Sexual Dysfunction Fastest Growing Disease

mm, don't you know it—even in a world where cancer, AIDS, and any number of illnesses run unchecked and uncured, claiming victims by the millions, one other taker has been revealed as the fastest-spreading (no pun intended) disease of the 21st century: Sexual dysfunction. The revelation is based on money spent on research and treatment in America, by Americans. While sexual dysfunction hasn't seem to reached other continents at quite the same level, the western world, and especially America, suffers astronomical degrees of sexual dysfunction.

Dr. Clammy Goodtime, and yes, that is his real name, has spearheaded (again, pun not intended) an international investigation into sexual dysfunction, based on the spending of major drug companies and private citizens on treatment. According to Dr. Goodtime, sexual dysfunction has become epidemic in the western world, where up to 20% of all money flowing into the medical profession is directed. In other regions of the world, such as Africa, the percentage is less than zero, but Dr. Goodtime remains confident the low numbers are based on a lack of diagnosis and reporting of sexual dysfunction, rather than some high-quality banging going on continent-wide.

"In most cases, even here in America, sexual dysfunction was strangely under-reported right up until the 1970s," said Dr. Goodtime, stroking his charming soulpatch. "Then, in the 1980s, major improvements in diagnosing the sexually-inadequate were made, thanks to the pioneering research of those like Dr. Ruth Westheimer. You reach the 1990s and all of a sudden the sexually-impaired were coming out of the woodwork, figuratively speaking, to treat their dysfunction. We now stand, in the early twenty-first century, as having the highest population in the history of the world with diagnosed sexual dysfunction. Take that, ancient Rome!"

Dr. Goodtime reports, darling, that in thirty short years sexual research has gone from a stodgy, secretive area of study to a mainstream psychological phenomenon. Years ago, before television and the media opened up the discussion of sex for everyone, sexual dysfunction was only diagnosed in rare and extreme cases, such as those with a severe phobia to sex. These days, patients can—and frequently do—diagnose themselves.

Advertisements for medications that prolong sexual function after its normal duration, such as Viagra or Cialis, and devices such as the Intrinsa "sex patch" have attempted to restore the libido of a twentysomething to those who might not naturally have the urge to have sex as much as they used to. On the outer perimeter of such research are also medications which can enhance the physical qualities of both men and women to make them more sexually appealing to people who want nothing to do with them.

Other treatments for sexual dysfunction—regardless of the cause—are already in the works by medical companies who want to cash in on the billion-dollar tragedy of reduced sexual activity. Among other potential treatments, Procter & Gamble is developing a "sex box," a device applied to the genitals which can treat the common problem suffered by many men and women who suffer sexual dysfunction from not finding anybody willing to fornicate with them. The product is undergoing research right now, and no, sweetie, they've got enough volunteers for the study already.

Some, like Badgeport, Tennessee apple grower Wilfred Canton, are grateful to the medical profession for focusing so much attention on sexual dysfunction instead of more incurable illnesses such as diabetes and heart disease.

"I'm a child of the sixties, man, I grew up in the age of the sexual revolution," Canton said. "I spent my childhood wishing I was old enough to have sex, and I spent my teen-age years thinking I should be having a lot, lot more of it. In my twenties and thirties, I spent all my time having sex whenever I could, at the expense of developing more lasting relationships with people. Now that I'm going to be forty, you're telling me I'm going to start losing the urge? Nuh-uh. I didn't spend my life with an unhealthy focus on sex just to have it end now."

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There's been a lot of fuss around the commune offices lately about the upcoming presidential election, and it's high time Omar Bricks weighed in on the action: I say Lil Duncan takes Ivana Folger-Balzac in four rounds. That's a controversial wager, I realize, but I hear Balzac's been betting heavily against herself under the assumed name of Flora Wackser and I've got it on good authority that she's going to take a dive in the fourth.

Even if the upcoming breakroom fight weren't fixed, I'd still be wondering if Balzac was going to be her usual invincible, dirty-fighting self, since she only started the "commune Republicans Club" to piss off the rest of the staff and isn't likely to put it all on the line defending the club's honor. Plus, the only other commune Republican who could get her back if Duncan pulled a knife would be Ted Ted, who's mad enough for a man twice his size but still remains listed as a generous three-foot four on his trading card.

Have you seen these things? Emil Zender's been printing them out on his home computer, a collectable set of the entire commune staff. They're like Garbage Pail Kids, only ugly.

Seriously though, If you haven't seen them yet, the cards are pretty sharp. They've all got pretty awesome embarrassing pics of commune staffers on the front with their vital stats on the back. Ted Ted's is hilarious since somebody somehow had a camera ready when they caught him humping that baby-CPR doll in the closet last month.

I'm in the deck too, of course, but the picture on my card's just an out-of-focus shot of me building a Loch Ness Monster decoy in my garage for that hoax last year, when I was planning on riding it across the East River and into the city like I'd made Nessie my bitch. They should have got a photo of that fuckin' thing sinking into the river like a lead weight with an asscramp and me getting that helicopter ride back to land, but I guess the technology's not quite there to have a whole video clip from the news playing on a baseball card.

