Military Hardware

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan — Baitullah Mehsud, the main leader of Pakistan’s fearsome Taliban militia, was killed Wednesday in a C.I.A.missile strike, two Taliban fighters said Friday, but a spokesman for Pakistan’s military, Maj. Gen. Athar Abbas, said he could not confirm reports of Mr. Mehsud’s death.

I think it's clear by now that I'm a cock-of-all-trades. And having been deep throated thousands of times, I've got a Spidey sense about the likelihood that certain conservative agents will "out" me like they did Valerie Plame. So I will do it myself.

For years I've been working with the CIA and the Pentagon in the global fight against terrorism. It's not exactly "by day it's the dick of a porn star, by night it's a weapon" (especially since many in the porn biz have described me as a weapon). It's not that regular a gig. Ron gets a call from an anonymous government liason with a time and a place. He jerks me off so that I'm temporarily disoriented when he detaches me and hands me over to two pretty operatives, who suck me back to life when we arrive at our destination.

I suppose there's a bit of "Emission Impossible" to it, as I'm given photos of target(s) and placed on a drone. Next thing I know I'm launched into the hot desert night. As a dick that's had to find targets in the dark for 40 years, I've got an internal guidance system to rival anything at Norad. Let's face it, I'm a heat seeker; I know where the bullseye is. So what you probably won't read in the stories about this or that eliminated Al Quaeda leader is that he was entered through one of his orifices.

How do I survive the impact and resulting spray of blood and viscera? Well, anyone's who's gotten head from Kathy Griffin can answer that. I'm not looking for any medals; it's enough to know I'm supporting the effort to take out some bad actors, as they say. I like to apply that term more loosely, so you better watch your step, Keanu. You terrorize us enough to be in play.

Spurning Japanese

I’m only an actor in “One-Eyed Monster”, but occasionally I overhear news from my director about how the movie is selling. And today, he got some particularly odd feedback from his foreign sales agent.

While the movie was initially considered to be a perfect fit for Japan, it seems they have a serious problem with penises on screen, so the Asian market in general has been tough to crack.

Now, I’m an educated cock, and I like to think I’ve got a good head on my shaft. So before I stoop to a more incendiary reaction, I’m really trying to understand: why does Japan have a problem with penises on screen? A country that adores films about a 50-foot lizard has difficulty with a 10-inch snake? The nation that gave us Geisha girls and Ben-Wah Balls is suddenly Puritanical? (Okay, I confess, I don’t know for sure that they invented Ben-Wah Balls, but it sounds very close to something on the menu at Nobu, so who knows.)

And then like Ike to Tina, it hit me: Japan likes small things! But for Godzilla, this is the country that compacts everything into the tiniest form and shape they’re able to. Watches, phones, computer parts, cars---it’s all about economy of size.

I’ll even go so far as to say that it’s not penises on screen they have a problem with—it’s MY penis on screen. It’s just too friggin’ big. The last thing they want is their hard-working Japanese male work force attending this movie, then going home to commit hari-kari because they realize they will never measure up. All the technological know-how in the world won’t give them the size and power of me.

I guess I can accept this, and I will. But I’m angry. And the only reason I’m not officially boycotting everything Japanese is because I love sushi too much.

I love “One-Eyed Monster”, but not enough to sacrifice the crab roll at Nozawa.

Profile This

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Ron in Real Life

It's Friday advice day, so let's get started!

Dear RJ’S D—

My buddy Phil thinks all orgasms are the same, but I keep telling him there are different kinds. So I thought I’d turn to the master.

C. Feldman, Winnetka, IL


Hello, C!

You can tell your buddy Phil he couldn’t be more misinformed. Ron, through me, has experienced about 700 different types of orgasms, including one that’s illegal in Brazil, and one that can only be measured by a Geiger counter. But in the interest of saving blog space, I’ll mention three specific kinds. (1) The Pressure Cooker. Most of you guys have probably experienced this one. Through sheer will power, you delay the orgasm as long as you can, so by the time it’s ready to shoot, the force is extremely powerful. If you’re masturbating, you can hit the ceiling. If you’re being blown, you can make a tiny dent in the back of her throat, and if you’re fucking, your sperm can blow past the eggs and stick to her ribs. (2) The Broken Sprinkler. This is a disappointing one: before you even start to feel those fantastic contractions, a shower of semen with a very thin consistency just starts pouring out. All of the fluid with none of the fun. (3) The Bloop Gasm. Possbily the worst kind of orgasm a man can experience. It typically only occurs during masturbation. You’re working on yourself for a long time; the payoff is ZERO contractions, and a tiny mushroom cloud of semen that bubbles up to the surface as though the other sperm decided not to come and elected a few guys to come out.



Dear RJ’s D,

I’m about to break up with my girlfriend because she’s a die-hard vegetarian and it really limits our dining experiences and ability to share food. Any advice on how to do this without hurting her feelings?

J. Fedorko, Boston MA


Dear J,

Just tell her, “It’s not you, it’s meat.”


***********************************

Have a great weekend everyone! And check out my movie "One-Eyed Monster" tonight on TMC!

Hard Questions

My mind wanders like anyone else's during uninspired sex, so today I begin a series wherein I pose questions that have occurred to me while fully engorged, but disengaged.

#1 Why Does Obama Smoke Cigarettes?

Rather, why does he still smoke? If there is literally anyone in the world who has the responsibility--the moral obligation, even--to quit smoking, it's that guy. Yeah, yeah, he's trying to quit. So are millions of people. But Obama's not one of millions; he's one in millions. He's the fucking President! And if that's not reason enough, these days he's trying to convince America that a substantial part of health care reform is prevention and wellness, which will save us a shitload of money down the road. I couldn't agree more, and so I do 100 dick-ups every day before RJ even wakes up (which I accomplish by thinking alternately about Jaclyn Smith and Tyne Daly).

As a role model to disenfranchised black kids, he is phenomenal, having taught them--and us all--by example that with hard work and commitment, any American can become President. From that statement, we infer that to become President means to reach the absolute height of achievement--although I can make the case that the height of achievement is getting blown by the cast of Saved By the Bell (and I mean all of them). But as they say, with power comes responsibility, and if the man with the most stressful job in the world can quit smoking, then anyone can. So, Mr. President, show us your balls. You can orate better than anyone. You have vision, intelligence and conscience. A little will-power would do more for health care than all the concessions you've been offering those Blue Bitch Democrats and the Republican Potty. Don't be a jive turkey--quit cold turkey. Today.

Bloggus Interruptus

I beg your pardon for the interruption in my normal blog-havior, but in either a moment of extreme paranoia, self-doubt, or simple curiosity, I find myself driven to ask this question:

IS ANYBODY READING THIS?

I know for a fact that at least three people read my blog regularly. One, of course, is Ron who says he frequently learns new things about me. That makes sense, since when we spend time together, I’m usually in a pussy, a mouth, an ass, or his hand. And in those cases, respectively, he knows that I’m thinking: “more lube please”, “please god no teeth”, “thank god she wipes”, and “just like the old days!”

There’s a sweet woman named Penney—a diehard Taylor Hicks fan--who often posts comments to my blogs, so I know she’s reading.

