“T’was then that the poofs and bawdy women came forth from the Pryson Howses crying, ‘On this daye of thy Lord we celebrate, for tis now the right of ever’y man, womyn and childe to gobbleth down a cock, and this right shall be treasured by England for ever more.”

The citizens of Ipswich and of other such localities were now emboldened by their new found freedom. The sensual taboo of dick in mouth had lost its illicit caché. Many needed to find new forms of sexual exploration to satisfy their desires. Thus, the legalisation of dick-in-mouth led to new forms of penis-contact games; dick-in-ear, dick-around-eye, and finally the infamous dick-in-ass. Sir Francis of Northwich wrote of the activity:

“The act of inserting one’s penis into the anal cavity produces a pleasure that is altogether uncontainable. Upon penetrating the orifice one is overcome with such incomparable sensations that the antiquated pleasure of dick-in-mouth becomes mundane by comparison.”

England’s birth rate dropped twofold during the years between 1578 and 1612, as the phenomenon of dick in ass spread from the countryside to the city and finally infiltrated the realm of the monarchy and parliament. In 1603, Parliament’s annual session was interrupted when The Duke of Winchester, overcome with emotion tore off his robes and presented his buttocks to the Duke of Canterbury. Never one to resist an asshole, the Duke of Canterbury took advantage of the situation and proceeded to penetrate Winchester. Upon their climax, which from all accounts was simultaneous, the Queen called for the postponement of Parliament, considering the entire episode too distracting.
There are countless records of the dick-in-ass phenomenon throughout England, dating until 1612 when makeshift-wooden-dildo-in-ass became the new vogue fetish. Regardless of the gradual wane of the phenomenon, dick-in-ass presents a pinnacle change in early British fetishism as the most widely practiced and longest lived sexual activity during the 16th and 17th centuries.

I had the luck of being born into a tribe with enough accountants to swing sending its people overseas, and this summer I took advantage of it. Going on the ten-day free trip to Israel known as Birthright erased any regret of a lifetime of bacon-less breakfasts.

As with all good religious philanthropy, Birthright was not without a catch. Luckily, the main ulterior motive is the hope that you’ll get knocked up by Shmulik after your fifth Yager bomb at a Tiberius bar, and decide to stay with him and his aging parents in Natania while he scrounges to make ends meat on an army salary. That, and maybe you will attend a couple less Apartheid Week events (despite the FREE BAKLAWA). None of which is too harmful an agenda to resist an interview process.

I had my doubts as to how Birthright would help me discover my Judaism in the first place. I had always thought of myself as pretty Jewish, between the photo my mother took of me at the Streitz Matzah factory and the four-years worth of visa receipts I’ve salvaged so that my dad can make sure I’m never overcharged. And I guess if I had to let Smulik seem et ha-zayin sheloh ba-tusic sheli, I would survive. (Do not get your elderly Israeli relatives to translate that).

My doubts were confirmed upon stepping foot in the Land of Milk,Honey and Trance music. There were no epiphanies as I stepped onto that soil, except for the insomniac headache of not having slept in 20 plus hours because I may or may not have been trying to convince an orthodox Jew to help me join the mile high club. Later, in Akko, as my fellow Birthrighters marveled at the glory of an ancient city, I barely even felt a spark as I took a photo of my friend Alex lying in a pile of garbage with a couple of stray cats. And in Jerusalem, as my new friends reveled with soldiers honouring the Sabbath by dancing with M16s, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Days passed, and all around me people were experiencing a spectrum of emotions as they discovered their Jewish roots, while I could barely feel anything at all except hungry or, sometimes, gassy.

It filled me with envy to see my brothers – whose prior connection to this ancestral land had been no more than the occasional smoke of hash from a hookah – proudly purchasing yarmulkes for 45 shekels more than the local price and changing their facebook profiles to their Hebrew names. My politic-neutral tank top seemed to pale next to their Israeli Defense Force t-shirt/American Apparel hoodie ensemble. All around me high tops were being paired with tefilin, “Sababah” taking the place of “cool,” and Arab jokes replacing the traditional North American gay joke. I was beginning to feel left out.

It was at the airport on the way home, upon reuniting with a friend, that I was to finally experience this self-discovery. A simple question produced it: “How was the rest of your stay in Israel?”

I could have mentioned the beauty of the Eastern night sky, or the ethereal wail of the muezzin, but instead I chose to complain about the blistering heat, the falafel-induced diarrhea, the yelling, the car honks, and “Oy gevult, what’s with this no buses on Saturday? They want that I should wait till sundown?”

And that is when it dawned on me. I had been discovering my Judaism all along: the morning when Alex and I woke up from camping in the Negev and I could only comment “God my mouth is so fucking dry,” to which he replied; “Yeah, it feels like I went down on the desert”: that was a revelation. Each zaatar that I thought was too oily: that was a revelation. Each Israeli I rolled my eyes at for butting in line; another revelation. Complaining was my tefilin, my IDF tshirt, my facebook status update. Complaining was my Judaism.

