LUDIC LOG

Dr. Gunter Z-Mar (Ph.D.), a giant carnivorous spider monkey from Brazil created by hideous Nazi genetic experiments, is pleased to answer your questions about life, as culled from decade-old womens' magazines. Please write to him at "Ask Dr. Z-Mar", PO Box 11, Sao Stridex, Brazil. Dr. Z-Mar and his lovely secretary/typist Candy thank you.

"Dear Dr. Z-Mar," writes P.D. from Youngstown, OH in the June 1992 issue of Good Housekeeping, "lately, whenever my husband and I make love, I start laughing. This annoys my husband. I'm not doing it on purpose -- it just happens. Do you know why? And how can I stop?"

Dear P.D.,

Frankly, who can blame you? The mere sight of your husband's miniscule, flagging penis and shrivelled, raisinlike testicular sac would be enough to send any woman, even the sexual unflappable Candy, into spasms of helpless laughter. Indeed, if I know your husband, and I daresay I do, as much as I know any of you putrescent, bloated American drool-swallowers, I can imagine that given his timid insectoid genitalia, in combination with his doomed, interminable attempts to bring either himself or you to orgasm, you must find it rather difficult to ever stop guffawing at this Keystone-guzzling, Chrysler-driving golf foursome unit. However, it is understandable that even as low-wattage a beanbag as your Mr. Limpsphincter might become irate at being chortled at while he is tenaciously attempting to maintain his tenuous schoolboy erection, especially by a corpulant, sick-making, Cheeto-scented cow like yourself, whose grotesque tonsorial choices, wet, yeasty odor and sluggish personality scarcely justify such self-righteous mocking. If I were you, and thank the Virgin Mother that I am not, I would continue making sport of dear hubby's scrotal fallibilities at every turn, in the hopes that he would eventually tire of my jackaline hee-hawing and end my flawed existence by caving in my worthless, empty skull with a Ben Hogan number nine iron. However, as you are no doubt too cowardly to provoke him into a blissful murder-suicide, my advice is to shove a sock down your throat for the fifteen seconds it will take him to acheive a hapless, wheezing climax.

-- Lovingly, Dr. Z

"Dear Dr. Z-Mar," writes F.C. from Summit City, CA in the March 1993 issue of Family Circle, "how can I impress on my daughter the danger of AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases?"

Dear F.C.,

Let's face reality, shall we, before we get on with the answer to your poorly worded and barely coherent question? We all know that any parent, be they doting, suffocating, mustachioed mother or sweaty-palmed, deviant, compulsively masturbating father, who is so keenly interested in the condition of their daughter's hymen as to write such letters as these obviously wants to be the first explorer to plant the flag on that virgin continent, if you catch that way of it. So if you had merely asked me the straightforward and honest question "how can I get my daughter to fuck me without going to jail?", then we could have had a much more productive exchange. But since you have chosen this maddeningly circuitous route to the golden goal, I will pretend that I am interested in answering your "query": the best way to savvy your cretinous offspring to the vastly overrated horrors of so-called sexual disease is this. Find the biggest, filthiest stud-bull prostie you can find. Although I have never heard of your God-forsaken burg, here in Sao Stridex they can be found in the toilets of bus stations and at bars with the closest proximity to loading docks, so that's a good place to start. Make sure this prostie is completely eaten away by AIDS, the pox, the clap, pubic lice, gonorrhea and every other fuck-sickness that a huge junkie glory-hole attendant can possibly contract. Then offer to pay the barely human specimen six American dollars and a bottle of fruit-flavored fortified wine to cornhole sweet Pollyanna seventeen times in a row, using only a Clorox-soaked Brillo pad for lubrication. I say "offer to pay" rather than "pay" in hopes you will stiff the prostie, and it will shove an icepick through both your eyeballs. But, failing that, once the whole dire procedure is done with, you can look your daughter in the face and tell her that sexually, do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, because, honestly, she's had the worst.

-- Lovingly, Dr. Z

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Hey, you! Don't watch that -- watch this! This is the heavy, heavy first annual Ludic Log Reader Participation Event -- the nutsiest Reader Participation Event around! So if you've come in off the street, and you're beginning to write a fictional diary entry by a member of the Bush cabinet, well, listen buster: you'd better start to e-mail me before the rockin'est rock-steady beat of October 20th!