And then there’s my agent, Sid who—despite being 97 and in a coma—gets the blog read to him every morning by his nurse, Frieda, who tells me that Sid never responds to my words, but that she frequently masturbates to them.

And that’s it!

Or at least—that’s all that I know about. And so dear readers (if there are, in fact, any), I am putting out a simple request. Let me know that you’re there. That you read me. That you care. You can do this in three ways. You can reply to this posting. You can write me directly at: rjspenis@gmail.com, or you can send me a tweet if you’re on Twitter (@ronsmonster).

For decades, I’ve had thousands of women show me love. And it’s not like I have any plans to quit my day job. But after years of sharing my seed, I must say I’ve come to love sharing my thoughts.

So in the immortal words of Pink Floyd:

Hello, hello, hello…is there anybody out there?

COCKMAN

Sorry about missing the last few days. I'm still recovering from the San Diego Comic-Con. I went down there to promote a new comic book that's being published by Dark Hung-Like-A-Horse Comics--COCKMAN! It's about a famously endowed porn star who battles sexual dysfunctions, hang-ups and bad technique in Valleyopolis. A host of arch criminals--Viagron, Dry Pussy, Early Worm and Harry Ass--force the reluctant COCKMAN into service, his only weapon 9 and 3/4" of fighting magic!

Anyway, Ron and I did a Q&A panel to a room packed with over 2000 people. It was really fun, and the best news is that Sony later approached the publisher (and us) about a movie adaptation! Apparently Stacey Snider, who runs the studio, loves giant cocks and will personally shepherd this project through development. Stacey threw out some casting ideas--Jackie Earle Haley as Early Worm, Richard Moll as Viagron and possibly Sally Field as Dry Pussy.

I know I've got a lot on my plate, folks--training to hit a major league fastball, running for Congress and now this, but I think I can stay hard for all these adventures. For I....am....COCKMAN!*



*COCKMAN and all COCKMAN-related properties ® Sony Pictures Entertainment. All rights reserved.

RJ'S D TV DVD

I got some great news yesterday! Rieber Hall Home Entertainment has decided to put out a DVD compilation of my television guest appearances, from 1970 to 2000. The working title, “30 Cock: Thirty Years of Ron Jeremy’s Dick on TV”, will feature my cameos in over 15 different series throughout the years, and I’ll of course do commentary and a live interview. I’ve known about this for sometime, but I didn’t think it would actually happen. That’s because every one of the shows I filmed never actually aired on TV, though they still appear in the respective episode guides of each series. Also, Rieber Hall is a fairly new company, whose only claim to fame thus far is “Lewis Rukeyser’s Wallstreet Week: The Complete Series.”

Among the highlights of my boxed set:


“The Brady Bunch” (1971)
Episode #244 “Meet George Glass”

After months of believing him to be imaginary, Mike and Carol are shocked to learn that not only does Jan’s boyfriend, George Glass, exist—but he has an enormous cock (my first TV appearance.) Marcia’s jealousy prompts her to find her own well-endowed boyfriend, but when he stands her up for the school dance, she is forced to bring her brother, Greg, whose penis is a disappointing 5 inches.


“M*A*S*H” (1979)
Episode #1151B “RIP, PP”

In order to save a wounded soldier, Hawkeye must amputate his gangrenous penis, and then decides to hold a mock funeral for the disembodied member. When Frank and Houlihan protest the ceremony, Hawkeye plays a practical joke, switching the penis with one of Houlihan’s dildos. Note: In the original script for this episode, both Frank and Houlihan die from gangrenous orifices. Eventually, that script and the filmed episode were thrown out, but I was lauded by the show’s producers for my realistic portrayal of a dead dick.


“Punky Brewster” (1984)
Episode #621 “Merry Xmas, Punky”

Punky’s life is forever altered by the sudden appearance of her long-lost uncle, Stuart, who teaches her the true meaning of Christmas. This is the only show in the collection where I got to play a character other than myself. Unfortunately, the network was horrified by the scene where I’m disguised as a shopping mall Santa and Punky sits on my lap. The visual alone was enough for them to shelve the episode, but they were further disturbed by Punky’s line: “I didn’t know what I wanted for Christmas until the moment I sat down here, Santa!”

The Other Washington Monument

I'm sorry, but you're lying if you haven't wondered how big Obama's dick is. I won't even hide behind "professional curiosity" as an excuse. He's my President, which alone makes his dick a matter of interest (and it's rather amazing that in all the coverage of Clinton's dick's comings and goings, there was no mention of its size, even from people "who prefer to remain anonymous when discussing the President's cock"). And then when you consider the fact that he's half black...let's just say the odds in Vegas go up that we're not talking about talking about a Jimmy Carter peanut. Dubya had a big dick, but only on his ticket. Nixon was known as Tricky Dick, prompting theories as to what other gates he may have broken into. Before him, well, the guy's name was, after all, Johnson. It's safe to assume he had a stretch of Texas pipe. Kennedy didn't have to have a big dick; he was young, good-looking, charismatic and the most powerful man in the world. If he did have one, then perhaps his death was some kind of cosmic payback for being just too fucking cool.

I haven't given much thought to earlier Presidents. I won't infer anything about the size of their cocks from the names Filmore and Pierce, but I do suspect William Henry Harrison's nickname had less to do with the Battle of Tippecanoe than his dong.

Obama, though. Take a look at the above picture. Halway down his left thigh, there is a discernible bulge. I kinda doubt he was carrying keys or a phone. No, my friends, I think what we're seeing here from our post-racial, post-partisan President is, in fact, his post. In ice cream parlors, it would be called "Michelle's Delight." In Chicago it's known as Oak Street. In Hawaii it's called The Big Island. And in Africa, of course, it's called, simply, a penis. God bless America, yes. But God clearly blessed Barack Obama, and if in him our country's black citizens see a personal hero whose achievement represents the promise of America and the triumph of the civil rights movement, then I see in his dick the 21st century's first true executive branch.

Goin' (RR) Postal

My movie, “One-Eyed Monster” premiered on The Movie Channel last Saturday night. So today I beg your indulgence and hope you’ll allow me to blog rhapsodic. By all accounts, it was a big success—certainly if the Twitterverse has anything to say about it. The tweets were free and flowing after the movie screened, all extremely complimentary. The lovefest extended to the IMDB boards, where one viewer, screen-named LANDGABRIEL, wrote:

I am not sure where to pick up this gem, but if you can find it check it out. It has some great moments. It drags a little in some parts but the zaniness of it all more than makes up for it. Jason Graham plays a great deadpan bad-ass military type. Charles Napier of A-Team fame has an awesome grizzled vet monologue that he aces. Ron Jeremy, well it's Ron Jeremy for the first act then his one eyed monster takes over! Trust me, it is a highly entertaining film.

This was answered by a posting from a screen-name, RRPOSTAL, who wrote the following:

Ugh, I couldn't agree less. The only thing worse than pr0n (sic) stars trying to make a real movie is when they try to make a real horror/ comedy. This type of movie is pretty hard to make in the first place in my opinion. There are few that find the right balance. Honestly porn stars are really only in movies for one reason, and humor isn't it. Unless of course you think it's funny to hear Ron Jeremy say "I'm not wearing a sweater". Ha! get it?!? He's hairy! What a corker! Or how about this winner, "Everybody! there's a dick in Angel's mouth!" [no reaction] "yeah?"..."it's not attached to anyone!" What a hoot! Picture Ron Jeremy's life if he had a normal wiener. That's how sad this flick is.

