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Columns > Andy Miller - Real True Confessions With Padre Pienbique

Published: 2005/05/08
by Andrew Miller

Bukake Ahoy! And Other Sexual Liabilities

At this moment, somewhere in the Bohemian Bronx sits a man, alone in the dark, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. You see, the reason this man is so excited is because he gets to administer the most humiliating of punishments on a bad dog of a columnist who missed his deadline. The columnist is none other than myself as I’m sure you’ve guessed. However, what fate the man commonly known as Jon Schwartz has in store for me, I don’t know. All I can say in my defense is that I was on tour and missed picking up my email when the editor told me turn my article in on Wednesday. Now it’s Friday, but that’s my problem. So be it. If my article is late again next month because Schwartz cut my fingers of with tin snips (as I assume he’ll do), I want you, the lovely and present reader to know I tried.
But until then, let me entertain you with a rash of dirty stories that came to my attention this week.
Spring has come early to my fair state of Minnesota. What snow we never got last winter has already melted. The birds have come back- a little early, I suspect. My favorite sign of spring, the NFL draft, has blossomed with the annual promise that anybody, even the Detroit Lions, could be in position to win the big game. Even from the ground zero of Super Bowl follies, the purple faithful sleep like babies knowing that the upcoming regular season is simply a formality until the Vikings grab the brass ring they so eagerly crave and richly deserve.
Just as rain showers bring forth lovely flowers and the sonnet of spring can be heard on the breeze (Hooray, Hooray- It’s the 1st of May! Outdoor screwing starts today!), official football smack talk is now in season. Since my team has addressed the team’s weaknesses in their roster and filled more holes than a gang-bang, I’m happy to stand pat and let Dante’s arm do the talking.
As for the arch-rivals of my most righteous squad, I’m reveling in their misery- and yet left with drive to rub their noses in it. I’m compelled to this on any given day, for no better reason than I’m a natural smartass. However, this year the professional football franchise popularly known as the Green Bay Packers decided to make it personal. They have, without question, provoked me beyond all social graces. Their acts over the draft weekend are so heinous, so regrettable, that the only culprit for such despicability can reside across the border in Wisconsin. Let me explain.
In the first round of the draft, Green Bay’s new general manager upheld the long-standing tradition of breathing fresh incompetence into their corrupt and vile organization by blowing their highest pick on the one player that can’t help them this year. In this case, they picked a quarterback from out west somewhere, Aaron Rogers. Foolish, yes: but not totally insane. While it’s all fine and good that they admit that their chances are slim of even competing with my Vikings is admirable, their selection of a man all but guaranteed to be a child molester with the name "Rogers" is simply unconscionable. Again, let me explain.
My family is made up of some interesting characters. My uncle Johnny is a country-western music journeyman. He’s played guitar in the studio and on stage with just about anyone that mattered in his time. His guitar playing can be found anywhere from Willie Nelson’s first album to any number of gigs with Johnny Cash, Grand Ole Opry stars, anywhere western music thrived in the second half of the 21st century. He virtually made a career out of a theme song he wrote and performed for the classic cowboy TV series "Have Gun Will Travel". Even to this day, Uncle Johnny enjoys a nice schedule of performing live in between his regular gig as a DJ on a country radio station in Wichita, Kansas (where better for an old cowboy to ride out into the sunset?) His brother, my uncle Doug knows every- and I mean every- joke known to man. Beyond that, he’s the source for one of my favorite factoids: For decades, comedians employed prison inmates as joke writers. Convicts had plenty of time on their hands, worked for peanuts, and could be relied upon for edgy material.
Just as the definition of people described as "characters" insists a certain amount of personality is present in their being, there’s nothing to suggest that the personality present isn’t tainted the most sinister shade of scumbag. Among the gems in the shining tiara of my family crown rests a turd set in stone: My aunt B. ("Aunt B." is abbreviated more for my piece of mind than for her privacy; the last thing I want her to do is contact me, even to give me the satisfaction of her aggravation.)
To continue with my tale of the disgraceful Green Bay quarterback: Aunt B. had a talent for marrying Minnesota’s most questionable bachelors. Her first union was to a real piece of Rice County husbandry. Although I was too young to remember Uncle M. eating all the mashed potatoes at the Christmas dinner, the tale is retold every year. Perhaps the less said about the rest that holiday dinner, and of his failed marriage to my aunt, the better.
The perpetrator in question is her second husband, Uncle Roger. Uncle Roger exuded the kind of confidence usually displayed by cheesey used car dealers on a coke binge: Immaculately groomed dark hair, a Village People/Burt Reynolds mustache, and borderline suits that hints towards taste without committing to actually looking good. Outside of that, he also held a penchant for diddling Aunt B’s daughter from her first marriage when she was at work.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, when my grandma passed away, (thus leaving the family estate up for grabs) Aunt B. conveniently "discovered" with the help of repressed memory therapy that she too had been violated by her own father. Of course, this meant that she alone should inherit everything as compensation for her pain and anguish. Unfortunately for Aunt B., subsequent investigations of her therapist’s practices revealed that a few too many patients had followed suit, leveraging uncovered repressed memories of sexual abuse into paydays at the family trough. For the record, the therapist in question has since been disbarred, although I don’t know if Dr. Diddle For Dollars ultimately blamed her fall from grace on yet another repressed abuse. However, I can be sure that Aunt B. parlayed her alleged abuse into an excuse to dismiss her inability to confront Uncle Roger’s happy hands.
Thus, with the exception of TV’s Mr. Rogers, whenever I hear the name "Roger"- in all its forms- I cringe under the mental association I have with Uncle Roger. No matter if you’re from Rogers, Minnesota, Kenny Rogers, or just think it’s cool to say "Roger, Roger", I can only think of you as a filthy diddler.
What is in a name? Nothing good, if we’re to believe Green Bay’s general manager Ted Thompson’s jubilant acquisition of Aaron Rogers. I know that many of you would question the validity of my prejudicial treatment of Aaron Rogers based solely upon the team he plays for. You may be right. But then again, I wouldn’t be so perverse as to advertise my professional moniker in concurrence with the name of a disturbed ex-uncle. And shame on those who would… I mean, gross.
I was in North Dakota two days ago, enjoying a morning hot tub when I was witness to the most shocking display of "found porn" in recent memory. (I classify this episode as "found porn" in adverse to porn on purpose. The difference between the two is that found porn is supposedly circumstancial. But I think you may suspect some kind of funny business after hearing this one…)
Like I said, I was relaxing in poolroom at the Holiday Inn, Grand Forks when a mother and her three children burst on the scene, creating playtime havoc and destroying my peace. In the middle of the sizeable swimming pool was a child’s paradise: standing thirty feet tall with every kind of swinging-monkey-bar-play-thing hanging off it was a gigantic jungle gym/ water park
Every kid’s fantasy could be realized on this; it was cool looking, it was free, and best of all, it was completely unoccupied. The three charges descended upon this tropically themed monstrosity with the kind of explosive glee often seen on the faces of victorious game show contestants. I have to admit that I was a bit jealous. But I think folks would act upon their concern if they witnessed a 32 year-old longhair going bananas on a child’s water park. It would look a little disturbing, but not as disturbing as the events soon to follow.
After watching the kids play for a moment, I went back to my meditations in the tub. Besides, the new Megadeth album was under my employ for the morning’s soundtrack and I didn’t want to lose my concentration. About ten minutes later, I noticed the boy had found one of the water cannons and started shooting his sisters as they ran by. This seemed just as innocent as it look fun, but soon things got weird.
Coincidentally (or not), when the average kid stands in the shooting position at the water cannon, it just so happens that the swivel the cannon is mounted on comes to his hip. The cannon, of course, is quite phallic-looking, more so with the water shooting out the tip, but why it was also painted the color Crayola Crayons used to label as "Flesh" until they figured out all kids have skin, available in several hues. What really knocked me out was the weld that held the tip of the cannon to the shaft: a ring of discoloration at weld gave it the illusion of being circumsized. When you hold the trigger to shoot the cannon, you look like you’re doing the only thing you could be doing- taking a leak.