As I flew back home and heard around me the glorious whining that the humus was too salty or the water had too much water in it, my eyes began to tear. I truly felt that I was among my people. And when I heard their “yeeshes” and their “oys,” I did not hide my face in shame. No. I proudly raised my voice to join the choir and yelled; “Would it kill them to put more than two grapes to this fruit salad?” Yes. I could now complain and complain proudly, for I was a Jew in the land of Israel.

- Jordana Globerman

There was never any glamour to it. My vice lacked the sweaty sophistication of gambling or the rugged charm of crystal meth, but it had me writhing in its clutches nonetheless. My addiction was to makeup tutorials. Youtube Makeup Tutorials. It started out innocently enough – at that time I didn’t even know the difference between pastels and neutrals – I thought I might “try something with my hair.” Trembling, my lily white hands, which were not yet red and chaffed from Palmolive and nail polish remover, punched in the letters that would seal my fate: W-W-W-DOT-Y-O-U-T-U… I found myself in a seedy world of vlogs and cute animal tricks. There were more than enough “pushers” to supply me with my fix of hairspray and bobby pins.  “This look takes so little time,” they cooed, “Try it!” And I did.

Addiction – I laughed at the idea. I was never a “girly girl” so it couldn’t happen to me. I convinced myself I was only experimenting as I stared into ghoulish teenage faces, hidden under layers of greasepaint. So I laughed. I laughed as I mastered French twist after French twist.

It was no time before I left hair tutorials for the heavier shit: makeup tutorials.  Now I was doing it almost everyday, using it to escape the banality of my life: breaks during essay writing, something to get me through breakfast, a way to take the edge of before bed – they were all excuses for me. It stopped being about “How to get the perfect red lip” and became “I need that fucking red lip right now or, I swear to God, I will cut you!”

Everyone warned me. They eyed me as I walked past them, a layer of Revlon Foundation (Sunkissed Sunrise 45) covering my sallow cheeks and sunken eyes – and whispered: “she’s, you know, a base(coat)head.” And they were right. Bases, blotters, (lip)Smack(ers): I wanted it all. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in some unknown alley with Maybelline Coral 43 smeared over my face and my lungs half filled with matte powder was a regular occurrence.

By that time, there was no one left to help me. I’d pushed those that were close to me away. My friends didn’t wear makeup. Sure, come of them would wear eyeliner socially, at a party or something, but no one made a habit of it. Once I had alienated them, who else was left? Society? Society doesn’t want to deal with the painted lady selling herself for a couple bucks to buy new concealer, the pathological plucker who lost an eyebrow in an attempt at symmetrically, or the glitter-junkie railing MAC Pink Paradise off a hooker’s back. But we see you society, we see right through you and that crease shadow that you’ve been using as a highlight all these years.

Don’t think it can’t happen to you. Don’t think that you can’t be taken in by a bunch of 17 year olds with webcams, mellifluously cadenced voices and vanity tables packed with cheap and thrilling supplies. After all, it happened to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a friend to watch; MAC just released their Autumn Shadow Collection.

~ Jordana Globerman

 Juggalove.com is the ICP interpretation of PlentyofFish except with less middle aged mothers of three and more teenage mothers of three. Thus, armed with my love for comedy, childhood clown related trauma, and a kinky penchant for grease paint, I decided to venture into the twisted romantic labyrinth of the Juggalo.

Step 1: The Identity

            After watching a 12 hour marathon of Jenny Jones, Ricky Lake, Maury, Jerry Springer and Montel (the thinking man’s midday trailer talk show host), I was ready to venture into the heart of Juggalove.  Like most juggalos, the website introduced itself via panhandling. Juggalove.com begged followers to save their Faygo funds and donate with the intention of updating the site to a 2.0 version. This pinnacle development in software – the likes of which Isaac Asimov ne’er dreamed – would offer adult photo albums and “more juggalettes!!!”.  Pioneering this path to singularity were ZING and DJKittieX, members of Juggalove who had already donated 250 dollars to the greater good; quite a feat considering Wal-Mart pays minimum wage.

            After giving a cursory look at the volume of neck tattoos and dropped g’s in the user profiles, I figured “Jordana Globerman – McGill U1” might be a little too elitist a persona for Juggalove. I decided to go undercover.  With the suave mystique of a Dana Carvery’s Master of Disguise, I assumed the virtual identity of Candie Rice, alias shaggysgurl. Candie was my dream juggalette: young, borderline illiterate, and looking for love – specifically the type that can be traded on craigslist. She spent quality time “jus chillin” and “hangin out with her fellow los and lettes.” Her use of emoticons was almost erudite in precision, underscoring her thoughts and feelings with meaningful expression. X’s and O’s lingered after her name like subtle perfume, a stolen kiss, or a distant memory. Candie xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo.

