Legislators Mull National "Do Not Rape" List

.S. lawmakers, called on to help clear the murky waters of consent in sexual situations between adults, responded today with a plan to create the national “Do Not Rape� registry, a centralized list of American women who are officially not asking for it.

Inspired by the sensationalized rape charges brought against NBA superstar Kobe Bryant by an unnamed Colorado woman, the registry would provide a way for U.S. women to proactively opt-out of unwanted sexual encounters with any of the growing legion of clueless sexual predators populating America’s bars and dark alleys.

The proposed list would mirror the recently created “Do Not Call� registry and the impending “Do Not Spam� list, and would mandate that all men intending to have rough sex with strangers would be required to check the list of names every three months or risk up to a $1,500 fine, jail time, or neither.

“If a woman says no, but only fights you off half-heartedly, that’s the most encouragement many of these guys will ever receive,� explained defense attorney Richard Spackle. “It can be very confusing.�

“Like what if she’s saying ‘No, no, no!’ but the guy’s Hawaiian or something and his name is Nono? That could happen. You gonna send Nono to jail just because he thought she was cheering him on? That’s discrimination, plain and simple.�

Legal experts and sports fans applaud the proposal, hailing the list as a step forward into an enlightened new age when the public will no longer have to guess which of the two people involved in a rape trial is the total piece of shit.

“This legislation could bring relief to many who desperately need it,� commented legal expert and student taxidermist Rutherford Wank. “Women who speak up with allegations of rape will be spared the muckraking and character assassination all too common in the modern rape trial. And even more importantly, American males will be free to fuck crazy bitches again.�

Other proposed lists reportedly being discussed in Washington include a national “Do Not Kick My Dog� registry, a “Do Not Masturbate to My Image� registry, and the controversial “Do Not Exploit My Unskilled Labor� registry, which has already drawn harsh criticism from several U.S. corporations. As of press time, no exploitive, dog-kicking masturbators could be reached for comment.

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"A man's home is his castle. Mine happens to be White Castle."

We've all been locked out of our houses or apartments or dumpsters before—not a week or month goes by we aren't evicted or simply lose our keys. Maybe you step out to get the neighbor's newspaper and the door slams behind you, then locks itself. Now you're standing bare-ass naked out in the hallway, or maybe in your neighbor's living room, and you can't get back in the house! Shit! Pardon my language.

Locked out is no problem. When you get locked into your house, that's when the shit hits the fan. Pardon my language. What do you do then? You can't call anybody for help from inside your own place. Unless you have a phone. Sure, you can open the window and yell for help, but the first time you start using profanity they'll just send cops to ticket you. You can't get the door open, and they'll only kick it down. Now you got a broke door.

I've been locked in before. It's not pretty. I don't want a broken door so it's usually a survival mission until the end of the month comes and the landlord shows up looking for the rent. Sometimes that could be as many as 60 days. That's a long time to live on whatever's in your refrigerator, or growing under it.

No one wants to think about it, but at some point you have to seriously consider eating the dog. It's only fair—if he could talk and wear clothes, he'd eat you. Don't think about making it a fair contest, like drawing straws. They don't say "cheating dogs" for no reason. In a fair fight, just you and the dog, maybe it would be the right thing to do. But they bite, and that's cheating.

Not that I want to eat my dog. We're just talking if things go from bad to worse, or bad to good and then to worse—you can't plan routes for bad. It goes it's own way, like a rebel. Seriously, I only plan to eat the dog if all the condiments are exhausted and no birds land on the windowsill.

Yeah, I got a plan, no shame in that. I sneak up on him while he's chewing his crotch and smash him over the head with a lamp. Not the good lamp. Or plan B. Throw the tennis ball right into the oven. You got to be fast, though, or he'll just bring it back to you and not give it back. Then that plan's history.

If you do somehow to make it until the landlord comes around, with or without eating the dog, I know some tricks to make everything work out okay. First off, you got to make him think you're dead so when he opens the door with his spare keys he'll be happy to see you're alive and not pissed because he hasn't gotten the rent. You have to make a dead person smell. I give this off naturally, the landlord says, so I don't know what to tell you—find a website. I'm sure there's a website that tells you.

