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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Things have been gloomier than usual here at the commune offices, as Flatbush, New Jersey goes through another rain-drenched March. Some have always admired rain, looked into the gloomy darkness overhead and the water fluttering down from the sky and seen it as some kind of cleansing of the earth, a washing-away of the dust and grime coating the planet and the nourishing of its lush green life. I say that's horseshit. Rain is nothing but the entire population of a city, state, or country being thrown into the swimming pool a teaspoon full at a time.

God's laughing at us when it rains. That's right—I accept the Judeo-Christian concept of God, and sometimes He's a right asshole. If He's so perfect, couldn't he find a more productive way of doing whatever rain has to do? Why make plants that grow in the middle of a landlocked mass need water at all? It makes less sense than a movie starring Adam Sandler as a romantic lead. God's capable of making spiders, who reproduce with hundreds of offspring and spin elaborate webs to feed themselves, but the best he could do to get water around to all the soil is just to drop it out of the sky. I'm surprised He stopped there. Why not just have chicken wings plunge from the clouds whenever people need feeding? Hold your mouths open like turkeys staring at the sky, spit out the bones, there's no need to even take lunch. It's better than getting soaking wet through some ill-conceived water delivery system.

Imagine the scenario, good people: You've put on your best work suit, combed your hair into a stylish pompadour that's a magnet for the ladies, and you strut out the door early in the morning. Then some obstinate little shit pelts you with a condom full of mineral water. I suppose you addle-minded hippies would look up at him and blather on about the inherent beauty of getting pranked by a little preteen bastard. You'd write songs about water balloons and lovers would curl up next to the fire telling each other they sure like the smell in the air after you get socked in the face with a swishy prophylactic. To hell with that. You've been punked, nature-lover.

I'm not sure why I alone have this special insight, that rain is nothing but an amateur April Fool's joke. Perhaps standing at 3-foot-eight-inches and being particularly vulnerable to floods and watery basements makes me warier of water falling from the sky than most people. I don't accept all of the Bible as a literal interpretation, but I do believe there was a flood. I admit, I skipped around through parts of it, but I think I have the general gist—40 days and nights of rain (yeah, God, real funny), build a monstrous boat, take two of each animal. I'm not sure the wisdom of that, taking a couple of dinosaurs that are bound to eat the rest of the animals, instead of taking your hundred or so best friends. But I'm not concerned with that, I only want to keep a close eye on rain in case it gets the wise idea to do the same thing again. I haven't exactly kept up with my boat-making skill, and if I were hard-pressed to start collecting animals right now, I would only be able to find a couple of diferent breeds of dogs and a cockatiel.

However, let's make one thing clear: I will not hear a word against snow. Snow is the antithesis of rain—it's light and flickering instead of pelting and obstinate; it's pure and charming, instead of cruel and clothes-ruining. Plus, it sticks together and makes snow men. Anything that allows itself to be shaped by men into mock people cannot be bad. You just try and make a rainman, see where that will get you—a watery retarded man who counts matchsticks easily. Yeah, that was a great idea.

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It seems like every time you buy a box to mail something in these days, it comes with the phrase "Handle with Care" pre-printed on the side. And I have to wonder, am I paying extra for this? And even further so: what the hell's wrong with the postal service that they need special instructions not to beat the shit out of your package with baseball bats or feed it through the air intake of a jet engine? I want to print out a sticker that says "No, you know what? Don't handle with care. Drop kick the goddamn thing if you want to. It's not like I'm mailing eggs or something. Jesus Christ, what are you people, gorillas?" But to make this legible the sticker would have to be so big that mailing any package it would fit on would probably be cost prohibitive.

And you just know that if I went to all the trouble to get the sticker spell-checked and printed up and all that, it would practically guarantee that my mailman would make it his personal mission to fuck up my packages something good from then on. I already caught him backing his truck over a box of sausages I ordered once, and that was before I'd even done anything to piss the guy off. I haven't even had time to brainstorm on what he'd dream up to do to my poor packages should he ever get some serious motivation.

Personally, I'm not even sure if the Postal Service is an actual federal employer, or if they're just some kind of well-organized religious cult of some sort. The more I think about it, I'm leaning toward door number two. I mean, what kind of federal agency delivers you a letter that's crumpled into the shape of an accordion, stained brown, and stamped with the words "Damaged in Handling at the Post Office"? No shit, huh? Thanks for the stamp, otherwise I might have thought freemasons were fucking with my mail. That's a real load-off.

Whatever their bizarre cult is all about, I think it definitely involves cloning. I've developed a theory over the years that there are only two actual people working at the post office, no matter where you go, and all of the other employees are just clones of these two. See if this sounds familiar: there's a lady there behind the counter who looks like she'd rather cough up a spiny blowfish than offer you any assistance. She has no answers to any of your questions, no explanation for how your package caught fire en-route or why it was doused with moose urine afterwards, and no discernable pulse. Her co-worker is a scary older version of Mr. Rogers who's suicidally chipper and possibly made out of an advanced plastic polymer. He's too eager to help you and you check in your back seat and under your car twice before you drive home.

If real federal agencies, like the police, were this inept, we'd all be long-dead by now. Have you ever had the postal service lose a package you mailed? They have you fill out a form describing what was in the box and where you mailed it from, which I think was only for my benefit as I'm fairly sure they just took it in the back room and threw it away. What am I supposed to think they're going to do with it? Rustle up the bloodhounds so they can catch the scent? Have a couple of slow-witted guys in hats drive the route all night with flashlights, scratching their heads? I should have made a copy of the form, just in case it got lost somewhere on the way to postal headquarters deep in the underwater city of Atlantis. I wouldn't trust these guys to get my trash to the curb.

I have it on good authority that this cult has been raising their funds by creating all of the junk mail in the world themselves. I mean, who the hell in their right mind tries to sell dog-sized hockey masks through the mail? I've received three offers for those this week alone. This definitely sounds like the work of an organization that thinks raising stamp prices one penny a year is a smarter idea than just jacking them up a dime and leaving us alone for a decade or so. I think I've got at least one of every one-cent stamp ever made, including the rare misprint of the Norman-Rockwell mailman toting an AK-47.

Any way you slice it, I'm done with the postal service. Those jokers have dropped my parcels in shit for the last time. I'm going to find some dumb little kid with a bike for all of my package and letter delivery needs in the future. Kids have two distinct advantages over the postal service when it comes to delivering things: they have no concept of geography and they think a quarter is a lot of money. So the next time you're on the highway and you see some flat-topped little moron with a package strapped to his back, pedaling his way toward Maryland, give a honk and a wave. Unless he's walking his bike or sitting under a tree or something, then give him a smack for Omar because I don't tolerate slacking on my dime and three nickels. Bricks out.

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