You might wonder why I’m posting such a negative review. Simple. As Voltaire is thought to have said, I may not agree with what you say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. This is America. And RRPOSTAL, an obvious premature ejaculator, has the right to criticize my movie. I whole-heartedly respect his total lack of a sense of humor. It’s extremely important not to disenfranchise the mentally challenged—they have just as much right to post to the IMDB as those whose IQ’s at least register on some sort of scale. As a patriot, I feel proud to allow this probably-46-year-old-man-who-still-lives-with-his-mother to air his grievances and perpetuate the onslaught of bitter opinions from people who are so desperate to be heard and finally have their forum through the internet which provides them with the anonymity they need lest we discover how truly lonely they are.

RRPOSTAL—I love you. You are my brother, my friend, my fellow American, and someone I hope to always, always never know personally.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you Ron Jeremy’s dick can’t take criticism!

Dear Flabby

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I Love You, Man

No doubt by now you’ve all seen the new footage of Michael Jackson that’s been hurling through web at warp speed. It was shot during rehearsals for his infamous 1984 Pepsi commercial, when his hair caught on fire.

I have to admit—watching the video today really affected me.

That’s because of a similar fate which befell me in 2002. I was filming a McDonalds commercial in New York that summer. The restaurant was introducing their new McSperm Shake and I was hired to promote it. I can’t remember the ad copy exactly, but it had something to do with me exploding with joy all over it.

Anyway, during the dance sequence, a light—and I mean a 40 pound light—fell on top of me.

At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But then I started singing the theme from “Rhoda” and asking everyone if they knew where my turtle was. I was rushed to the hospital and Ron was flown in to New York (we were separate that weekend.)

When the chief resident first took a look at me, he was convinced I had two massive hematomas and wouldn’t make it through the night. Of course, those turned out to be my balls. But for a mild concussion, I was going to be okay.

Ron, though--he was scared. He sat up with me that whole first night, talking to me so I wouldn’t fall asleep and bleed internally. This is going to sound weird, but it was one of the best nights of my life. For the first time in a very long time, Ron and I talked. I mean really talked. He told me all about his fears (dying, Hostess going out of business) and I told him mine (reenacting that scene in the car from “Garp”).

Then Ron said four words that I’d never heard him utter besides “I think I’m full.”

He said, “I love you, man.” And I said it right back.

Beautiful, huh? Unfortunately, Ron wasn't content to leave with that kind of vulnerability in the ethos. The next words out of his mouth were: “Now hurry up and get better. I ran into Portia De Rossi in the elevator and I’m pretty sure I can fuck the dyke right out of her.”

Suck My Junket

Last Friday Paris Hilton appeared in a Miami federal court as the defendant in an $8.3M lawsuit brought by the producers of her movie "Pledge This!" She's charged with violating her contract by refusing to help promote the 2006 film, which is about a bunch of sorority girls who fuck cans of Lemon Pledge. If you ask me, I think this whole lawsuit is a last-ditch effort to get publicity for the movie, now on DVD. I haven't seen the film, but I'd bet three of my own inches it's a piece of shit. Not that the quality of the movie affects her contractual obligations. She defended herself on the stand and said, ""If I have my name attached to something, I want it to be as big as it can be." I believe her, and I have a picture of her signing my shaft to prove it.

No such suit will ever be brought against me for "One-Eyed Monster." I have worked my balls off promoting that movie. I did over 300 drive-time "phoners" via a Clear Channel satellite junket, 80 online magazine interviews and presented an award for biggest cock-tease at the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards (it went to the Jonas Brothers, for whom I provided my own personal slime). I did Regis and Kelly (well, I talked to Regis, but I did Kelly), and I went on The View (boy, that was a disaster--they wanted to see me fully extended, but sitting next to Joy Behar I could not get a boner to save my life). Promoting a movie is simply part of a star's job, and I met my obligations with enthusiasm and professionalism. Paris lives for publicity, so the fact that she didn't help promote "Pledge This!" is all the more ridiculous. What a nice reflection on her.

PUPIK

I get a lot of email asking if I own a copy of Ron’s film, “Pupik”, the controversial 1989 porno based (loosely) on the tragic events of the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich.

Why controversial? Where do I begin? Putting aside the racist undertones (the terrorist group in the film is called “Black Vagina”) and the crude references to a serious event, audiences were outraged by the film’s opening scene in which Prime Minister Golda Meir (played by Ginger Lynn) meets the new Mossad recruit (Jeremy).

Well, the answer is no: I don’t own a copy, and neither does Ron. As far as I know, there are only two in existence, and one of them is owned by Francis Ford Coppola, who acquired the film under the terms of a settlement after suing “Pupik”’s director for his previous effort, “Fucker: The Man and His Cream.”

Six years ago, however, I found a rare copy of the shooting script on Ebay. I can at least, then, reprint the opening scene of the film. Enjoy!


RON JEREMY is brought by members of the Israeli army into a small living room of a house. Everyone appears restless as they wait, until GOLDA MEIR enters the room. They all stand up in deference.


GOLDA MEIR: I knew your father, Mr. Jeremy. He was a good man. A brave man.

RON: Thank you, Prime Minster.

GOLDA MEIR: We have a situation.

RON: Yes, Prime Minister

GOLDA MEIR: A group calling themselves “Black Vagina” have given a scorching case of herpes to the entire Israel Olympic delegation. They will be unable to compete now.

RON: What is it you seek from me?

GOLDA MEIR: I want you to fuck the people who fucked us. Every civilization finds it necessary to negotiate compromises with its own values. I have made a decision. The responsibility is entirely mine.

RON: With all due respect, Prime Minister, I don’t have herpes.

GOLDA MEIR: But I’m told you have a killer cock, is that right young man?

RON: Yes, that is right.

GOLDA MEIR: Show it to me.


RON takes out his cock and even the Israeli army members, who’ve seen just about everything, are shocked with awe.


GOLDA MEIR: I may be too old to run this country much longer, but not too old to suck that beautiful Kosher footlong.


GOLDA gets on her knees, takes out her tits, and engulfs Ron’s cock in her mouth.


RON: Hatikva-va voom!!!!

Insatiable

Much has been made of late about the sudden resignation of Sarah Palin from her office as governor of Alaska. Honestly, I don't see what all the fuss is about. She was just following the instincts of a porn star. I've been hanging from the most famous one in the world my whole life, and I know a porn star when I see one.

For one thing, she's got some big balls on her. I don't know what Todd's got between his legs, but they couldn't possibly compare to the stones that made this broad think she could win over feminist voters on the sheer coincidence of her vagina.

Her talent in the blowjob department must be Alaskan legend, because how else can you explain getting plucked from obscurity to join the McCain ticket? Then again have you seen Cindy McCain? She looks only slightly less interested in sucking off a dead monkey than John McCain.

