Mistress Nancy New House Dominatrix

t the notorious brothel in our nation's capital known simply as The House, there's a new madam ready to crack the whip. Literally.

Taking over the reins from former Master David Boneya, Mistress Nancy Peniso is the first female to head up The House in its long and storied history. It's a change that she says was a long time coming, much like many of the clients.

"In today's climate of pan-sexuality, it only makes sense that we have a shared dynamic in heading up this bastion of pain and pleasure, you insignificant little worm," Peniso was quoted as saying through gritted teeth. "Now lick my patent-leather boots until they shine, slave!" she added.

Citing The House's beginnings as a strictly gay male club that specialized in infantilism and fetishes, Peniso went on to say that "It's about time some of those tired old sissy-Marys get their come-uppance. We're entering a new century, and S&M is the new norm. Women have a role to play, and it isn't just as submissives tied to a rack for a little light whipping, or the occasional use as a cigar humidor. From now on, these members of the old boy network will have to beg Mistress's permission to go sticking their tongues into just any old orifice that happens to present itself."

Former Master Boneya, who is moving on to become President and CEO of Glory Hole Video Booths, Inc., was moved to tears in the ritual ceremony relinquishing power to Mistress Nancy.

"This is one of the most – ow! -- pleasurable and – urf!! – painful days of my life," Boneya cried, assuming the classic submissive position and receiving a thorough caning as he passed on the ceremonial whip, ball gag and buttplug to the Mistress. "I hope she serves all you – ooooh! – slaves and bitches well. Ow, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!!"

Visibly shaken, Boneya was then led away in leather restraints while Peniso busied herself with a few hooded lobbyists and a red-hot branding iron.

"We're going to lay down some laws now, boys," she said with a twinkle in her eye and an evil grin. "The House is in session!"

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Who's to blame, good people? That's what I've been asking myself all week: Who's to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, "Why did they cancel Gunsmoke when it was just getting good?"

The earlier question has been inspired by an incident that happened last Sunday, friends. I was enjoying an issue of Hot Dog magazine, as I'm prone to do on occasion, when my charming neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch stopped by for a visit. As you may or may not know, people who are very close to dying in their old age make a "visit" a huge event, and Mrs. Hardlevilch is no exception. She was dressed in her finest pantsuit and babushka.

The three of us--myself, Mrs. Hardlevilch and my long-suffering wife, Arvelyn--all sat around talking over the state of things, or more commonly the state of things in 1949, the last year before everything went to pot in America. Mrs. Hardlevilch became very flustered and excited when I did my famous Louis Armstrong-in-a-blender impression, and that's when it happened.

Mrs. Hardlevilch wet my sofa! And floor, thanks to some unsightly dribbling, but mostly my sofa is what I'm concerned about.

Needless to say, I was perturbed. At first Mrs. Hardlevilch apologized rapidly, still laughing uncontrollably at my dead-on impression, and offered to build a time machine to go back fifteen minutes and put some plastic on the sofa before she sat down. I was intrigued, but it quickly became apparent her theories of time travel and plans to carry it out were extremely flawed. Within another minute, Mrs. Hardlevilch was convinced someone had entered the room and pissed on her, completely forgetting her role in staining my couch.

I'm now at my wit's end, and it wasn't far to go, let me tell you. I'm left asking, as I said before, who's to blame? Sure, I could sue Mrs. Hardlevilch in a court of law, but no jury is going to convict a withered old fossil of public urination since I'm not sure it's a crime and, truthfully, my living room isn't considered public domain. If I had deemed to shoot her, sure, it would have been legal, but her pissing all over my couch left me without much recourse of action once the moment for retaliation passed. Not that I would ever shoot the dear old women, she'd probably think it was the Kaiser shelling her homeland or something anyway.

If Mrs. Hardlevilch is not to blame, who is? Through some late-night detective work, I managed to find out Mrs. Hardlevilch wears Dapper Debutante brand adult "pads," so that offered me some hope. But so far all threatening letters have not received any offer to settle out of court, and I'm sure signing them with my real name wouldn't help. This means, of course, that there is a faulty product out there in Dapper Debutante adult "safety nets" and behind them is a company unwilling to admit they're responsible for the puddles of the greatest generation.