As I was saying, the boy had started squirting his sisters running below him. Back and forth they ran screaming in delight as their brother was giving them a metaphorical golden shower. By this time, I had ditched the iPod, as my interest was peaked elsewhere. To my astonishment, the boy was screaming something like "I am your King! Dance for your King!" as he peed on his subjects below.
Beyond the water-squirting metal penis, which had to be the most poorly disguised twisted joke I ever seen, everything that happened could be construed as innocent fun, no matter how bad it looked. Innocent enough, until the parents broke out the camera. There, in front of me, God and any bellboy walking by, the mother snapped photo after photo of the King blowing his wad on to his sisters faces as they danced for his majesty. Since this was taking place in the middle of North Dakota, I’m inclined to give the parents the benefit of the doubt. It is not as if the kinkier variations of scat play have taken this part of the country by storm; it’s really a New York City kind of thing, more suited to the cutting edge in Bohemian Bronx circles than the family farm.
This doesn’t mean it wasn’t the funniest fucking thing I’d seen in months…
I picked up the scoop on this next bit off Robert Anton Wilson’s website. While I’ve discussed the German tendency to act in bed as though they’re playing on a water park jungle gym, I’ve never thought something like this could happen in the real world.
The University Clinic of Lubek reported a couple who continued to be childless even after eight years of marriage and a battery of tests confirmed that both would-be parents are perfectly healthy and fertile. Perplexed, doctors searched for less obvious clues to their barren baby oven. The answer was accidentally stumbled upon during an interview with the couple.
Said a clinic spokesman: "When we asked them how often they had had sex, they looked blank, and said: "What do you mean?"
Apparently, both the husband and the wife were raised in religious households and were simply unaware of the sexual process necessary to get pregnant. Personally, I wish somebody would come up and tell me something like that. Discovering something that good in my advanced age would make me feel like a kid in a candy store.
According to the Associated Press, the 30-year-old wife and her 36-year-old husband are now being given sex therapy lessons while the university clinic undertakes a study to try to find out if there are more couples with a similar lack of sex education.
Only in Germany.
As an addendum, my story about Poopey Pants the Roadie attracted more interest than I would have guessed. In fact, some guy from asked for permission to reprint the story on his site. I replied that it would be fine with me.
That was before I got to thinking: What kind of man would run a website that solely reports stories on poop? Do they have an investigative team like the news? Some kind of Detective Doody? Beyond that, to whom are they reporting to? What are the chances that they are Big Wu fans? If not, am I sure I’m comfortable with engaging the average dude? Are they a secret society? Do they have a secret handshake? Do they wash their hands first? So many questions, and perhaps thankfully, so few answers.
Be nice to your mother, drink your milk, and see you at the Big Wu Family Reunion!

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