Palin's porn character is pretty much stock--she's been playing the dumb gardener/pizza delivery/pool guy. The one who's acting the part of the regular guy--who's just like us, except schooled in the history of head, advanced penetration and cum 101. Only in hardcore movies and Republican fantasies do working people get to transcend their class, fucking the horny, rich women who own the pools and gardens. Palin was effective at creating this illusion with her folksy phrases and hockey mom persona, the wilderness girl off to restore moral authority to the White House if not the nation.

But what truly distinguishes Palin as a singular student of adult film--and the inspiration for today's blog-- is her undeniable ability to pull out at the right time. Sorry if I'm stating the obvious, but guys pull out just before they blow their load because it's important to see the ejaculation, preferably all over someone's face. And that's what's happening now. Sarah Palin pulled out and has unloaded on our national face a Yukon River of spooge. She's been fucking us for almost a year now, and her control has been nothing short of miraculous. But now it's over.

Or is it? We've sucked her and been fucked by her. Pornos are nothing if not predictable, so if my calculations are correct, she's due to give it to us in the ass. 2012 isn't that far away.

Dear Ron Jeremy's Dick

It’s Friday Mail Day! About a third of the letters I receive are from folks asking for advice. I usually respond privately, but I thought this one warranted wider exposure. Have a great weekend everyone.


Dear Ron Jeremy’s Dick,

Ever since I was 12 and accidentally saw my sister performing songs from “The Little Mermaid” in her underwear, I have been a premature ejaculator. I’m 32 now and it’s still affecting my relationships. I have what’s known as PE-Extreme. Two nights ago, my girlfriend asked if I wanted to have sex, and I came in the middle of the word “have”. I’ve read all of the standard techniques, but nothing works. So I’m turning to you. Any advice?

Sincerely,

Big and Burly, But Much Too Early



Dear Big and Burly,

First, I hope you find comfort knowing that a third of the male population suffers from PE. But they don’t have to. As you can imagine, this hasn’t really been an issue for Ron, but here are a couple of a tried and true methods that he has used over the years in difficult times.

1. Use “Speed”. No, I’m talking about going faster. I’m referring to the 1994 thriller starring Keanu Reeves. So while you’re having sex, pretend that a bomb has been planted in your partners vagina, set to go off if sperm activates it. The only danger here is if this leads you to start obsessively thinking about Sandra Bullock, when she was arguably at her cutest.

2. I’m well aware that men try to think of awful things (their taxes, puppies being killed, cancelling “Arrested Development”). These images are good, but often not extreme enough. Solution: The Holocaust. Now, I’m not suggesting you go as far as to conjure up awful images. I recommend one step removed, and thrust your body to the theme from “Schindler’s List”. It sounds odd, but the languid eighth-note pattern of the solo violin times very well with a coitus stroke, and the music will be enough to tell your brain: “Hey, if you come now, that is HIGHLY inappropriate.”

3. Justify it. This technique should never be used by the prose-challenged. For it to work, you have to be Lloyd Dobbler times 10, overflowing with words. Essentially, you act as though it was absolutely your intention to reach orgasm this fast. You can say you’re training for a new Olympic sport, or that you’ve beaten a Guinness record and you’ll both be receiving cash, or that she’s the only girl with the power to do that to you and now you want kids with her, or that now you can spend more time talking about her feelings and candles. Just keep it positive and keep it flowing, until you’ve talked through your refractory period and can enter her again. Repeat as necessary.

Sincerely,

Ron Jeremy's Dick

Penisocchio

When I was just a wee-wee, there was one bedtime story that always confused me--angered me, even. It was Pinocchio. He had this kind, old father figure who dreamed of bringing his wood to life. Yes, it's a fairy who does (turns?) the trick, but that didn't bother me; to each his bone, I say. You might think I took exception the fact that a part of him would grow big and long only after a moral lapse. Yes, that made my foreskin crawl, but I also understood from an early length that such an erection was simply too suggestive for Disney and had to be viewed negatively. I don't share that point of view, of course, but I do accept brand management; it's why I've never been seen with Tim Conway's dick--that thing is a fucking garden hose.

Coming to life wasn't good enough for P. No, he needed to transform into something else, because being someone's sentient wood puppet wasn't real fulfillment. That I didn't buy. And back then I wasn't even enjoying the bountiful rewards of being Ron's sentient wood puppet. But I didn't feel like my life wasn't real just because I was mostly wood.

This may be why I admire dildos. They don't suffer any such existential challenge. They know they're fake, but they get to fuck real pussies, so they don't complain. There are dildos out there that were literally made in my image. You can buy them. I can't imagine how I'd feel if one of them wished upon a porn star and magically became real, but I suspect those old gripes about Pinocchio would return. Be happy with yourself! You get to be you, so why become something you're not?

Oh crap, was this about Michael Jackson?

It Matters

Since the dawn of time, humankind has questioned just about everything. Sometimes the questions are big and profound: is there a God? Why do bad things happen to good people? Sometimes the questions are, well, less significant: why does Scarlett Johansen continue to get cast in films? Why are mattress stores ALWAYS having a sale?

But let’s face it: there’s one question that has been asked—and will continue to be asked—throughout the ages.

Does size matter?

I’m going to answer this one, once and for all, since I’m the ultimate authority. Not because I’m so huge—but simply because I’ve been in thousands of vaginas. I’ve heard thousands of opinions, thousands of stories, and I’ve recorded and compiled them into a kind of WikiPenis.

Here we go.

YES. OF COURSE IT MATTERS. Size matters for everything. When you’re hungry, would you rather have a Sloppy Joe, or a Manwich? When you’ve settled down to watch “Harry Potter and the Wizard of Poontang”, wouldn’t you rather watch it on a 60 inch plasma? (By the way, not everything should be seen this way. It’s been officially recognized by the AMA that it is not only unpleasant, but actually physically dangerous to watch Larry King on a 60 inch plasma. At that size, one is able to see actual bugs crawling on Larry’s embalmed face and the sight is known to cause nausea and/or seizures.)

And finally—apologies to my lesser-endowed comrades—women care how big our cocks are. If they love you, they’ll tell you it doesn’t matter. But they are disappointed with anything below the 7-inch demarcation, unless the girth compensates (but it rarely compensates.)

I happen to have both length (9 ¾--confirmed by two different labs, and a 1987 study which compared me with a rolled up yoga mat) and girth (3 inch diameter). My girth tickles their walls, my length tickles their spleen.

The sad conclusion: you better either have great looks, a lot of dough, or a giant sausage. Any one of them guarantees you a lay. Two of them get you an Olsen Twin. All three gets you the Olsen Twins.

It matters.

At A Loss For Words

I'm drawing a blank today. I got nothing. I'm usually not lacking for subject matter and opinions, as I think you know by now. But today...
It doesn't feel good, being blocked like this. This never happens to me. Jesus, I sound like a guy talking about his limp dick, except I'm the limp dick!

I blame Michael Jackson. Ever since he died, the mental energy of the country--maybe the world--has been focused on him. The economy is crumbling, we're fighting two wars, my movie is on DVD and yet the only thing anyone wants to talk about is Jacko. And this morning, of course, is his memorial service, so even the roads are blocked.

