agony of hemorroids. After only a few weeks of the Apple Cider Vinegar therapy, my hemorrhoids–previously pea (Urim) and pencil-eraser (Thummin) size–were shriveled practically into nonexistence. I now no longer even need to use the magical Apple Cider Vinegar on a daily basis. I just follow proper wiping protocol – remember to cleanse the anus with what I like to call a ‘final wipe,’ using a medicated, septic-safe personal adult toilette!–and I only need to break out the Apple Cider Vinegar in case of a really severe hemorrhoidal eruption, like if I binge at Taco Bell and become horribly constipated.

How did Apple Cider Vinegar work where Preparation FAKE and so many others failed? How did a cheap household item tame two hemorrhoids so pernicious, they had forced me to verbally abuse seven receptionists into quitting in a twelve-month period? Who gives a shit? Maybe God placed Apple Cider Vinegar here on this earth because he wants his sons to be able to gorge themselves on empty carbohydrates without suffering any consequences. The point is, it worked, and it will work for you too, should your diet ever inflict hemorrhoids upon your butthole.

My days as a hemorrhoids sufferer are over, thanks to the miracle healing power of common Apple Cider Vinegar, and if anyone ever reminds me of my humiliating condition, like my wife, I will beat her within an inch of her life. I am only telling you Truant readers because I am fond of The Truant and of the clever commenters, like Plang and Johnny Utah. My favorite articles are the ones about retards, and the ones where people get fucked.

Respectfull Yours, I am,

Provost Raymond T. Coward

Office of President Stan Albrecht, Utah State University

I find myself vexed that I am not giving enough of what others should be receiving. I find myself making my twelve roses a baker’s dozen. I find myself toiling over the color of my scarf as to match the menu of this evening’s eatery.  I find myself over-tipping to compensate for me not quite being ready to order when the waiter asked me what I would like to eat.  I find myself masturbating because I am a gentleman.

I find myself lost in long lines of poetry, hoping to be found.  I find myself crawling through the peakless valleys of polite prescribed love. I find myself caring about others and donating to good causes. I find myself dreaming the impossible dream.  I find myself righting the impossible wrong.  I find myself masturbating because I am a gentleman.

I find myself minding the mending of old-hat kindred.  I find myself buying gifts for girlfriends long-gone and no longer giving.  I find myself waving the American flag in the name of what I believe.  I find myself politely changing what I believe to more wholly and holistically represent what others believe.  I find myself masturbating because I am a gentleman.

I find myself learning to cook.  I find myself embracing the sauces, thick and thin, that make meals more memorable.  I find myself inviting people over to join me for dinner that I would never really talk with, but I find it the couth thing to do.  I find myself waking up from sauce-filled slumbers, dreaming of gravies, grand and streaming. I find myself masturbating because I’m a gentleman.

I find myself going to State Street in Salt Lake City.  I find myself going to the Tenderloin in San Francisco. I find myself going under the bridge in Portland. I find myself awarding women to have me all over the world.  But I also find myself masturbating because I am a gentleman, and there is no way I am going to pay for sex and let that woman/person get my earliest nut,  fast and first.  Because deep down, I want my sex-worker to get her nut too.  Because deep down I think she deserves it.  Because deep down I can’t afford to pay her for two. Because deep down, I find myself masturbating because I am a gentleman.

…………………………….

I say to you today, my friends, even though we face the difficulties of this day and tomorrow, I am still a gentleman.  I am still a gentleman and that part of me is deeply rooted in jerking off and the American Dream.

I am, and will remain, Nixion Dickhouse, Benevolent Dictator for Life, a gentleman.