One Hand Jerking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Introduction

  ZEN BASTARD

  HUMOR AS A SPIRITUAL PATH

  IRREVERENCE IS OUR ONLY SACRED COW

  IN PRAISE OF OFFENSIVE CARTOONS

  THE PARTS LEFT OUT OF THE REAGAN MOVIE

  WHY I’M OPTIMISTIC ABOUT THE FUTURE

  GOT PORN?

  SHOWING PINK

  PEE-WEE HERMAN MEETS PETE TOWNSHEND

  SATIRICAL PROPHECY

  THE MARRIAGE OF HIP-HOP AND PORNOGRAPHY

  PORN AND THE MANSON MURDERS

  EATING SHIT FOR FUN AND PROFIT

  LISTS FOR THE LISTLESS

  PREDICTIONS FOR 2004

  BIZARRE SEXUALLY ORIENTED SPAM SUBJECT LINES

  TV SHOWS OF THE NEAR FUTURE

  UNDER THE COUNTERCULTURE

  MARIJUANA VS. CIGARETTES

  PREGNANCY AND POT

  BONG WARS: TOMMY CHONG AIN’T THE ONLY ONE

  THE TRIAL OF IRA EINHORN

  HIPPIES WITH CELL PHONES

  ONE HAND JERKING

  WELCOME TO THE MASTURBATE-A-THON

  VIRTUAL RAPE ON THE INTERNET

  MAILER ON MATING AND MASTURBATION

  THE ONANIST QUARTET

  MAKE ME LAUGH

  HOMER SIMPSON SUPPRESSED

  HARRY SHEARER STILL HEARS VOICES

  THE TRANSFORMATION OF DENNIS MILLER

  THE BALLAD OF LENNY THE LAWYER

  PROLOGUE

  EPILOGUE

  GAY RIGHTS AND WRONGS

  BEFORE THERE WAS SAME-SEX MARRIAGE

  WHAT DOES BILL O’REILLY REALLY WANT?

  9/11 AND THE INVASION OF IRAQ

  THREATS AGAINST THE PRESIDENT

  PROPAGANDA WARS

  CONDOLEEZZA, LINDA AND MONICA

  I FORGET THE TITLE OF THIS

  THE WAR ON INDECENCY

  ARNOLD, MADONNA, DOONESBURY AND AN INTERNET PORN SCAM

  BLOW JOB BETTY

  WHEN JUSTIN MET JANET

  THE CRACKDOWN

  BOOK RELATED ACTIVITIES

  THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER WINCHELL

  OCCULT JEOPARDY

  TRASHING THE RIGHT TO READ

  JEWS IN THE NEWS

  A MELLOW HOWL

  THE COMMUNAL TRUTH

  REBELS WITH CAUSES

  MAE, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

  STEVE EARLE: STICKING TO HIS PRINCIPLES

  THE IRONIC ORDEAL OF DR. L.