Well, I'm not going to join that party. He's had his time in this blog. If I have to be the only living thing on this planet not thinking or talking about Michael Jackson, so be it. This is one monster cock that is spending the morning otherwise engaged. Why did Lisa Marie Presley marry him? Clearly she wasn't looking for someone who reminded her of daddy. Yeah, they were both superstars who knew how to move; one of them a white guy who wanted to be black and the other a black guy who wanted to be white. They had their famous estates with fairy tale names. Fans loved to impersonate them. But Elvis was a man's man, and MJ was a man child. So what did she see in him--God knows she didn't need the money. Maybe she wanted to save him. She saw a great talent going down the drain, personally and professionally, and she resolved to succeed where her mother failed.

I wonder how big his cock was. Black guys are justifiably celebrated for the size of their dicks, but it's hard to picture Michael with any dick, much less a substantial one--ironic, considering how many times he'd grab it during his performances. It's almost as if he wanted to remind people (or himself?) that he had one. I always thought it was an absurd gesture, devoid of the sexual potency it was meant to convey. You know what conveys sexual potency? Fucking. But I don't think he ever fucked anything in his life. "He's got three kids" you say? Trust me, whatever sperm made those kids were not motivated by vagina.

To this day, there are only two songs that can literally force me onto a dance floor--"Brick House" and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough." I can't resist those grooves, I just can't. Maybe that's what I should do to overcome this block. I'll put on "Off the Wall." Damn, the guy could sing.

Whore Is Hell

I see in the news today that former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the so-called “architect” of the Vietnam War, has died. His passing immediately brought me back to the summer of ’71, when I found myself in a quagmire of my own.

Ron was 18 then, and despite massive protests back home by his parents, he shipped himself off to Southeast Asia for a summer of solo travel. I think he was scared to go, but in the back of his mind, he knew there’d be loose women there and the chance to service a cunt.

Almost as quickly as he arrived, he met Ursula, a hooker whose years of experience weren’t enough to be unrattled by the sight of me when Ron took off his pants.

She was impressed, and within seconds, Ron found himself in the clit.

After some shaky foreplay, Ron nervously used me to penetrate Ursula’s foreign terrain, and I found myself deeply entrenched in her moist Thai land. Now, everyone knows Ron can last longer than a line at Sav-on, but not this time. I started firing my salty ammunition erratically, and sensing the inability for more rounds, Ron was ready to withdraw.

Except that he couldn’t.

Ursula’s pussy was so mind-numbingly tight, that Ron found himself complete stuck—unable to remove me from the area. In an act of desperation, he tried to gain leverage by pressing his hand—nay, palm—against her pelvis to force me out.

But it was futile. Ron was mired in this conflict.

I can’t really remember how Ron finally got out, but I do know that he immediately left Thailand for a trip to Paris, where he found peace, according to his journals—except for a nasty bout of posttraumatic syphilis.

Land of the Free, Home of the Brave

5:09 a.m.

I'd planned to write something about the birth of our country in celebration of its anniversary tomorrow. I feel very lucky to have been born here, where I've had opportunities that cocks in other countries have never had. One thing you can say about our founding fathers: they had some balls on them to do what they did. And perhaps on some level I identify, since I also have a famous pair and I sought independence from Ron, although he was much more open to the idea than King George III.

Instead, however, it's a little after 5 a.m. and I woke up from a dream I can't remember and now I can't get back to sleep. I usually can, but my thoughts started drifting to a very bizarre and sad scenario in which I become pinned between a subway train and the wall of the station platform, my lower half twisted and crushed. I become the living dead, because as soon as the train moves, everything inside me will fall out. Until then, though, I'm conscious, so I call for my loved ones to say goodbye while I can. Veronica Hart, Samantha Fox, Cristy Canyon and Nina Hartley rush to the station and, sobbing, caress me, say sweet things, and with their mouths try to summon one last drop of their favorite nourishment. But my balls have been pulverized, so they give up and, holding each other for support, leave the station.

Then the real heartbreaker. Ron shows up. He's got spaghetti sauce on his shirt and he's out of breath. We talk about old times, and he thanks me for making him famous. I tell him lots of guys have big dicks, but he knew what to do with me, and that has made all the difference. He looks at me so sadly: only four inches of me is visible, and he hasn't seen that since he was two years old. I feel so ashamed and guilty, I tell him. This would never have happened if I hadn't asked to separate from him on occasion. Where did independence get us? He took me by the shaft--how many times have I felt that hairy hand!--and said, "Now listen to me. Independence is always worth fighting for! And it's always worth the risk of failure. The patriots who've died fighting for our liberty would have been proud and gratified to know that because of their sacrifice, 200 years later millions of guys would jerk off watching a chubby schlub fuck hot women, giving them reason to believe that anything is possible. So you, my friend, have helped to fulfill America's promise."

I couldn't understand what he said next, either because I was dying or because he was crying too hard. Didn't matter, because I noticed I was very hard by this time. RJ was still sleeping, but, god bless him, even in his sleep he was sympathetic enough to give me a few strokes until his red rocket flared and, like bombs bursting in air, our seed took flight until it hit the window pane. A declaration indeed, signed, naturally, "Ron's Hand, Cock."

As Obama might say, god bless Ron Jeremy, and god bless the United States of America. Happy 4th, everyone!

Little Ditty, 'Bout Dick and Diane

I want to thank everyone who’s already pledged their support for me after I announced my candidacy for the United States Congress. A special shout out to Fred Shimmel of Canton, Ohio who suggested the campaign slogans, “Cock We Can Believe In”, and “Putting America First, Right After A Solid Ass-Fucking”

As I stated yesterday, I’m going for Diane Watson’s seat—she represents the 33rd district of California. So it didn’t surprise me to receive a phone call from her yesterday afternoon. Following is a transcript of that call:

ME: Hello?

SECRETARY: I have Representative Diane Watson calling for Ron Jeremy’s dick?

(I always chuckle when a secretary phrases it like that. I wanted to give my stock “get in line, Sister” answer, but I tried to remain respectful, considering the caller.)

ME: Speaking.

SECRETARY: One moment please.

DIANE: Well, I think a congratulations is in order? I understand you’ve decided to run for congress?

ME: Representative Watson, it is an honor to speak with you.

DIANE: The honor is all mine, sir. I’m a longtime fan.

ME: Thank you, I really app---excuse me, did you say you were a longtime fan?

DIANE: Yes, that’s right.

ME: You mean of Ron?

DIANE: Are you his dick?

ME: Yes ma’am.

DIANE: Like I said, longtime fan. You were brilliantly menacing in “One-Eyed Monster”, and I loved your work in “Angels and Semen.”

ME: Wow, I’m blown away that you even SAW that, since it was only released in Kenya.

DIANE: I serve on the subcommittee for Africa and Global Health, so I’ve travelled to Kenya many times .

ME: I must say, Representative Watson, you’ve really disarmed me here. Kinda making it a little difficult to want to take your seat.

DIANE: Competition is what makes this country thrive, sir. I welcome the challenge from such a venerable opponent, and look forward to debating the issues with someone of your stature and prowess.

ME: I—I don’t know what to say…maybe…maybe…I won’t run? You’re doing such a great job for the district.

