When authorities warn of the sinfulness of sex, the lesson to be learned is: Do not have sex with the authorities. When a doctor calls you sexist for complimenting her stiletto boots the lesson is: a man’s gotta get back to being a man.

She’s a very attractive skin doctor who dresses tastefully expensive. And when she walked into the coffee shop the other day it wasn’t her M.D. degree in dermatology that popped your eyeballs inside out.

It was her four-inch-high, needle-thin stiletto heels. They strutted staccato across the wooden floorboards before casting your eye delightfully up past her calf-length caramel-suede boots that strode beneath those hips waving hello.

Damn!

Now this is what I am talking about.

Those boots. Those heels. And those curves filling her skirt made me groan and moan. And every guy in the crowded joint was having a problem crossing his legs.

So I approached the good doctor with whom I have a passing acquaintance. With a smile, I offered a compliment: “Do you know what stiletto heels like those do to a man?”

It was flattery, for crying out loud!

She squeezed out a no nonsense smile and replied: “Why is it always something sexual with you men?”

Say what?

You know, there should be a bounty on them.

Forgive them Lord, for piously proclaiming they know not what they do when they do what they do-do-do to me very well.

To say the least – especially with what’s been going on in our political theater of the absurd of late — I’ve had enough of this hypocrisy.

We are such a pathetic bunch of sanctimonious charlatans. Like a gaggle of geese we tisk-tisk about everything that others do, when it is us who want to do everything. You know: good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere.

Who doesn’t want to look sexy? Who doesn’t want to be attractive to others? From our slinky black spaghetti-strap evening dresses to our tight-waist, broad-shouldered suits. We shape our finger nails, our hair and our lips.

We are vain. And if we could, we would ordain that men should be men and the women should just damn well accept us.

And now, once again, our distorted, prurient focus on sex, is filling the news, as well as our puritanical minds. So many seem to be so worried about so few who may somewhere and somehow be having so good a time that we all wish we were there having it too.

There was the Herman Cain debacle. Tiger Woods. Charlie Sheen. The former IMF chief Strauss-Kahn and the housemaid from Guinea. And what seems like just about every Congressman and Senator except for duh boss, President Obama.

I really don’t care about this stuff except when we demonstrate that we are nothing but a bunch of lying frauds.

Look at Newt Gingrich. I don’t care if the fat Georgia cracker has sex with every elephant in the circus. I don’t really care that he supposedly asked his second wife if it’s okay if they have an open marriage so he can continue his affair with the woman who became his third wife.

What I do care about is that he is a demagogue. A liar. A hypocrite. And a Nazi. He railed again Clinton getting a little bacon in the White House, while he was doing the down and dirty himself.

The fact is, I don’t give a broken condom about who is jumping who’s bones – especially when the politicians are doing it to each other instead of the entire country.

We’ve got to get over ourselves. We’ve got to get back to accepting that we are human. And we do all that human stuff with our clothes on and off.

Do we really expect guys running for the White House not to have gotten laid or to get laid. Even women like Sarah Palin had her Glen Rice moment. And just because Michele Bachman has five children doesn’t mean she only had sex five times.

Which is no doubt four more times than Hiliary.

It’s just sex. That’s one of the reasons you become President – to get laid. Hell, why do you think men buy Porches and boats and jewelry? So what do you think they are going to be doing on the White House rug?

For 5 million years man has been led and misled by his winkie. It’s the mission of all males of any species. Why do you think those lightning bugs are flashing their high beams?

And guess what? It isn’t just horny men stirring this salacious witch’s brew. Women have their itchy fingers on the trigger. They well know how to get things off and running – and keep men chasing their tails.

Hmm…

Women in high stiletto heels with curves in their curves.  Two of the most powerful forces in life are women and money: Men will do things for women and money that they wouldn’t do for anything else.

It’s biology. It’s pollination. It’s what rhinos do in the zoo. And lions do on the Serengeti. In one form or fashion we all do it. And I ain’t talking about pooping.

It’s negates all logic. Look at Mr. Spock on Star Trek with the sperm salmon running up his bloodstream every seven years. Man just loses his head. Do I need to mention the Black Widow spider?

What I am tired of is congress or the fundamentalist right or some half wits writing on the outhouse wall wanting to dictate and legislate morality. Even peek in our bedrooms.

And why?

Consenting adults should be able to do any damn thing they want in the backseat, the port-a-john and the roof top. We are animals, and as long as we don’t do it in the street and scare the horses, what the hell are you sticking your ugly, unenlightened, cratered face in my crotch’s personal business.

Look, if it was up to me, sex, drugs, rock and roll would all be legalized. We don’t need the government to tell us this crap’s is bad for us.

If you don’t know what is bad for you, by now, then you shouldn’t be filling up our sewer pipes. You’re just bloody stupid.

But if you want to do drugs, be my guest. There are open, street supermarkets for anything you want, anywhere, anytime anyplace. Why do you think that half of South America’s economy is based on feeding the dope hunger of America?

Everything should be legalized.

I smoke cigars.

But so what?

I don’t touch cigarettes.

But so what?

I don’t drink enough.

But so what?

I don’t gamble at the casinos.

But so what?

I don’t gamble on the lottery.

But so what?

I just visited my first massage parlor. And that’s a shame it took me so long, because no matter what it cost, it was cheaper than any of my exes.

But so what?

I don’t do drugs.

But so what?

So what! So what! So what!

Let’s get over it. If G-d ain’t dead then I don’t need some elected bozos with a collective IQ lower than the first nine rows of a wrasslin match, to make the decisions on what I allow to go on in my house.

I want my country back. I want my rights back. I want to be able to compliment sexy women in high stiletto heels and skirts full of curves. I want to be romantic. I want to be seductive. I want to be able to do whatever I do behind closed doors.

All I can say is that when authorities warn you of the sinfulness of sex, there is an important lesson to be learned: Do not have sex with the authorities.

And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony…

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