Anyway, while we're on the subject, I might as well weigh in on the lame-assed presidential election itself. You know Omar Bricks doesn't waste a lot of time thinking about politics, but when I do I think this: It's time we elected Evel Knievel as the President of the United States. I'll wait a second for the reasoning behind this to become obvious to you.

First and most obviously, I can't vote for Bush. Bush is like the guy you knew in the fourth grade who would light his farts on fire, until he came across a set of flammable drapes and ended up burning half the house down. Maybe when Bush grows up he'll turn out to have real presidential potential, but for now I think we need to protect the White House drapes.

And I'm pretty sure I pantsed John Kerry in the seventh grade. According to office dickwad Raoul Dunkin, that's mathematically impossible, but I'd remember that sour mug anywhere. So no way I can vote for that guy.

Ralph Nader? Sounds too much like Darth Vader. No way I'm voting for some Star Wars geek, he'd probably blow half the budget funding research on the Force. Though I have to admit, I would pay good money to see a presidential debate where Nader does that little throat-pinchy gesture and the other guy drops dead. That would be pretty decisive.

But if Nader could pull that shit off, he probably would have done it last election so he wouldn't have had to spend the last four years working at that organic grocery out in Portland. So really, when you stop and think about it, Evel Knievel's our only good choice.

How hard would the vote be rocked if we had a debate where all the candidates had to out-stunt each other on live TV? I guarantee you some voter turnout for that shit. Let's see Bush or Kerry jump a motorcycle over a dozen school buses or a tank full of starving sharks. No need to take polls over who won the debate when the runner-up ran over his own pelvis or shattered his spine on national television.

And you can forget all this bullshit about purple hearts and who's got the balls to fight the war on terror, let one of those other guys strap a rocket to his ass and try to jump across the Colorado River. Not going to happen. So Knievel wins in a landslide, and he gets sworn in while surfing down a real landslide on a TV tray. Shit yeah.

The only thing that can stop him now is if he's already dead. I need to look that up.

Bricks out.

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You homos sure are convincing. Well, you can lay off with the grand descriptions of homo lifestyle, because I'm once again one of you!

Well, not a homeowner, if that's the specific meaning of "homo." But a home-liver, on the insider, a deep-inside homo. And it's all thanks to my new friends, the Russians.

Not all the Russians, mind you, but one Russian. You know me, good people, knowing one is like knowing all of them. Sure, I was instantly distrustful of her when I heard that thick Russkie accent, but when I saw her face, I was a daydream believer, just like the Brass Monkeys say. It was a little odd how I heard her voice before I saw her face, but that's one of the things you have to acclimate to when you live on the street and sleep under last week's Wall Street Journal, which I might note was covered in what smelled like human urine. There was a dry copy of the Village Voice nearby, but I hadn't lost that much dignity yet, good people.

Yes, Felchyana's face has the beauty and charm of a bookie. And if you don't think that's a compliment, you've never dealt with the gorgeous female bookies I have, friends. She is a beauty like that in a Renoir painting. Or Michelangelo. Which one had the chubby women completely buck naked? I suppose they all did. She's beautiful like those women, but all bones, no meat. I'm sure a few good meals will take care of that.

I discovered I had been sleeping outside her building in the alleyway for quite a few days. I was not my normal self after days of merciless living, which is to say my unsettling and disturbing visage wasn't even washed and shaven when she found me huddling up to a cold dumpster for warmth, which it refused to provide. Did she scream? Did she recoil in horror? Yes, understandably so. But she did come back, trying to hide her fear and disgust, and offered me a cup of warm soup.

Boy, that soup was the balm, as the hipsters say. Chicken noodle soup. I normally don't like noodles of chickens, preferring the established parts like wings and chestal regions. Living on the street will lower your standards significantly, as they say. This does not mean I'm taking their advice to have sex for money, especially not from three guys who can't even find one girl for an orgy, but "they" are a whole other story. You meet a new class of people when you have no house.

To make this story less ingratiatingly long, Felchyana shared her soup and opened her home to me. When she found out I had a job, she asked what the commune was. When I told her, she said it should be burnt and sent to hell. But she likes me so much and recognizes the hard-working industrial nature of Rok Finger and said she would allow me to stay in her home while I get back on my feet. I'm not sure how I like the sound of that last part, I'm really start to like traveling by skateboard. But I suppose we all make concessions when we're down and out.

Don't tell anybody, but I'm quite smitten with Felchyana as a woman, too, as well as a homo. She is pretty as the sun, but doesn't hurt my eyes in the same way. Her smile is like a flower blooming, her spit like pollen, or some kind of spitting lizard. She is sweet like the nectar of a gay metaphor. I wouldn't kick her out from under a newspaper for eating crackers, I'll say that much. Perhaps it is best to leave it at that, since she has said something about being married. Alas, it is not to be, but what isn't to be that actually is? Not much, I can tell you.

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