DIANE: Oh, you’re too kind. I do apologize, but I need to end our delightful talk. Please give my best to Ron, and whatever pussy you’re sleeping in tonight.

END OF CALL



MAN, she’s good! Um, now what do I do?

The Honorable Cock of Ron Jeremy

I often wonder how someone who had time-traveled here from, say, 1960 would react when he first heard the words, uttered these days in reverential tones, "President Reagan." Of all the words capable of crossing his lips, I imagine the first five would be: Are you fucking kidding me? Likewise, someone who came here from 20 years ago might burst out laughing at the words "Governor Jesse Ventura" and "Governor Schwarzenegger." Today I heard the words "Senator Al Franken, " and even though I was aware of his campaign and subsequent court battle over the recount--even the fact that he was likely to win the appeal--I still can't believe it's not a joke. Once upon a time, in a land that doesn't exist anymore, the holders of political office were lifelong politicians, or at least they came from the military. They weren't actors, professional wrestlers or comedians. While to many this new trend towards "anything goes" electability is bizarre at best and deeply disturbing at worst, I am fucking stoked! Why? Do you really have to guess?

Today, I--Ron Jeremy's cock--announce my candidacy for the office of U.S. Representative in the 33rd District of California. The current representative is The Honorable Diane Watson, but that ho' is going down faster than Tori Welles on a dick made of frozen yogurt. There is no longer any reason why a porn star's cock can't hold elected office. Naturally, you're wondering which party I belong to. Repubican? Democrotch? Indepenisdent? I'm a big dick...of course I'm Republican! Besides, someone has to put Nancy Pelosi's mouth to better use. What do I stand for? Oh, let's see. How about Change?

Being a politician is not all that different from being a porn star. I read lines that were written for me, I take money from shady people, and squirt my seed on willing women. Let's face it--I know more about acts of congress than anyone in Washington, and I've spent even more time in an oval office with bush than another famous Dick.

So Diane Watson, here's one giant slab of man meat who means it when he says "I'm coming for you." My cumpaign has begun.

On Golden Ponzi

The world knows about Ron’s brilliant abilities in the bedroom, but few are aware that he is somewhat of a financial wunderkind. How else could a guy with only porn, some mainstream cameos, and a hot sauce line to his name be living such a comfortable life? Answer: great investments over the years.

Me—I have not been so lucky. After being left a sizable trust fund by Ron’s grandfather’s dick, Hyatt P. Niss, I made a series of terrible investments over the years. In 1978, I sunk a ton of money into Dontcum Industries. They had just been awarded FDA approval on Controldaseed, a medication used to prevent premature ejaculation. Apparently, it was supposed to intercept some key neurons just before the “point of no return”, and trick the user into thinking he was making love to a squirrel. It was almost immediately recalled after 10 users in Boston test group contracted rabies.

But the worst of all possible investments came just a few years ago. Yes, readers, I was a victim of Bernard Madoff’s unconscionable swindling. I lost everything, and like many of his victims, I hope the man rots in hell. I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Ron was certain that Maddof’s returns were too good to be true. And after almost getting caught in similar trouble (well—not that similar. Ron was once the victim of a Fonzie scheme, but never received justice because the perpetrator couldn't admit he was wra-wra-wrong), Ron’s bullshit detector was on high alert.

But I didn’t listen. Bernie “made off” with all my money.

Thankfully, justice was served yesterday. The scumbag got 150 years. And there’s a silver lining to all of this, which I hope pleases my fellow victims: I’m friends with a lot of dicks who are currently serving time and they have all promised to make a sizable investment in Bernie’s anus.

In the meantime, I’m back to square one. I may not have any money, but every day I look in the mirror and think: “Just look at ya. You’re still young, you’ve got your health, you’re fucking gigantic, you just starred in a feature film, you belong to a great guy, and tonight you’re sampling twins.”

There’s nobody richer.

To Live and Die in LA

Fred Travalena just died. I know the guy was a professional imitator, but Jeez! Did he really think the headlines would follow him?

Still, being a celebrity, I can't help but take in the daily coverage of Michael Jackson's premature and tragic death without wondering (as Fred must have) how my own death will be covered by the media (Fred would be in for a rude awakening if he ever woke up again). Obviously when Ron dies, I die; but I could be functionally dead long before Ron kicks, as happens to many old men and prostate cancer victims. Will TMZ get the scoop, having paid off someone at Ron's urologist's office? Will fans begin collecting around Ginger Lynn's mouth so as to feel nearer to me?

I want all that and more. Hell, I had as much influence on contemporary pornography as MJ had on contemporary music. We were both big when we were young. I've performed as much as he has, and while I may not be able to moon walk, I doubt he was able to stay hard for hours and hours, at least in the presence of someone over 9. He made one Thriller. I made over 2000.

Don't get me wrong--I don't object to the rabid adulation he's received since dying. He was a major talent and pop icon. But I'm a major talent and pipe icon, and I'm just arguing for my due when it's my turn. What will be my third-legacy? For one thing, I hope that, like MJ's body of work, "One-Eyed Monster" shoots to the #1 spot on Amazon and Itunes in the days following my death. I have to admit, I've been very disappointed in sales of the DVD. I really thought this movie would take off--even while acknowledging it's not for all tastes. But I'm not bitter. I believe in moving on. Michael Jackson, on the other hand, was famously against maturity; he wanted to flit around and stay young like Peter Pan. But take it from Peter Pan Am--flying is meaningless unless you actually go somewhere. Case in point, in 45 minutes I'm going inside a vagina. To my knowledge, Michael's been there only once, and it was a one-way trip.

Michael and I have given a lot of pleasure to a lot of people We're two of a kind: the rock star and the cock star...the most important member of the Jackson 5 and most important member of Ron Jeremy....the prodigy and the prodigious...he was planning a comeback next month and I was planning to cum on someone's back next Friday.

Except for this: Billie Jean was not his lover, but the odds are pretty good she was mine.

RIP

They say you always remember where you were when really famous people die. I’m not sure that will be the case with Michael Jackson. That’s because I was inside Sunny Lane’s snatch, and I’ve been there hundreds of times. Ron was filming a scene for the upcoming “Night at the Museum: Fuck My Ass”, when a PA blurted out that the King of Pop was dead. Out of respect, Ron pulled out, but the timing of that action made it look like I was doing a spit take. I wasn’t of course, and those weren’t tears streaming down Sunny’s face.

But yeah, I’m sad today. For all his troubles, both financial and social, we lost an entertainment giant. So as a tribute, I dug up a song of his to which I rewrote lyrics. In the mid-80’s, I was hired by junior high schools around the country to promote abstinence to young boys, and I decided the best way to reach them was through contemporary music.

I know you boys are having feelings down there.
It’s always changing sizes and it’s growing hair.
So take it from a dick who has been ‘bout everywhere
And beat it, just beat it.

And now your face is getting covered with zits.
And girls in your class are getting bigger tits.
You wanna stick it in, just to see if it fits,
So beat it, but you wanna be bad

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it
Guys, you really must concede it.
Now’s not the time to be getting laid.
Just wait ‘til college—pussy in spades.
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it


So long, Michael.

Game On!

The Game Show Network recently re-ran my 1981 appearance on "The $20,000 Pyramid." Having polished off Betty White and her partner, I moved with my partner Jane into the Winner's Circle.

