COLUMN EIGHTY-THREE, JANUARY 15, 2003
(Copyright - 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)
SLIME SQUARE SWAN SONG
Were the seeds of Enron sown in the jack-booths of Times
Square? Once the world's foremost semen-producing region, Time Square's
ceaseless sonata of spuzz secreted untold cubic liters of intermediate-grade
jism-- surpassing even Chechnya, where the precious substance is extracted at
gunpoint. But by the late Nineties, Times Square's testicular torrent would be
reduced to a mere trickle of its former self?eternalizing Rudolph W.
Giuliani's place in the eco-unfriendly Republican pantheon and deepening the
nation's dependence on foreign oil.
Once upon a time, donors
from around the globe converged upon these shimmering streets of shame, infusing
their essence into the dazzling array of subterranean spuzzworks that churned
below. In humid, bleach-scented scumatoria, sump-drains gurgled night and day
with gazillions of plasmic polliwogs, sluicing down Teflon spillways into a vast
complex where the neon never shined. Like salmon returning to their spawning
grounds, each particle of raw glandular exudate bore its own minute catabolic
cargo, converted into steam by heat extractors driving the turbines and
centrifuges that processed the soupy lipid into its many industrial and
?A single squirt
replicates the work of eons?, theorizes Wendell "Buddy? Boothe, visiting
lecturer on spermodynamics at Audrey Cohen College. "Because the metabolic
origin of semen is little more than an acceleration of the way that conventional
fossil fuels and some fermented soy products were created.?
?It offers all the
advantages of petroleum and coal with none of their noxious, ecologically
Cheaper than cow manure,
richer in methane than chicken droppings, safer than bat guano, less
capital-intensive than photovoltaics, and quieter than most windmills,
free-range semen breaks down into a motile, cruelty-free emulsion of proteins,
secondary metabolites, free radicals, endocannabinoids and a tofuti-like
substance that tastes like halvah.
According to Jack Archer, barker emeritus at Show World's fabled Triple Treat Theatre, 'the
for the seed of life
perplexing properties and
promising possibilities of semen were first discovered in 1973, when Osbaldo
"Kotex? Mendoza, the night floorman at Mickey Zaffarano's PinkPussycat
Cinema, observed that under certain conditions, puddles of the viscous discharge
could be induced to mop themselves up.?
Noted a June 1975 Letter
to the Editor of Waste Week, written
by Mendoza shortly before his disappearance, 'the singularly self-mobile
properties of this ambergris-like substance can be harnessed for such simple
tasks as pulling a tiny buggy and sorting peas....?
Although years would pass
before Mendoza's dentures were recovered from the Schuylkill River by a
Philadelphia fly fisherman, adult-entertainment impresarios were not slow in
rising to the challenge of erectoplasmic nanotechnology.
Awaiting modern masturbators not only in Times Square but in semen-rich
tenderloins throughout the land were such innovations as the auto-rejaculator?utilizing
both dribble and gravitational torque?and the coin-operated prostatic
interface, in which penile trajectory potentiated the flagellate velocity
Moreover, a cost-benefit
analysis by Learning Annex researchers concluded that 'the partnership between
token-operated pornography providers and stakeholders in municipal fleshpots
encourages private-sector investment...?
It was only when
apartheid collapsed?and Peepland's tokens replaced the Krugerand as the
world's most stable currency'that transnational petroleum- and nuclear-power
cartels struck preemptively against the barbarian at their gates.
lobbyists fanned out along the Beltway and haunted the Congressional
cloakroom'their mission to keep the paradigm-shifting benefits of semen off
the national agenda. Refractory legislators soon found themselves being branded
not only as "pro-pornography? but "anti-Disney".
And in the name of
'redevelopment?, one peep emporium after another was padlocked in a frenzy
of official intolerance. Before long the engines beneath Times Square had ground
to a halt. Refineries ran dry and southbound tanker trucks no longer idled in
the 42nd Street dawn. And in one of 1996's most underreported mysteries, the
ruggedly buttery fitters and jizz-monkeys
known as "glandhogs??half-blind
from three decades beneath The Deuce, where they manned the now-silent
transducers and rotators?perished in the dead of a cold winter night when
their flophouse was illegally imploded.
Giuliani Time had clearly
come and gone?dropping the curtain once and for all upon America's last
hormonal heartland. ##
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