Dear Ashman,
I’ve got a problem that I don’t even feel comfortable talking to my doctor about. When I pee I feel an intense burning… in my heart. I speak metaphorically, of course – and having read your song lyrics I know you are no stranger to poetic language. Over the last few years I have gotten into the golden shower game. It has been awesome (although it has required a lot of laundry the next day). My lady has gone along with me occasionally when she’s been drunk and even seemed to enjoy it, but now she’s going on the South Beach diet and doesn’t drink anymore. When she’s sober she says that this behavior is perverted and tells me she’ll have none of it and has even threatened to dump me. Recently in the midst of sex I have gotten so desperate that I’ve tried whipping my member out of her business and taking a leak on myself when things were at their heaviest. (That, alas, doesn’t work and can lead to awkwardness with the lady.)
I have two questions for you: is this sex kick normal? And, assuming it is not profoundly immoral, how do I go about satisfying it? -Perilously I Seek Sodden Erotic Relations
I’ll be honest with you PISSER – you sound like a freak and a sodomite, and if it weren’t for a little bit of personal history, I’d slap you with a roving wiretap and claim you were in charge of a sleeper cell of perverts. But, well, because a close friend of mine has confessed to a similar fetish, and I know him to be an upstanding and godly gentleman, I can accept that you might be a somewhat normal fellow. So let me tell you a little story.
I was elected to the Senate in 1984. Now I’m just a small-town kinda guy, and I’ve never felt so lost in my life as when I showed in Washington. Sure I kept up a strong front—I always do. That’s how I got my nickname, “The Singing Bulldog.” But Mrs. A was still spending a lot of time back in Mo., and I was pretty much on my own and lonely as a man could be. Now, I know what you’re thinking – I probably immediately headed off to the looser parts of town and found myself a few grams of coke and a couple of hookers named Tara and Cookie and brought them back to my apartment and spent seven hours and untold hundreds of dollars drowning all my anxieties and fears in a thick and fetid brew of sexual debauchery and lurid chemical pleasures. Well, no comment. But I will say this: whatever else I might have done, I did a lot of self-pleasuring in those days. I’m a man-about-town now and Mrs. A is at my side here, so that all seems a long way away, but I’ll tell you in those days I beat my poor little pecker like it was a scrawny freshman at military school. I beat it in my Senate office. I beat it in restaurant bathrooms. I beat it while I was driving. Now I can look on this objectively and see it as an understandable reaction to difficult emotional circumstances, but at the time I felt very guilty.
One day when my guilt was at it’s peak and I was considering just leaving this cold-hearted town of Washington and heading back to the “Show Me” state, I got out of some Senate hearings and headed down to the underground parking lot to get my car. As I was opening the door, my hand started bleeding due to the extensive chafing and blistering on my palm. The skin had finally just given out. Well, I was looking at my poor, damaged hand, thinking what a terrible sinner I was, when I heard a kind voice in my ear – one with a refined Southern accent: “Say, young man, you ought to use more lotion.” I looked over and there was Trent Lott. He winked roguishly at me and started laughing. At first I was embarrassed and ashamed. But old Trent was so self-assured and so non-judgmental that I soon started laughing too. He gave me a Band-Aid and some moisturizing lotion from the glove compartment of his car, which soothed both my hand and my soul. We hit it off so well, deciding to head out and have a drink together. He was my first real friend here in Washington. That night I opened up and told him of all my troubles, and a few drinks later he did the same.
Now, I think about as highly of Trent as I do of anyone in the world, and he could never have been nicer to me—but I’ll admit it was a little frightening at first when he began discussing his fetishes. See, PISSER, for a long time he had a hang-up very much like yours. But within a few years it progressed to a sexual fascination with fecal matter, particularly as produced by midgets—but in the interest of Trent’s privacy I’ll say no more. It sounds like you have a very understanding lady by your side, PISSER – and that’s fantastic. But even someone like Trent—who’s rich, powerful, and has more family values than you could shake a stick at—freaked out his lovely wife with his kick. She eventually came around to support him, but for a long time he had to hire out professionals to squeeze a turd or two on his chest.
So, anyway, you are in good company, my friend. I even suspect you might be headed in the same direction as Trent. In younger, less accepting days, I might have been tempted to find sin in your actions. But now I’m more understanding—after all, you aren’t breaking any big rules. You aren’t causing any abortions; you are (I presume) doing this within the sacrament of marriage; and you aren’t doing anything sick and twisted like performing oral sex on your lady. So I would say that, while your hang up is not ideal from God’s perspective, he is probably much more concerned right now about whether John Kerry is taking communion.
For technical help in answering your second question, I turned to a pro: Heady Downs, who owns the Cities of the Plaine sex store in Des Plaines, Iowa. She suggested that if your lady could not be convinced to satisfy your longing for you, that you should purchase an IV bladder from a medical supplies store, collect urine in it from a willing donor, and hang it up in an inconspicuous spot next to your bed. At an appropriate moment during a romantic interlude with your lady, you simply reach up and open the IV valve, and shower yourself (and her) in yellow bliss. Ms. Downs says that there is a risk of alienating your lover with this maneuver, but that there is an equally good chance she will be impressed by your resourcefulness and initiative. “She might even get turned on by it, too!” Ms. Downs says. (Personally, I think she’s full of it—having some stranger’s cold piss suddenly raining down on me in bed would have me reaching for my gun. But to each his own—or her own.) Hope that helps.
As a final thought in this edition of “Ask Ashman” I’d like to acknowledge that this month marks a major turning point in our national history. We can either continue under the visionary leadership of my boss, or we can turn ourselves over to a coalition of godless sodomites, socialists, Frenchmen, windsurfers, and prancing aesthetes. We have a strong tradition of democracy in this country. But please keep in mind that many things have changed since 9/11—there are now, quite literally, brown-skinned men with box cutters hiding behind every lamppost in our great land. (My intelligence sources have vetted this statement—it is fact.) The brown men are waiting to strike and nobody should believe for a minute that a fellow who gets his cuticles manicured and speaks the language of poodles can defend us. Keep in mind that in any society the line between rights and privileges is a blurry one. If you, the American people, abuse this right/privilege of voting by making stupid and immoral choices, you might discover that it is no longer yours to abuse.
-Ashman
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