merica’s nuts were chapped a bright red this week with news that former FBI second-in-command W. Mark Felt, 91, had come out of hiding to end a 30-year mystery, announcing that he was Deep Throat, star of the semenal porn film that took the country by storm in 1972.

Americans from all walks of life gagged at the news and the sight of Felt, who has aged poorly since his starring role as the sex kitten known for her plucky personality and propensity for swallowing rod all the way down to the balls.

Despite lacking establishment distribution or any tangible evidence of a script, the 1972 film Deep Throat was a gigantic hit, inspiring excessive repeat business from about a dozen guys who couldn’t get enough of the erotic “art film.� Even a lawsuit from the Sword Swallowers’ Guild over the film’s title couldn’t slow the movie’s success, and it went on to gross over $600 million in musty theaters nationwide.

Over the years, “film buffs� and conspiracy theorists have debated endlessly over Deep Throat’s identity, concocting a long list of likely suspects including White House counsels John Dean and Fred Fielding, speechwriter Pat Buchanan, and Nixon chief of staff Alexander Haig, who colleagues admit looks particularly fetching in a halter top and g-string bikini.

For readers who vomited during that last paragraph, hope remains that this could all be one big misunderstanding. Some have suggested that Felt wasn’t Deep Throat at all, and is merely a sad old man grasping at his last stab at fame before he kicks it. Though such strange sex fantasies coming from an old man may strike some as unlikely, in fact it is not an unusual syndrome, as can be documented by Dr. Nikolai Balsvet of the McClurg Institue.

“Many older gentlemen Mr. Felt’s age have a tendency to confuse porn with reality,� explained Balsvet. “They often re-imagine their lives as tawdry purveyors of humiliating sexual excess, cum-dumpsters, cock-hungry hose hounds drooling for shaft, feeling no shame in their fevered pursuit of raw Johnson.�

“It’s not unusual for a man of Mr. Felt’s age to mistake his life story for that of a dirty slut who spent her life begging for smoking hot man missile,� agreed Dr. Lou Morales of the mail-order clinic. “Most elderly men go through a similar phase. I’ve based my entire practice just treating geriatrics who think they were Traci Lords.�

Industry insiders confirm this trend, pointing out that the 40-year reunion parties for most porn films are attended by more elderly former accountants than they are dried up post-hotties with silicone bags bouncing off their sneakers.

“Back in my day, I couldn’t get enough of the dong,� explained retiree Elmer Bainbridge, purported female star of the 1964 porn epic Muffin-Stuffin’ 3. “I was insatiable,� added Bainbridge, coughing up something wet and abundant into a handkerchief.

Felt’s family is standing behind the former FBI official in spite of the controversy.

“I love my dad regardless of whether he’s a delusional old fart or a former gutter-slut blowjob queen,� explained proud daughter Joan Felt to the media. “Those are all just different sides of the man I call dad.�

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Toudle-Lou and Toudle-Lee sat in a tree and ate cranberries. That's the way they'd wile away a Thursday in the land of Margoline. Some are fonder of a wander through the woods, while peeling strands of string cheese. But not the Toudles, for them noodles were as stringy as they cared to be.

One day Morris, in his Taurus, drove to Margoline. He'd tied a blender to his fender for making blue Icees. And unlike monks, who love the chunks, Morris liked his smooth. He voted chunkless, like his uncles, who signed up at a State Fair booth.

So Lou and Lee sat in their tree, eating their berries cran. They talked to Roger, a salty codger, who lived in a bright yellow van. They'd been through hobbies, like sleeping in lobbies, and making underwear out of cats. They'd sat in a urinal while folding the Journal into intricate stock-market hats. But even lawn bowling and old bathtub trolling had left them feeling fizzless and flat. So up in that tree is where they will be if you come round looking for your cat.

Morris and me crashed our car in that tree one Thursday late in July. The Toudles fell down with a thunderous sound and the blender flew up in the sky. Roger the codger and a lodger named Hodger ran up to inspect the commotion. The scene was a mess as everything, I confess, was all covered in cranberry lotion.

But in spite of the gore and all the marshmallow spores that swirled round like a tornado in Texas, the Toudles, I thought, were more excited than not since they though that the car was a Lexus. They drove it away, and when Morris yelled "Hey!" we just heard the horn beep "ta-ta" as they headed toward Rio. Morris thought I was wrong, he said "They're beeping along to Da Da Da by that German band Trio."

So the Toudles survived and are well and alive though now Lou has blenders on the brain. Lee accidentally ate a bird and the last that I heard the Toudles were laughing at mules out in Spain. That's the rumor today, though the word, as they say, can get twisted round as it carries. And now Morris and me sit here in their old tree and wonder where they found the berries.

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Never let it be said Clarissa Coleman lets a defeat get to her, 'cause I'll kick the guy who says it in the balls.
Case in point, the disappointing showing of my new UPN sitcom Archipelago Law. I had a shot at the big small time, the 6th network, and it didn't hit. The executives were pricks and had it in for us since day one, but I'm not bitter about the missed chance screwed up on purpose by those gargantuan dildos. No, I pick up the pieces and move on, looking for some Elmer's glue.

That means moving back to the world of commercials. No doubt I would rather be doing movies, car show appearances, or the penultimate acting experience, television, but if those avenues are drying up in this nasty recession, I can still turn my attention to commercials. Commercials are more popular than ever. Commercials are on TV, in movie theaters, on radio, on big signs by the side of the road, in front of urinals when you pee (I hear), on the sides of buses, and constantly popping up your ass on the Internet. Sounds like ripe material for me to exploit.

Sure, I can get all pissy about it like Cher when she sunk so low she had to do that infomercial, but I'm a survivor, like that fat naked gay guy. You can rub my face in a big pile of crap, what do I do? I shrug, tell you to get me a Kleenex, and come running back for more. Well, not for more of the crap, but… never mind. The analogy is about to make me throw up.

The point is, I can do commercials. I even make an art out of it. A lot of actors say they could never do commercials, because they're so gaudy. Hello! You'll show up to the Oscars with your ass hanging out and resting on a trolley cart because some fashion designer says it's cool—you're already a tool, at least get paid for it. Some actors say they can't do a commercial if they don't believe in the product. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't have a problem acting with a puppet who's supposed to be an outer space alien who eats cat, but the minute he brings up the subject of cheap long distance your credibility is stretched to the breaking point? Shut-up and tell them the number, collect your check, and hit the road, Pacino.

I make an art out of commercials. Really, I work at it, like a method actor. I even put up mirrors in weird places at my apartment, then forget about them. That way I open a cabinet looking for the peanut butter, see my face and get surprised—now I know what it looks like to be surprised by how good that peanut butter is. When I act surprised, by golly I can make it convincing. I sort of retrieve that emotional memory of seeing a lady's head in the pantry with my peanut butter. I could write a book about it, really, if books weren't so goddamned boring.

You may remember that commercial I did back in 1996, when I'm cleaning my face with the zit cream and smile real big, saying, "Pimples can't do shit against Extra-Strength Oxy!" They cut out my line and just showed my surprised expression when the zit cream worked, but my face said the same line better than my voice did. I knocked that bastard out of the park. I bet if I called up Oxy tonight and told them I was doing commercials again they would jump at the chance to shoot a sequel. I could be like that Orbit gum girl, a recurring commercial character.

For anyone who says commercials aren't creative—get over yourself. It's not like Gunsmoke on Gilligan's Island was a great idea either. At least UPN can't cancel me if I'm selling a beer to minors.

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