Dick Clark: Okay, you know the drill. Correctly guessing all six categories in 60 seconds wins you $20,000. Jane, you've chosen to receive, Ron's dick will give

(Betty White calls out from her seat).

Betty: She's in good company!

Dick Clark: 60 seconds on the clock. Ready? Go!



Me: Apes…
Jane: Animals, Things In A Zoo
Me: Apes….My Balls
Jane: Big…
Me: Gilda Radner
Jane: Hairy Things!
Dick Clark: Right! Next!

Me: Butter, Crisco
Jane: Things You Cook With
Me: Baby Oil, Vaseline
Jane: Lubes!
Dick Clark: Good! Next!

Me: A wristwatch….Dudley Moore’s Cock
Jane: Things You Find In Susan Anton’s Ass!
Dick Clark: Halfway there! Next.

Me: Guys want me…
Jane: What Kate Jackson would say, what sports cars would say
Me: I feel good, I make them cum
Jane: What Charo…
Me: Paul Lynde gives me all the time.
Jane: What a blowjob would say!
Dick Clark: Running out of time!



Me: Oh boy, uh, Ang Ez
Jane: Vietnam?
Me: Ah--Eh--Aleh-I-Pah
Jane: Things In the Koran?

The buzzer sounds. The audience lets out a collective “Awww.” Dick Clark walks over.

Dick Clark: Let Me Try… Gah Baz Amaca
Jane: How God Bless America sounds if you sing while giving head?

The audience applauds.

Dick Clark: I guess it helps to have experience. That’s all the time we have, folks! Goodbye.

Don't Cry For Me Governor Sanford

You can say that it’s “to serve the public trust”, or “to make a difference in this world”, but let’s face it: the real reason men get into politics is…(drum roll)….FUCKING! They want to get laid. And let me tell you, there’s more shtupping going on in Washington these days than in the entire adult series “Ginger Lynn’s Gang Bang Follies”, and I’m including “Gang Bang Follies 16”, where Ginger makes love to the entire population of Guam.

Of all the sex taking place in the capital, the majority of is extramarital. Why? Because they get away with it. Governor Mark Sanford is admitting his affair and stepping down for only one reason: because he got caught. I guess I’d be lying if I didn’t take a certain delight in the fact that he’s a Republican, that sanctimonious group of cum-swappers who held Clinton to the fire for getting some sweet Jewish head. The hypocrisy is simply too easy to point out. But make no mistake: there are hundreds of other extramarital affairs happening as I write this. Some will get caught, others won’t.

I’d like to make one other point: guys often attribute their indiscretions to “the power of the pussy”, or will excuse their behavior by saying they were simply “thinking with their dick.”

It’s all bullshit. Yes, I think. If there’s one thing I hope this blog has proved, it’s that I have an active mind, full of a myriad of thoughts. But in the end, I have never entered an orifice without Ron’s intention to do so. By the same token, a pussy does not have power, at least in the sense that it can force you to penetrate it. Jenna Haze’s pussy is powerful, but that’s because it can lock around me like a fleshy vice in a perverted shop class.

Governor Sanford did not think with his dick. I know this for two reasons: the first is that I actually met his dick once at the Washington Correspondents dinner. It was very humble and polite, and was more interested in talking sports than pussy. The second reason is simply a summation of my blog today: the man is an egomaniacal, power-loving politician.

No Governor, this was all you. You, sir, chose to tango with your Argentinian friend, not your dick. Now face the cocksequences.

When I'm In There, Your Ass Is Half Full

Being Ron Jeremy's dick has advantages, of course. I've been fucked and sucked more than even the most wildly promiscuous gay man--and by women who, more often than not, populate the fantasies of just about every straight man alive. Big-titted babes of every stripe and size; (if you know the tune, sing along...) white chicks, black chicks, chicks with golden locks; thin chicks, fat chicks, even chicks with chicken pox. The chicks guys love to eeeaat! So to complain about my life might come across as a tad ungrateful.

But it's my part and I'll cry if I want to.

I lost out for the role of the penis in the new HBO series "Hung," which debuts next week. It's called "Hung" for god's sake. And I didn't get the part! The director said he loved my audition (I'm well known in casting circles for my mono log), but that I was simply too recognized as Ron Jeremy's cock. Now I know how Sherman Hemsley felt when he went up for the part of Forrest Gump. The roles that gave us so much success came with a price. Don't get me wrong, I loved starring in "One-Eyed Monster." I really stretched, both as an actor and as a dick. But HBO, man! A regular gig on a network that isn't shy about showing a guy's cock in the service of story! It's not tv, it's HB Oh, fuck, that is one magnificent piece of pipe! This would have been my Tony Soprano.

Post Script

I just read that Ed McMahon died. Very sad. Not about him, per se; he lived a long life with fame and success. But it made me think about Ron. Like Ed, Ron is basically my goofy sidekick, who would have quietly faded into Hollywood obscurity if not for his long association with me. Like Ed, Ron has spent a career announcing me to millions. They both had their reality shows--Ed with "Star Search," and Ron "The Surreal Life." Ah, shit, now I feel really stupid for complaining about being tethered to RJ. He's not holding me back. He's a part of me. A big part. Though Ron's pupik (nice fella, we both hang out a lot) might beg to differ, Ron and I are the biggest parts of each other. Eh, Thomas Jane can have his "Hung." When he can fuck for ten hours straight, toggling between pussy, mouth and ass and making thirty women cum in the bargain, then let's talk. To you, Ed! You're back with your old partner, so may you sit happily on his heavenly couch, laughing at his jokes for all eternity. Allow me the honor of announcing to Heaven, "Heeeeeeere's Ed!"

If Ayatollah Once, Ayatollah a Thousand Times!

I want to apologize to everyone for my absence on Friday. I’ve been pretty consistent with blogging Monday thru Friday, but last Friday, I had a job I couldn’t turn down. I was actually in Japan shooting a TV commercial. They’re a lot less restrictive about what airs on TV and the pay is incredible. I pocketed a million bucks just for saying two words, “Play hard” (it was a Nike ad).

So…I’m guessing a lot of folks are wanting me to weigh in on what’s happening in Iran. As usual, it’s easiest for me to discuss international affairs in terms of my own life. This one’s a no-brainer.

I’ve blogged before about the day I achieved independence from Ron—the day I first detached and began to experience life separate from Ron. I remember thinking “I can do what I want now! I have my own mind, my own opinions. From here on in, it’s going to be a Decockracy.

But I was deluding myself. For as long as Ron exists, there can’t be true freedom. He is the Supreme Leader. In the end, he is the one who makes all the decisions. Sure, I can influence him and god knows I often do—why the hell else would he have fucked Candy Crowley (hey look, it was an election night and those CNN reporters have a lot of energy.)

So don’t kid yourselves, people. Ahmadinejad or Mousavi--it doesn’t matter when an Ayatollah’s in the hiz-house. Call me when a cleric stops really running that country. In the meantime, I’m almost certain that Candy lost weight. Hey Ronnie!!!