  AN INTERVIEW WITH ROBERT ANTON WILSON

  SCOOP, HOLLY AND ME

  BODY PARTS

  BOOBS IN THE NOOZ

  DOLLY PARTON’S TITS

  THE GREAT FORESKIN CONSPIRACY

  THE WAR AGAINST PLEASURE

  MISSING FROM THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES

  BRAIN DAMAGE CONTROL

  SWIMMING IN THE DEAD POOL

  BEHIND THE INFAMOUS TWINKIE DEFENSE

  THE RISE OF SIRHAN SIRHAN IN THE SCIENTOLOGY HIERARCHY

  CAMPAIGN IN THE ASS AND OTHER UNFORGIVING MINUTES

  SCHWARZENEGGER AND STEWART

  DEFYING CONVENTIONS

  THE PRICE OF WATER

  MARTIAL MUSIC

  SEPTEMBER SURPRISE

  FLUNKING OUT

  SECRET STORM

  A KINDER, GENTLER PAPER

  FIRE DAN RATHER

  SCENE OF THE CRIME

  KERRY AND THE SEX WORKER

  DUELING IMPRESSIONISTS

  THE RAPTURE PRESIDENT

  SILKEN TWINE

  DOUBLE AGENT

  CHILLING EFFECTS

  SAVE THE TOMATO CHILDREN

  KERIK’S NANNY

  T-SHIRT TROUBLES

  BITE YOUR TONGUE

  FUZZY MATH

  EXPLOITING FEAR

  NONPARTISAN HARASSMENT

  TWISTED PRIORITIES

  SPRINGTIME FOR HARRY

  SEX BOMBS

  CONDOMS R US

  GRAMMYS, SHRAMMYS

  PROVOCATIVE PROFESSOR

  ROONEY’S ASS

  THE FEAR OF FICTION

  THE END OF JOURNALISM

  KARL ROVE LOVES JEFF GANNON

  FAST FOOD IN THE FAST LANE

  JOHNNIE COCHRAN MEETS DR. HIP

  ACQUITTING WATERMELON

  ORAL SEX ON THE RISE

  THE UPSIDE OF OUTRAGE

  PRIDE AND PARANOIA

  DUELING MEMORIES

  CONFESSIONS OF A RACIST

  THE RUMPLEFORESKIN AWARDS FOR 2004

  THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT

  BLOWING DEADLINES WITH HUNTER THOMPSON

  POSTSCRIPT: THE MEDIA MORTUARY

  GEEZERSTOCK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY PAUL KRASSNER

  Copyright Page

  “Thanks to Paul Krassner for continuing to be the lobster claw in the tuna casserole of modern America.”

  —Tom Robbins

  “The FBI was right; this man is dangerous—and funny, and necessary.”

  —George Carlin

  “Krassner has the uncanny ability to alter your perceptions permanently.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “He is an expert at ferreting out hypocrisy and absurdism from the more solemn crannies of American culture.”

  —The New York Times

  “I told Krassner one time that his writings made me hopeful. He found this an odd compliment to offer a satirist. I explained that he made supposedly serious matters seem ridiculous, and that this inspired many of his readers to decide for themselves what was ridiculous and what was not. Knowing that there were people doing that, better late than never, made me optimistic.”

  —Kurt Vonnegut

  “It behooves every cow to be mad.”

  —Nancy Cain

  THIS ONE IS FOR KEN KESEY, who once told me, “I wasn’t trying to write a novel, I was trying to go all the way.” Which is how he lived his life.

  When Stewart Brand invited Kesey and me to co-edit The Last Supplement to the Whole Earth Catalog, I moved from New York to San Francisco. Near the end of production, Kesey asked me to review—in one sentence, because we were so short of space—a beautiful book of offbeat ink drawings, Filipino Food by Ed Badajos.

  “It made me say ‘far out’ for the first time,” I suggested.

  “You Zen bastard,” was his response.

  When I began writing a column for the New York Press, I decided to call it “Zen Bastard.” And my latest satirical CD is The Zen Bastard Rides Again.

  Kesey was also instrumental in naming my column for High Times. I was originally planning to call it “Damage Control,” but he said, “Why don’t you call it ‘Brain Damage Control’?” And that’s what it became, immediately.

  Kesey didn’t help me with the title of my column for AVN Online, though. AVN stands for Adult Video News, and AVN Online is a print magazine for the Internet porn industry. The editor, Eric, former editor at the Los Angeles Reader, invited me to write a column for AVN Online. Eric was using a pseudonymous last name.

  “Half the editors here don’t use their own names,” he said.

  “Well, if I do a column, I would use my own name. And I’d want to call the column ‘One Hand Jerking.’”

  Eric liked it. So did Kesey. So does Seven Stories Press.

  One Hand Jerking: Reports From an Investigative Satirist is a collection of my columns from those three periodicals over the last few years, plus several free-lance articles for various publications.

  And, of course, I’ve tried to go all the way.

  Paul Krassner

  April 2005

  FOREWORD

  BY HARRY SHEARER

  I’ve been a reader of Paul Krassner’s since
before the day, when I sat in the office of the humor magazine I edited at UCLA, and swore up and down to all who would listen that Paul’s scabrous Realist essay, “The Parts Left Out of the Kennedy Book,” was for real. It was a teaching moment: Paul had taught me that extreme stylistic accuracy could make even the most bizarre comedic concept credible.

