I'm All Mail, Baby!

Hi folks! Happy Friday, and let’s get right to it: reader mail!



Dear RJ’s D,

Have you ever needed to be erect, but couldn’t be?

D. Weiss, Fairfax VA



Hi D,

Well, I’ve pledged from the beginning that I’d be honest with you guys, so yes—it happened exactly one time in my entire life. Thankfully, it didn’t occur on set, and it’s well-documented that Ron has never needed or used Viagra.

But in 1982, Ron was on the road promoting a new nightclub in Florida. He ended up hooking up with the owner’s daughter, Denise, and the two of them went back to her place. Mere moments before Ron was set to violate her, he could not for the life of him get the image of Linda Hunt out of his head. Earlier in the week, he’d seen “The Year of Living Dangerously”, and while Ron admired Hunt’s performance, he simply concluded this was one woman he would never want to fuck. But now here she was, firmly entrenched in his mind, and despite Denise’s best efforts, I did not rise to the occasion.



Hello RJ’s D, I love the blog, and those pics you post on Twitter are hilarious. Are you available to hire for private parties?

S. Arnold, Beachwood, OH


Hi, S, thanks for the nice words. You know, I used to do tons of private events--mostly bachelorette parties and club openings. The reason I don’t do them anymore is because of the 2003 scandal you may have read about. I was contracted to attend a bar mitzvah. Normally, I don’t do religious events, but the boy’s father was an old poker buddy, and I did it mostly as a favor. I was told by the boy that I would come up and do an aliyah—that’s a special prayer that friends and members of the family do in honor of the bar mitzvah boy. But when I got up on the bima, the boy grabbed me and began to recite his torah portion, using me as the Yad to scroll through the text. Next thing I know, his grandmother is having a heart attack in the front row, and pandemonium ensued. The one bright spot is that I picked up a few new Hebrew words.

Deconstructing Hairy

Goddamn I am one hairy fuck. I'm not even talking about Ron's mane or his signature 'stache. I'm talking about me and the boys! Not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what's the deal with pubic hair? What evolutionary purpose does it serve? To keep me warm? I'm trapped in underpants all day with a pupik the size of an Earl Anthony special sheltering me from the elements. Or I'm inside of someone's warm, wet hole.

It can't be about appearance, because few things are less attractive than the black brillo brush that goes for the landscape of my surrounding acreage. I'm sure the ladies don't dig it. Hair traps dirt and cum, and there's always, always a strand that bolts from the pack to start a new life on their tongues, only to be denied such during a momentary pause in head.

Some say "It's beautiful because it's natural."

But Sherman Potter would say, "Horse hockey!" I mean feces is natural too, but you don't see chicks burying their faces in it, even for money (well, I've seen that, but Ron knows some strange characters). And it's not like he styles it or even brushes it. That black wad of steel wool just sits there, contributing zero to my work and obscuring the fullness of my glory. I wish the guy would just shave me clean. Guys in porn do it all the time! Peter North? Man-size balls, toddler smooth. Physicists would be hard pressed to measure a fraction of friction on that package. But RJ? I haven't seen his scrotum since 1964. And as he gets older, it's only going to get worse. That mound is gonna climb me like ivy and soon I'll only look about eight inches long. Oh, the humiliation!

I'm Rubber, You're Goo

It’s occurring to me today that readers might be curious about what it’s like for me to wear jackets. If I’m being honest, I rarely wear them when I’m working. Ron’s got a solid reputation in the industry for being clean. Oh sure, the 70’s saw its fair share of crab salad, but by some miracle, he’s never had to deal with anything of the permanent variety.

The first time Ron slapped some rubber on me was when he was 17.

And yeah, it was shocking. He placed that gooey disc over my eye and then began to drape it down my shaft. It felt too tight and snug around me, and I didn’t understand what it was all about. But the moment I was plunged into Shelly Blisky’s hoo-hoo, I started to panic.

“I’m going to drown in my own goo!”

“Stop!! Ronnie, Stop it!” I thought.

But in and out I went, and as expected, the goo followed. Thankfully, there was this tiny little reservoir at the top of my head and it managed to collect most of it. So despite the fact that some of it seeped down around me, I did not drown. I guess that’s obvious since I’m here today to blog the story.

Eesh. Is this too much information? Probably lost a few readers, but I gotta be forthright and honest.

I guess the only other noteworthy story is the time Ronnie covered me again, only this time, the panic was that I thought I had suffered some kind of stroke. I could not feel a goddamn thing. I learned later that Ron had used a rubber with its own numbing cream inside, to delay his ejaculation.

He could have warned me beforehand. Ah, but who am I to complain? For more than 30 years, I’ve been as free as the wind, because my man is a guru of ejaculatory control, and because he’s mastered the art of something George Bush couldn’t with respect to Iraq: pulling out.

Too Close For Comfort

I wish Memorial Day weekend had inspired me to reflect on the service so many of our fellow citizens have given to this great country. When I was growing up (and out), I wanted to be a soldier. I had visions of performing heroics on the battlefield, winning medals and then re-entering life as a private dick solving nutty cases.

But that isn't how I spent the holiday. I spent it fuming. Ron went out of town for a family event. He flew coach, which, as everyone knows, is second only to slave ship hard pack for traveling comfort. But at least that was Ron's choice. What neither of us had any control over was the guy in front of us. When the rows are that squeezed together, who but someone with the thoughtfulness of a Nazi would lean their seat back? I don't know why airplanes even allow for this, since whatever comfort experienced by the recliner is more than lost by the schmuck sitting behind him. I've done my time living in tight spaces, but only because society says people have to wear clothes. Society doesn't say anything about airplane comfort. It does, however, call for human decency, which is why I don't believe in putting my seat back unless the one behind me is unoccupied.