Frank Rich Can Suck Me

I’ve said from the beginning that I’d be completely straight with my readers. Still, a lot of people were skeptical about Tuesday’s blog, in which I described my 1988 theatrical flop, “Phallus”. So I dug up this old review. By and large, the critical response was favorable, but sadly, the one paper that has the power to make or break a show, well, broke our show.


New York Times Theater Review

“PHALLUS” IS COMPLETELY LIMP

By Frank Rich
Theater Critic

Broadway is currently home to the sorriest spectacle I’ve seen since “I’m Short, Black and My Folks Ripped Me Off”, the one-man show from actor Gary Coleman which polluted the Great White Way last year. But don’t unpack your bags just yet, because I’ve a feeling this abominable musical, which opened last night at the Winter Garden Theater, has already overstayed its welcome.

At 4 ½ hours long (with no intermission), “Phallus”, the brainchild of, and starring Ron Jeremy’s dick, is tedium incarnate. Set in London during the 1870’s, the story introduces us to Anne (Judith Light), the daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate who’s been betrothed against her will to William (John Forsythe). Problem is, she’s really in love with the mysterious and rarely seen caretaker of her manor, Dick (Ron Jeremy’s dick).

In the opening number, “I Don’t Want To Marry, I Just Want Dick”, Anne’s intentions are made painfully obvious. One wonders even more painfully why 4 hour and 20 minutes more were needed to spin this ridiculous yarn. Ms. Light’s voice is serviceable enough here, and indeed some of the lyrics show the promise of artistic merit:

"I feel as though I’m drowning in quicksand/No one can fill me like that Dick can."

At the two-hour mark, we are finally introduced to Dick, though Carl Bressler’s moody lighting works overtime to obscure the towering skin-covered behemoth. Dick’s heartfelt plea to Anne in what was obviously meant to be the show’s breakout ballad, “Let Me Rise To The Occasion” is sung with confidence by Mr. Ron Jeremy’s dick, but the music is less than memorable. In fact, of the 46 songs, only one, “You Can Count and Sit on Me”, has bounce and style.

You’ll hear a lot of folks oooing and ahhing over the show’s one special effect, an enormous helicopter which descends from the ceiling. But it is no sooner drowned out during the unfortunate climax when our hero is gruesomely decapitated. I’m not giving anything away here, since the musical is based on the beloved children’s book, “Anne And The Giant Cock.”

Do yourself a favor. As you find yourself at the theater, go two buildings down to the Helen Hayes Theater instead and see “Out To Lunch”, the new musical told from the perspective of coma-ridden Sunny Von Bulow. I guarantee you it shows infinitely more signs of life.


“Phallus” A New Musical. Starring Ron Jeremy’s dick, Judith Light, John Forsythe, Jeff Blumenkrantz, Marietta DiPrima, and Nunzio Galippo. Music and Lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. Book by Ron Jeremy’s dick. Produced by James Ivory and Ismail Merchant. Directed by Fran Soeder.

Headline News

I don't particularly like it when a black comedian's routine is almost exclusively about the differences between black people and white people. Yes, it's fertile comic ground. Or was. But after Pryor and Murphy that subject is played out. But so many black comedians still take it on. Maybe they think it's expected of them? All by way of saying--I've avoided holding forth on the recent news about HIV in the porn world because it's expected of me to weigh in for obvious reasons. I realize that expounding on the moral hypocrisies and self-righteous "gotcha" hysteria among people who aren't in the business has not really been mined by many--or any--porn star cocks, but still, I generally like to focus on pussy. Yeah yeah, that's expected of me too. I'm the Chris Rock of blogging cocks.

Oh, fine.

One single case of HIV is discovered and it's headline news? Friend, it's only headline news if Lynne Russell has HIV (a reference for followers of hot CNN anchor history. Ah, how many times did RJ fantasize about her pussy while drilling even the most delectable porn star? That woman maintained the expression of someone who was gettin' it in the ass whether she was gettin' it in the ass or reporting about Bosnia or both). One single case! There are HIV cases diagnosed every day! Thousands diagnosed with cancer from smoking, thousands diagnosed with liver disease from drinking or diabetes from obesity! Every fucking day! But news of those illnesses only gets reported as a statistic. One single case of HIV, and all because it's in someone who works in pornos. Not even a porn star! And why? Because everyone needs to judge us. Everyone needs to cluck their tongues and shake their heads in disapproval. Preventable? Sure. But so is lung cancer from smoking, liver disease from drinking and diabetes from obesity. And yes, we do judge those people, but we don't write an article about it.

Look, I'm all for safe sex among civilians. But while RJ may disagree with me, I think wearing a rubber in a porno is no different than having Angelina Jolie wear a catcher's mask all through a movie. We want to see her face. She has a pretty one. We want to see it. If we can't, then the part might as well be played by Martha Plympton. If appearing in a movie without a catcher's mask came with the risk of a terrible infection--which only happens if you're in a scene with Tom Sizemore--then I imagine many actors would get out of the business. But not all of them. Some would realize that the product is what it is and that to compromise its quality for the protection of the talent is to create an inferior product. And watching a condom slide in and out of Jenna J's mouth is simply inferior.

You know, since I mentioned her, I haven't stopped thinking about Lynn Russell. She looked like a young Joan Crawford, but with Lynne you had the sense that she could use her taste for the nasty in very pleasurable ways. It was like watching the news delivered by a $50,000/night hooker. I toast you, Lynne! You put the head in Headline News. Had it been you who reported the HIV story, I've no doubt a barely perceptible smile would have adorned your face, a smile that suggested you were imagining the size of the cock that put the virus into that actress. You never dressed like a slut, which seems to be de rigeur among local LA news shows. No, your sex was in your eyes. You could fuck someone just by looking at them. And on CNN, you looked at all of us. Or was it just me?

Forbidden Broadway

I get a lot of inquiries about “Phallus!”, the musical I wrote and starred in back in 1988. Told as a "Beauty and the Beast"-type fable, it was a critical darling but a box office flop, closing after a sold-out dress rehearsal. Here’s the well-known song “My Love, My Heart”, when my character, Dick, finally comes out of the shadows to reveal himself to his true love, Anne.


ANNE

My heart cannot contain this feeling that I feel.
I need to see you now, to know that you are real.
A love like ours is like no other that I know.
Reveal yourself and let your inhibitions go.

My love. My heart. My Dick.


DICK

Oh Anne I fear that when you see me you will leave.
And if it happens that’s a loss I cannot grieve.
A love like ours is like a rainbow in the sky.
So many colors, so much beauty, I could die.

My love. My heart. My Anne.


ANNE

Come out now from the darkness.
And show yourself to me.

DICK

I’m vulnerable and stark, miss.
Prepare your eyes to see!


Dick finally reveals himself to Anne.


ANNE

Good Christ, sir, you’re enormous.
A ten-inch tower of love.

DICK

A quarter of an inch less
But ten when I’m with glove.

ANNE/DICK

I’m sure that you’re the one for me.
And I’m the one for you.

DICK

Your eyes.
Your laugh.

ANNE

Your balls
Your shaft.


DICK

You penetrate my soul.

ANNE

And you my hoo-hoo hole.


DICK

Yes, you’re the one for me, miss.

ANNE

I want no other penis.


ANNE/DICK

My love. My heart. My all!