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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Drug lords of the world can rest easier now, Clarissa Coleman is out of the narcotics business once and for all.

Before the feds jump on my gullet they should know I didn't really mess with anything illegal. Coca plants or whatever they call them, cannabis, all of that already illegal stuff is off limits as far as I'm concerned. The whole point of getting involved in narcotics in the first place was to create a drug that's both legal and gets you fucked up. And I think I can say I failed, so have no fear, D.A.R.E., you won't have to keep kids away from my product. It doesn't exist.

Everybody enjoys a little buzz now and again, let's not kid anybody. I'm sure Bob Dole got lit on something now and then, I have a friend who has a messed up arm like that and he sure didn't serve in the Gulf or wherever. Just an acid trip that confined itself to his right arm and has yet to stop. My challenge, as I thought of it while getting baked a few weekends ago, was to create a legal upper/downer/all-arounder and peddle it to my friends, family, and yes, some street junkies or whoever wanted a hit of my wonder drug.

Some of you are probably thinking I don't have what it takes to make a highly-addictive non-lethal narcotic, since I never got my college degree or anything. But you naysayers can hold your tongues. I'm sure the guy with crack had a lot of guys telling him he couldn't do it, like the D.E.A. or the cocaine companies. I'm not going to let that stop me.

I will, however, let failure stop me. And I've had way too much of it. Don't let anyone fool you, the guy who created crack must have been a scientist or something, though I don't know of any college that has a major drug research and development department. Maybe he's self-taught, but either way I wouldn't want to challenge him at chess. Because he's got to be smart, and I don't know how to play chess anyway.

Really I'm not saying I can't create an exciting psychotropic chemical trip in bite-sized pill form, I'm just saying that I can't do it with the equipment currently available to me. Which is to say a bath tub and a blender. I've bought tons of cleaning chemicals and food spices, hoping some kind of combination will produce the exact kind of buzz I'm looking for: A sustained feeling of exhilaration or light-headedness. Instead of such a feeling I've often just created some mild or severe form of chemical poison which has resulted in three trips to the emergency room and too many blackouts to count. Doctors have advised me to give up my experiments entirely, or at least stop using window cleaner, it's a dead end.

I may be finished with drug creation for good. At least until there's no more blood in my stool. It's probably for the best. Leave the drugs to the drug scientists and the Child Star columns to the Child Star columnists, I say, at least just now I said it.

It's too bad, I had real visions for safe, legal alternative to the current crop of dangerous drugs out there. I was only really stopped by the fact I have no business working with chemicals or drugs in any fashion. Until the day I hook up with someone to do that mule work for me I guess I'll be stuck as a fan of drugs rather than part of the creative process.

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Imagine my dismay when I was driving in the great state of Arkansas earlier this year, the window down and enjoying the smell of oppression, listening to Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" on the radio, when the local newsboy interrupts to tell me the news that the space shuttle Columbia had blown up on its way to landing. I could not have been more infuriated—everyone knows "Heart of Gold" is the best Neil Young song ever. The astronauts would not have been any more expired had they waited another few minutes to give me the news.

Not that I take the death of astronauts lightly. They are the pilgrims of space, without dressing in the stylish black as much. It was a shame, but I have been writing angry, rambling letters to NASA for years advocating the use of weaponry on shuttles, and it was sad that someone had to get killed before they'd realize the wisdom in the suggestions.

Yes, hopefully when they file the official report on the Columbia shuttle disaster, of course blacking out the good parts with ample use of a Sharpie, the one good piece to come out of all this will be the recommendation of equipping future space shuttles with high-tech cannons and other defensive machinations. The fact Columbia was wiped out so efficiently only proves we are getting closer than ever to the alien lifeforms we've been seeking all this time.

I'm the first person here on terrestrial earth to sing the praises of peace, of trying to work out all our problems through non-violent means; but these green-blooded bastards have never heard of Gandhi, and non-violence means about as much to them as blassalbe grizzlesnorp means to us. Which is alien for "Whatcha cookin'?" if you must know. Yes, I say if the aliens want some, we bring it. Bring it hard.

Laser weapons are effective, true, but mighty costly and really only more visually fun to look at, not any strategic value. It is plain to the most uninformed observer, as I have observed, that laser weapons as used by the unidentified aliens, were used to some effect while Columbia was in space to wound the shuttle so mortally it wouldn't survive the return trip. But if these fancy pants think our weapons don't have enough pop to show them a thing or two, let's show them how it's done down here.

Traditional repeating firearms are more than enough for these pricks. Ample streams of gunfire will make our point quite nicely, and the fact you don't see a neon stream of green hurtling toward you gives you, as an alien, less chance to move out of the way. The real cool thing about space, should we engage in orbital dogfights, which I'm excited enough about prospecting to wet myself, is that with no friction in space and very little in the way of safe cover, these bullets will go on until they hit something, somewhere. Aliens can't outrun them! And even if they did, the things would keep coming, slow and steady, like the tortoise following the hare. Only this tortoise turns alien flesh into sloppy joe meat.

It goes without saying, until I say it, our first intentions should be to get on friendly terms with these aliens. No doubt they can help us with their endless advanced technology in areas of space travel and medicine and convincing an entire species to wear the same outfits. And we can help them become more profit-oriented and learn to argue amongst themselves.

But, just to make it clear, don't let them think we're pushovers. A size 10 shoe leaves a mighty big footprint on gray alien ass.

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