If the rows were spaced further apart so that the seat could drop back a whole foot, I could see the value in that. But I know a little something about what a couple of inches can mean, and they don't mean shit until you're talking eight or nine. When some asshole leans back, his head practically in my face, I have fantasies of releasing flesh-eating insects into his hair or dispensing an eyedropper full of HIV into his ear. It's not like they don't know they're encroaching into your personal space because sometimes they get it from the guy in front of them! It's this "share the misery" attitude that deflates my respect for people, even on a day that commemorates their sacrifice. Happy fucking Memorial Day and thanks for killing my dreams!

Come on, have a little consideration for the passengers behind you and leave the seats alone. After all, I'm living proof that being in an upright position is a joy! After two minutes on an airplane, I'm reminded just how much this cock prefers to drive.

Dick's In The Mail

It’s Friday, which means READER MAIL! Fans have been writing me with questions and I thought I’d use today’s blog to answer some of the most frequently asked questions.


1. Hello, Ron Jeremy’s Dick…long time fan, and I’ve really enjoyed reading your blog. Something I’ve always wanted to know….do you ever get sick?

--R. Moses, Charlotte NC


Great question, R. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve been sick a day in my life. That is to say, nothing internally wrong with me. Any maladies I’ve suffered have been external ones. A few years back, I developed a red blotch that really freaked Ron out. I was never worried—Ron eats a lot of fried food, so I knew it was just a pimple, but that was around the time Ron slept with Margot Kidder*, so he wasn’t sure.



2. What did you think of the American Idol results? Personally, I’m pissed as hell that Kris beat Adam.

S. Snow, Walled Lake, MI


Hi S. In hindsight, I actually see now that Adam could never have won. He was certainly the critics’ darling—and my personal favorite—but I now understand that middle America never felt comfortable with him, whereas Kris fits perfectly into the mold of a VH1, soft-rock star. There’s a rampant rumor that 38 million of the 100 million came from Kris’ hometown of Arkansas. Whatever. They’re both gonna be fine, Simon Cowell’s gonna make a ton more dough, and I’m gonna tap a myriad of muff. All is right with the world.


3. I’m a little confused. You talk about being a part of Ron, and yet I’ve seen pictures of you when you’re detached. I realize that’s the premise of “One-Eyed Monster”, but how are you able to detach in real life?

R. Simmons, San Diago, CA


Well, R., this is probably the most common question I get asked. I can’t really go into the actual physics of the process, but suffice it to say, it’s more complicated than any mindfuck Stephen Hawking could engender. The first time it happened was when Ron turned 13. He was in the gym changing, and the kids were making fun of how enormous I was. Jealous, of course, but at that age, Ron just felt ashamed. Back home, he knelt down and prayed: “I wish I wasn’t burdened with this monster.”

And like that, it happened. Proof of God? Maybe. But that night, I got my first taste of freedom. I didn’t do anything that spectacular. I simply went to the 7-11 and bought some gum. But the feeling of independence was incredible.

I felt strange, though, without Ron, and he without me. We made a pact that night to separate only when it was mutually beneficial. I have a lot more to say on this subject, but I thought I’d at least make a dent in the subject.

Happy Memorial Day everyone! So long.

*Just got a call from my lawyer who advised me to make it clear that Ron never slept with Margot Kidder, nor do I have any first-hand knowledge that she’s in possession of an STD. My memory may be faulty. What I know for sure is that Ron often sings the “Superman” theme when he first reveals me to women, so maybe I got confused.

Post CoIDOL

Say what you want, but I think it’s downright irresponsible to ignore what is arguably the biggest show on television. And while today’s weblogs are drowning in post-show analysis, how many of them offer the prospective of a 10-inch flesh rod?

Yes, readers, it’s time for my American Idol recap, exactly as I remember hearing things night:

“THIS…is American Idol”

“ Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to watch ‘Idol’”.

“Here…now we’re watching ‘Idol’, but honey, I have GOT to see those tits.”

“Ronnie, you just don’t quit.”

“….now let’s go over to the other side and talk to Adam Lambert’s paren—“

“RON!”

“What?”

“I’m on my period.”

“Sweetie, can I show you something.”

“…ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Lionel Richie!”

“Oh my sweet Jesus, it looks like it’s breathing.”

“It’s breathing for you, honey.”

“….final Ford Focus video of the season…”

“Put it in put it in put it in put it in!”

“Actually, I kinda wanna see this. Adam with Queen. Perfec—“

“Goddamn it put it in!”

“Okay, baby….here it comes…”

“…winner is…Kris Allen!”

“What the fuck?!”

“What the fuck!”

“What the fuck?”

“Put it in!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ron, it’s shrinking. Hurry!”

“I’m at loss.”

“I guess I am, too.”

An Even Bigger Dick

I'm sick and tired of seeing the former vice president on tv. He sits there in judgment of Obama as if from some moral and political pedestal, aiming preposterous criticisms at the President like the bitter old fuck he is. How is it that America stood by while Count Dracula was a heartbeat away from the Oval Office for eight years? I think when we look back on the Bush Administration, we'll shake our heads about Cheney more than anything else.

Bush was a stupid fratboy with zero vision and only slightly more humanity. He had less political charisma than anyone on "Saved By The Bell," but he wasn't evil. Cheney, on the other hand, is a scary man. Never mind that he looks and acts like Laurence Olivier in "Marathon Man." This guy oozes bloodlust from every pore. His disregard for civil liberties and contempt for anyone who opposes him is unparalleled in Washington power circles, and the fact that he's lasted in that town so long is a sad comment on our tolerance for fascists dressed up as patriots.

I'll just bet he's got a little nub between his legs. His behavior is typical of guys who compensate for having little penises. In every possible way, he gives dicks everywhere a bad name.