  In the years since then, Paul and I have become friends and colleagues. We even shared a stage at LA’s Museum of Contemporary Art as part of a theatrical threesome, “Peter, Paul and Harry,” also featuring Peter Bergman of the Fire-sign Theatre. Obviously, I was included for rhyming purposes. But Paul and I got to watch each other work for several nights, and I hope I taught him something, at least about good grooming.

  Paul is a unique character on the American cultural landscape. A self-described “investigative satirist,” he straddles the lines between politics, culture, pornography and drugs—in other words, the land where all of us, were we really honest with ourselves, would choose to dwell.

  A serious crafter of jokes, Paul also lets his curiosity take him where more careful practitioners, such as myself, would not tread: conspiracy theories, spiritualist theories, working for porn kings, acid trips in federal court. He always returns from the journeys wiser if not sadder, his sense of humor intact if not inflamed.

  On the trip of life, Paul Krassner has been a very good guide. Now, in this gumbo of a book, he offers insight on his background and outrage on the state of what only an optimist would call American culture. But, crucially, he never lets go of his sense of fun, and, in this book as in his life, that makes all the difference.

  INTRODUCTION

  BY LEWIS BLACK

  I consider it to be quite a privilege and an absolute pleasure to be writing the introduction to Paul Krassner’s wondrous book of essays. I have been a fan of his since I was a snot-nosed kid, and his words have been a driving force and influence on my life. I can remember how it happened. I was extremely lucky to have stumbled onto a copy of his magazine The Realist in my youth. There was neither glitz nor glamour to it. You actually had to read it for the articles. It was filled with words, and more than any drugs, words can alter perceptions, and mine were altered forever. He made me realize the importance of funny, but more than any writer I know, Paul always has a mission behind his wicked mirth.

  He was the Swift of the Sixties. For a high school student like myself, his humor was a kind of comfort food, and it helped me realize that my angst and frustration with my sterile suburban lifestyle were legitimate. Most importantly, he made me laugh, and this book is no exception to that rule. The man knows funny. Unlike all the other great comic minds of that time, Krassner wasn’t on vinyl, his words were on the page, which in a way made it more deeply affecting to me personally. He made me realize the importance of the profane, and if I have to explain that, we could be here for days. After reading the first few copies of The Realist, I was never the same, and I thank him for that.

  If he wasn’t pointing out that the emperor has no clothes, then he was making sure we understood that it’s not the world that is off kilter, it’s the people who run it. It doesn’t really matter who is in charge, because Paul has always known and paid attention to the fact that power most definitely corrupts. Finding my own difficulty with authority figures, it was nice to know that I wasn’t alone, and I was most definitely not crazy, because as crazy as Krassner may have appeared and still does to a portion of America, he is not. His insanity is stating the truth in no uncertain terms and doing it through humor without his object being financial gain. (If he were doing it for the money, then they wouldn’t think he was so nuts.)

  In many ways he was and still is the voice of the Sixties, but more important than that, he is the conscience we have tried to rid ourselves of. He was everywhere during the Sixties and knew everyone from Lenny Bruce to Andrew Weil. One could call him the Zelig of our time. Only he was for real. These essays alone will give you a taste of that, but hopefully they will lead you into more of Krassner’s work. For make no mistake, it is important. He has pushed the boundaries of comedy as far as anyone in print or stand-up ever has, and for that we should be eternally grateful.

  The prevailing culture should be thankful for such a figure, even though they feel the thorn that he is in their side. His outrageous comedy defuses the anger that so many of us feel. He is the keeper of the flame of the profane, and if we were living in the time of the Greeks, he would be considered as an absolutely essential member of the society, which would no doubt upset him, but it is his due.

  If you have read his work before, you know the joys that you are in for. If you haven’t, start reading, and consider this your lucky day. For Paul Krassner is an activist, a philosopher, a lunatic and a saint, but most of all he is funny. If words were my mother, then I am his bastard son.

  Enjoy.

  ZEN BASTARD

  HUMOR AS A SPIRITUAL PATH

  I first woke up at the age of six.