It always helps to turn the fridge over on to yourself. Not only to pretend you've been pinned and not just couldn't figure out the deadbolt mechanism. It helps keep you warm, too, or a good place to hide from the dog if he gets the upperhand.

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The other day I found myself sitting on the roof of my house, throwing outdated eggs at some old women who were taking their daily afternoon walk up the sidewalk across the street. One particularly well-flung egg ricocheted off the oldest woman's temple, striking a nerve cluster and causing her to completely lose bowel control in an extremely messy fashion all over my vegetarian neighbor's lawn. And the thing is, when the detox van showed up to take her to the drunk tank, all I could think was: "You know what? I think Ginger and Mary Ann were lesbians."

Practically all my life I've been nagged by the question of why anybody would want to get off of Gilligan's Island in the first place. They had great weather, a lagoon, plenty of food, and last but not least: two fine pieces of ass in Ginger and Mary Ann. Damn! You can bet your mini-skirted dollar that Omar Bricks would have been starting his own civilization in that sandy paradise. The tiny gene pool would surely have necessitated some serious wife-swapping, and you've always known Omar is down with that. Unless it involved either of the Howells, but my grade-school understanding of biology tells me that contingency wouldn't be very useful for procreation. The Professor on the other hand… well, that would be just for fun.

Now, I'm not saying everybody would like it there at first. I'm sure there were sand crabs and no TV and other hassles, and I'm sure everyone would get tired of the Professor constantly bitching about not having any outlets for his hair drier.

And of course the pickings were pretty slim romance-wise. I'm sure Ginger was saving herself for some high class sugar-daddy to snatch her up before her looks went, and I don't blame her. Once she hit the island, her only prospect in that area was Mr. Howell, and that meant finding some non-suspicious way to bump off Mrs. Howell. But she was a resourceful girl, I imagine with time she would have worked out some kind of coconut car bomb or at least a shiv, or she could have cut a deal with the cosmonauts, or the Russians, or even those apes in that one episode. Hell, with a couple of well-placed innuendos, she probably could have gotten Gilligan to skin Mrs. Howell alive.

Ginger definitely would have out-cat-fought Mary Ann for Thurston's withered affections, so that leaves the Skipper, Gilligan and the Professor for Mary Ann to choose from.

Now, everybody knew the Professor was gay, so he's out of the running straight away. No pun intended there. He was also sweet on the Skipper, and it probably would have been in Mary Ann's best interests to avoid going toe-to-toe with the one mug on the island who knew how to make plastic explosives out of coconut mash. And it's not like the Skipper was anywhere near worth it either, he's so goddamned fat the last Willie he saw was Gilligan. And with a name like his, she probably wasn't exactly chomping at the metaphorical bit to become Mary Ann Grumby, or even Mary Ann Skipper, depending on whether or not it was a formal occasion. That leaves Gilligan, who's a total nimrod but at least she could crush his spirit and mold him into a decent lapdog-style husband who would kiss her ass for thirty years and take her to the opera.

So that leaves us with everyone paired off pretty nicely: Gilligan and Mary Ann, the Professor and the Skipper, Mr. Howell and Ginger, and Mrs. Howell face-down in the lagoon. Who wants to go back to city living when they're living the sweet life island-style? Not this cast-away. So the only thing that makes sense in the context of the show, with everyone wanting to leave so badly and all, is that Ginger and Mary Ann must have been big-time fuzzbumpers. I'm talking about skinny-dipping in the lagoon, secret rendezvous by the cave, and lots and lots of coconut milk being poured over naked bodies. I can just picture it now…

Nope, still picturing it. Come back in five minutes.


Now I'm sure some sensitive types will take offense at my theory, calling it all sorts of bad voodoo. But I'm just telling it like it is, or rather like it must have been. I challenge any of those politically-correct drones out there to present a competing theory that makes as much sense. I mean, what the hell do I know about how a woman's mind works? Maybe they were waiting for the Harlem Globetrotters. Bricks out.

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