I Am the King of Anal Sex

Most of you know me as Roger, some might call me "Gay Roger" or "The Rog". Those that remember me from my porn career often refer to me as "Roger the Wad". And my Lesbian students know me as the "King of Cunnilingus". But the hat I'm wearing today that I would like you all to know about is my identity as the King of Anal Sex.

Royalty? Why yes, I'll give you a regal fucking...in the ass!

I don't care whether you're tossing my salad or I'm tossing yours—the important thing is that there is a salad being tossed.

But please remember, that the heart of the whole matter is the R.U.A.S. And it is around this topic that I would like to make a few points clear. Lately, some people in the cab have tried to "butter me up" by talking about their little pansy anal adventures, gently massaging it or pampering it or giving each other whipped-cream enemas. They are entirely missing the point. If it's not Rough and it's not Unprotected, then I do not give it the Gay Roger seal of R.U.A.S. approval.

At the other end of the spectrum lays the evil opposite of the R.U.A.S. - something we call G.P.A.P. or Gentle, Protected Anal Play. Some of you might think that G.P.A.P. is a good place to start, and much like aspirin can be a so called "gateway" drug to strong pain relievers such as Aleve or Maximum Strength Tylenol (and look, you might be needing this after a particularly vigorous bout of R.U.A.S, but that's beside the point), but I strongly disagree. G.P.A.P. gives none of the benefits of true R.U.A.S. such as enlightenment, eradication of depression, and the post-coital feeling of having attended a Dale Carnegie motivational speech.

So next time someone's twiddling their little pinkie up your bum while wearing a surgical latex glove, speak up and ask for it Rough and Unprotected. You'll be glad you did.

The Fall Colors of Lesbian

I was so busy this summer that I didn't offer my usual Summer Camp for Lesbians. I know there's a lot of lesbians out there looking to improve their sexual technique so I'm offering a special fall workshop this weekend at Hickory Hill Park.

Press Release: Iowa City, October 12

Roger Bradley announced today a special Lesbian Fall Workshop to be held this weekend at Hickory Hill Park. The three-day workshop, titled "Lesbians in the Leaves: A Lick through Diversity" will be taught by Mr. Bradley, who is currently working on his M.A. degree in the history of Lesbianism and holds advanced certificates in Cunnilingus, Felatio, and R.U.A.S.

"This workshop is for any Lesbian - from beginner, to advanced. We'll work on a variety of techniques to pleasure your lover, all in a beautiful autumnal atmosphere. It will be as if there's vaseline smeared on the camera lens."

Lesbians wishing to attend (or straight women who have had bisexual leanings) are invited to meet at the lower Hickory Hill shelter at 6 p.m. Friday for registration.

Love slaves must be kept on leash.

Not to titillate

...too much. Just thought I had to mention the fact that the title "Haymaker Heart" (link) makes no sense and is conceivably the gayest, or for those of you that don't understand, Most Gay album title of the past decade.

(But look, you have to contextualize. Here I am meaning "ghey" which is negative, not "gay" which is positive and happy. "Ghey" is commited by either hapless heterosexuals or idiots or assholes, or some combination of the three. "Gay" just happens)

Hats off to Señor Pardekooper in his house of extreme gaiety. (Meaning "gheyity")

If you look at the pictures, those are some damn gay hats. Usually, hats are the signs of a lesbian. But in this case, we're in the right ballpark, what with the RUAS and all.

Let me tell you my story:

So, there I am, driving my cab one night, when a skanky looking guy flags me down, downtown, near Splayerz, the bar that used to be a bar before the City Council castrated it and made it into a Post Office or some such thing. Anyway, he didn't look good: I said, "hello, mister, I'm going to need some cash up front..."

We can do that when things get questionable. Which they usually are, on the edge, in the cab.

"You fucking Prick, I'm Dave Zollo! Don't Fuck with Me!" he screamed at me.

"Get out of my cab" I said, and he did.

Ever since then, I've had a thing against his record label. Someone there thinks Greg Brown is actually good, which is the last thing in the world anyone should consider. In fact, the people that think that probably think they're Democrats but voted for GW in the last election because of aneurysims.

Why perpetuate a career based upon mental incompetence and Alzheimers? Better to retire him to play Ronald Mcdonald Houses and orphanages for Hot Asian Women so he can so to speak Be Himself.

Iowa City's "Roots" scene is non-existent and its false creation is as much a fallacy as the version of Christianity perpetrated by the Catholic church.

The only two good bands to ever come out of Iowa City were the Stiff Legged Sheep and Red Throb, and these, my children, were punk.

That is the legacy that Iowa City has to give to its children, not Fake Fucking Bastards Trying to Sell Nostalgic Music with Folk Overtones that only appeal to middle-aged Hawkekye fans.

Youth=Power=Sex=Energy=Punk=Youth. This has nothing to do with you Roots Rock Weirdo Dinosaurs.

Greg Brown Sucks. Pardekooper sucks. Zollo sucks. If you would like to know for how long and for what price and at what suction level just find me in the cab.

P.S. For other bad Iowa City titles see "Redemption" or "Thunder on the Plains".

Call Me A Pig Fucker if You Must—I'll Wear That Badge Proudly

These great United States are a federation of a disparate, rag-tag band of entities, on a frontier mission trying to stick it to the man. No, wait, that's that TV show Firefly. No, these United States are a bunch of loosely-affiliated gay-bashing conservative fucks who elect idiots and have a penchant for war-mongering fascism. I hate it when I make mistakes like that.

But while I'm up on my soapbox, I've been thinking about Nationalism and Regional Identity because I had a dream about my old room-mate Jason the other night (he was the one before Mutt Lange, the Def Leppard producer, and definitely before the Webelo). See, Cooter has a thing about Missouri, and Hippo Butt has a thing for Nebraska.

I was only trying to point out that it's funny how nearly everyone you meet from California is mentally retarded. It's like how people on either coast are mildly surprised to find that nearly everyone in or from Iowa fucks pigs, or has fucked them occasionally, or would if the opportunity presented itself. Whereas we just need to mention Reagan, Schwarzenegger, and the "rock" group Toto for Iowa to come out on top.

Anyway, in California's case I think it's caused by the enzymes in the sprouts they eat on everything. Can't be good for you. As far as Iowa goes, I think it's the size of the hogs' balls. At least in my case.

When She Is Ready, She Will Come

I was free-falling with the Doors the other night - you know, musically speaking. Just a way to keept track of myself away from the MAN when I'm not sucking or laying pipe for the MAN. (Few people realize that Jim Morrison didn't die in 1970 or 1972 or whatever, but leaved in West Liberty above the New Strand Theater until 1988 when he was killed in a pedestrian street accident by my old lover Don Skahill - but, hell, that's a much longer, fucked up, and different story).

Anyway, when last we checked in, we were talking about Fudge Dipping, Jeffing, or Cootersnacking depending upon your take or upon whom your source of fudge is. Let me add one to your list: when you stick your finger up the butt of a drunken sorority girl's father after a football game while there is a circle jerk going on in the cab and then everyone licks the finger it's called a "Dark Hawkeye". Mostly done after a humiliating defeat.

Anyway, speaking of games, man, my ass is sore after hauling 700 people in my cab on Saturday and blowing, jacking off or being fucked by half of them. Man, you have to do something if you want to go to Harvard someday.

regarding the title: or maybe not