In the end, as Arvelyn pointed out, I probably have no one to blame but myself. There is nothing funnier in the world than my Louis Armstong-in-a-blender impression; I knew this and carried forth with thoughtless drive to entertain, floors and sofas be damned. More than a reasonable number of healthy young Americans have relieved themselves all over my property in response to my humoriffic comedy "closer." This might seem enough reason for anyone to stop, but I know I won't. The world needs hilarious impressions of famous loveable singers suffering severe torture in a comical fashion, and I think a sofa, after all is said and done, is a small price to pay.

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Pitchers and catchers have reported, and I say it's about damn time. Every job I've ever taken the winter off from has canned my ass, so what makes these prima donnas so special? I refuse to root for any player who doesn't spend his winter driving a bus down in the Mexican winter league or wielding a shammy at my local car wash. As you might imagine, I don't root much.

And as if these manicured Mollies didn't have it easy enough, now they get to spend the next several weeks thinking about maybe starting to get ready to play a kids' game while working on their tans and playing grab-ass with half the male population of the Dominican Republic. Find me another profession, anywhere, where workers get to spend a good solid month goofing off and farting around down in Florida before they even have to start "working," if you can call shooting steroids into your teeth and hitting line drives at Steve Trachsel all day "work."

And who the hell decided to call this "Spring" training? I don't know where you live, but around here winter's just getting started. The last few months were just winter's way of saying "Howdy Doo?" I expect at least three more solid months of raining ice and frozen spinal fluid before the sun comes out again.

Regardless, baseball is carrying on as if it were hospitable outside, so we have little choice but to play along and take a jaundiced gander at what the upcoming season holds in store.

The Cubs show up at spring training this year amidst high hopes and nervous anticipation. After spending a record number of greenbacks this offseason in hopes of buying a title, fans know the Cubs are going to blow it somehow, but everyone is excited to see how they do it this time. Can the Cubs pull off another miracle collapse, or will they let their fans down by bringing a World Championship to Chicago? It hasn't happened since 1908, but the thought still wakes up many a Cubs fan in the middle of the night in a cold, terror-stank sweat.

What about the Yankees? The Yanks were embarrassed yet again in 2006 by failing to bring home their yearly trophy, which went instead to... whoever won last year. Don't pretend you remember who it was. Instead of their usual winter routine of shanghaiing all the competition's best talent over the offseason, the boys from New York took a different tack this year, instead casting off assholes like a hot air balloon sinking toward shark-infested pudding. First to go was historic malcontent Gary Sheffield, who was thrown to the Tigers like a Christian sightseeing in Rome. Next came Randy Johnson, the world's tallest asshole according to Guinness, who was sent back to the desert trailer park from whence he came in exchange for two jock straps and a copy of "Girls Gone Wild: Greenland." Somewhere in the mix Jared Wright was also shoved drunk onto a bus headed for Baltimore, a fine thanks for all the hard work he did in raising the Yanks' ERA to league average over the last few years.

The Giants handed former Oakland ace Barry Zito a blank check this winter and told him to fill in whatever he thought was fair, then shit blood for three weeks straight after seeing the figure Zito and secret agent Scott Boras had inked in. Ten bucks says they don't repeat that same mistake next offseason, when the contracts are up for several of their stadium's Haitian pretzel venders. Regardless, the Giants will be a better team for having Zito and his yoga dipshit shtick on board, but unfortunately the relevant question there is "Better than what?" and the answer is the Royals. Sorry, gays and other assorted San Fran residents.

The Royals also got a lot better this offseason, throwing money blindly at the free-agent class until some of it stuck to a guy nobody had ever heard of before. Too bad the relevant question with them is also "Better than what?" and the answer is the Topeka Devil Dogs on acid.

The Red Sox spent a massive pile of cash on Japanese import Becky Matsuzaka, though through a clever accounting loophole managed not to give the player any of it. American batters likely aren't ready for Matsuzaka's patented kamikaze pitch, which involves the pitcher charging home plate and diving through the strike zone with the ball in his back pocket. Matsuzaka, however, is unlikely to be ready for teammate Manny Ramirez, who so far has played all his spring training innings wearing a wedding dress that once belonged to Mariel Hemmingway. The Red Sox are poised to out-weird the competition this year, just like they did in their championship 2004 season.

Everybody else? They got worse. Sucks to be a fan, I know.

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