Step 2: The Lure

Two days had passed and still no one had “hit Candie up”. To make matters worse, her member status was “scrub”, and it is common knowledge that a scrub is a guy – or gal – “who can get no love from me.” Candie’s lack of profile picture was a turn off. However, I hadn’t given up on my alter ego.  With the help of “personal information” questionnaires I hoped to truly convey Candie’s Juggalescence by answering questions like “How much do you enjoy oral sex?” and “How do you play with food during sex?” I wish I made up the following questions, but their staggering genius is solely the property of the great minds at Juggalove.com:

My personal favourite:

“What STDs are you comfortable with your partner having?”

q Genital warts?                               q HSV Type I?        q What about type II? 

q STD free (tested regularly)?   q HIV positive?        q AIDS?   

q Hepatitis?                                      q Gonorrhoea?         q Syphilis?  

q HPV?                                           a None of the above?

Step 3: The Soulmate

Candie’s still clownless. I try to tell myself it’s not me, it’s them; but getting rejected by a bunch of guys named Bubba tends to take its toll on your self esteem. I filter through potential suitors for Candie over at the “Hot or Not” section of Juggalove – a sort of soulless customer satisfaction survey where Candie can rate other single pierrots. Here we find such lookers as mrBones, posing in a hockey mask a la Jason. I stumble across one upstanding jester whose only criteria for soulmate is a gal who celebrates 4:20 everyday. There is also some potential in one candidate; sure his face is half obscured by his bandana and his grammar is less than MLA but he’s kind hearted and he says he could make me laugh just by texting me, which I assume will be a regular occurrence when he’s in jail.  “I like pain,” he writes. “I like to be bitten. It’s a must.”  Ok, I get it. We all have our things, but is this really how you want to introduce yourself? Does your resume read “Personal Skills: open communication, able to multitask, owns a ball-gag”? Candie’s becoming a nun.

I thought of messaging some of my fellow Juggalos but I could never bring myself to do it. It seemed cruel. Going into this I had made up my mind about Juggalos; they were a pathetic excuse for a subculture, one step below Furries one step above fans of Michal Bolton. I let my bias against bands signed to the same label as Bubba Sparxxx overrule my impartiality as a journalist. Candie taught me a very important lesson: deep down, every one of us wants to feel accepted.  We don’t want to be judged by the color of our face-paint or the brand of our sugary pop drink. Are we really so different?  Does the tired business man differ so greatly from the single mother working at Arby’s, or the hotel heiress spreading her thighs via internet, or the poor disenfranchised youth who paints his face like a clown each morning, before grabbing his hatchet and heading off for school?  I think the real moral of the story here – the ICP universal truth – is that we are all brothers, and that it is our actions, not our outward appearances, that will determine our lot of neden received in Shangri-la.  Let us join hands and proclaim: I will be down with the clown until I am dead in the ground.

                                                                                                                               ~Jordana Globerman

I know, I didn’t believe it at first either.  It was such a pleasant surprise: sort of like unwrapping that oh-so-coveted Hot Wheels fire-truck on Christmas morning, except instead of a vehicle that stops things from burning, it’s more like a horrible addiction that leads to a constant burning…in the loin region. 

Maybe we should have seen it coming.  The signs were there: episodes 2 through 9 and 12 through 18 of the Red Shoe Diaries and, of course, the alleged gay porn.  Perhaps, certain critics recognized David Duchovny’s constantly tousled hair as evidence of numerous casual liaisons. But to the rest of us those terrible roles, chosen due to sex-clouded judgement, *cough* Evolution *cough*, were merely a sign of Duchovny’s lovable naïveté in regards to the seedy underbelly of Hollywood – little did we suspect that he was caressing that whorish underbelly all the while.

According to Reuters, Duchovny is breaking new ground with his frankness.  Apparently, 3-5 percent of Americans have a sex addiction but are ashamed to admit to it.

“According to the Mayo Clinic, symptoms range from rampant promiscuity to spending hours looking at pornography and using sex to escape from problems such as depression or stress.” (Reuters, August 2008)

So to anyone who has ever looked to sex to improve their mood or general outlook, you have a problem.  Basically, everybody alive is a sex maniac.

Personally, I have my doubts as to the validity of this whole sex-addiction claim.  Isn’t it just a little too coincidental that Duchovny recently finished starring in a show in which he plays a sex fiend?  This is, of course, a show where the first episode was titled Vaginatown.  I suspect that this carnal catastrophe was all just a clever ploy to vindicate himself of any infidelities, which may have been occurring in his personal life.  I can illustrate this to you with a simple exercise in role playing. No not, Duchovny’s version of role-playing, more a your-parents-at-the-marriage-councillor-role-playing. I’ll be, David’s wife, Tea Leony and you be David.  Let us try on this scenario for size:

Tea walks in on her husband and an underage/elderly female prostitute/male cowboy engaged in a 2-girls-1-cup-esque sexual atrocity.

Tea: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!?!?!?!

As David Duchovny do you answer:

a)      “Committing adultery in the most vile, disturbing way possible…”

b)      “Oh, God baby I am so sorry, I just can’t help myself! I think I need to see a psychiatrist!  I love you, baby, help me through this, never leave me.” Cue quivering lower lip and puppy dog eyes, tousle hair.

David Duchovny is no sex addict he is just one sly mother fucker.

I will rest my whole argument on the following incontestable evidence: if Mr. Duchovny’s libido was as out of control as implied, why did it take Fox Mulder and Dana Scully so long to get it on?