  It began with an itch in my leg. My left leg. But somehow I knew I wasn’t supposed to scratch it. Although my eyes were closed, I was standing up. In fact, I was standing on a huge stage. And I was playing the violin. I was in the middle of playing the “Vivaldi Concerto in A Minor.” I was wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit—ruffled white silk shirt with puffy sleeves, black velvet short pants with ivory buttons and matching vest, white socks and black patent-leather shoes. My hair was platinum blond and wavy. On this particular Saturday evening—January 14, 1939—I was in the process of becoming the youngest concert artist in any field ever to perform at Carnegie Hall. But all I knew was that I was being taunted by an itch. An itch that had become my adversary.

  I was tempted to stop playing the violin, just for a second, and scratch my leg with the bow, yet I was vaguely aware that this would not be appropriate. I had been well trained. I was a true professional. But that itch kept getting fiercer and fiercer. Then, suddenly, an impulse surfaced from my hidden laboratory of alternative possibilities, and I surrendered to it. Balancing on my left foot, I scratched my left leg with my right foot, without missing a note of the “Vivaldi Concerto.”

  Between the impulse and the surrender, there was a choice—I had decided to balance on one foot—and it was that simple act of choosing which triggered the precise moment of my awakening to the mystery of consciousness. This is me! The relief of scratching my leg was overshadowed by a surge of energy throughout my body. I was being engulfed by some kind of spiritual orgasm: by a wave of born-again ecstasy with no ideological context. No doctrine to explain the shock of my own existence. No dogma to function as a metaphor for the mystery.

  Instead, I woke up to the sound of laughter.

  I had heard that sound before, sweet and comforting, but never like this. Now I could hear a whole symphony of delight and reassurance, like clarinets and guitars harmonizing with saxaphones and drums. It was the audience laughing. I opened my eyes. There were rows upon rows of people sitting out there in the dark, and they were all laughing together. They had understood my plight. It was easier for them to identify with the urge to scratch than with a little freak playing the violin. And I could identify with them identifying with me. I knew that laughter felt good, and I was pleased that it made the audience feel good. But I hadn’t intended to make them laugh. I was merely trying to solve a personal dilemma. So the lesson I woke up to—this totally nonverbal, internal buzz—would serve as my lifetime filter for perceiving reality and its rules. If you could somehow translate that buzz into words, it would spell out: One person’s logic is another person’s humor.

  There was, of course, an objective, scientific explanation for what had occurred. According to a textbook, Physiological Psychology, “It is now rather well accepted that ‘itch’ is a variant of the pain experience and employs the same sensory mechanisms.” But for me, something beyond an ordinary itch had occurred that night. It was as though I had been zapped by the god of Absurdity. I didn’t even know there was such a concept as a
bsurdity. I simply experienced an overpowering awareness of something when the audience applauded me for doing what I had learned while I was asleep. But it was only when they laughed that we had really connected, and I imprinted on that sound. I wanted to hear it again. I was hooked. And the first laugh was free.

  It was as if I had been destined to become a stand-up comic and editor of The Realist. Although I was notorious for publishing outrageous social and political satire, I also published investigative journalism and conspiracy theory. I researched cults, from the Moonies to Scientology, and assassinations, from President Kennedy to Charles Manson. In the process, I underwent a paranoid freakout from information overload.

  But I could still pass for sane in public. At the peak of my psychotic episode, I still managed to keep a dental appointment without revealing the utter turmoil in my mind. However, I was on a bus from San Francisco to my home in Watsonville, and my thumb began to feel numb. It was obviously a direct result of the cavity in one of my molars having been filled. When the bus stopped in San Jose, I got off and called my dentist.

  “I know who you work for,” I said, “and I have two demands. I want everybody out of solitary confinement. And I want a cease-fire all over the world.”

  He hesitated a second. “Hold on, Paul, let me get your chart.” He was stalling for time. When he got back on the phone, he asked, “Now, do you want my reaction?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve gotta go. Goodbye.”

  I hung up the phone and got back on the bus. The man sitting in front of me, an operative for the CIA, adjusted the ring on his finger in order to let his partner outside know that I was on the bus again. I had to let the man in front of me know that I was onto his game. So I took out my ballpoint pen. Clicking the top over and over like a telegraph key—this was before cell phones—I kept repeating, “Paul Krassner calling Abbie Hoffman”—just loud enough for the man sitting in front of me to hear—“Paul Krassner calling Abbie Hoffman.” The CIA operative fidgeted nervously. He knew I was onto him now.