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In This Issue

• Idiotarod: Mushing Fun in NYC
• Desensitization: It Does a Body Good
• Shit Blowing Up is So Patriotic
• Letters to the Feditrix: Hot Pre-Teen Sex!
• Point: There's No State Like a Prostrate, Girls
• CounterPoint: Assloads of Bad Stuff
• I Could be the Spectator's Sex Columnist
• Hardcore CosmoGirls Have Some Things to Learn
• Point: Shocking Apathy for Homeless
• CounterPoint: Solution for Homeless is Lock and Load
• Burbery Scarves, Labia Elephantitis Linked
• Elimidate Plays Cupid, Stupid
• Anti-Life Comics: The Great Cookie War
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• Cowboy Bush
• Uncle PennyBags Gets His Due

Lately, there have been a lot of strong feelings about the prostate, and as an ardent feminist and women's right supporter, I am totally there. As an equal member of the human race, I demand a prostate too, and I'm not talking about any of this wussy "releasing the inner prostate" shit-I want the real thing. Maybe it seems kind of sexist...lusting after just one more thing men have that we lack. But prostate envy is nothing like penis envy-for one thing, it just sounds cooler. There are so many reasons why I'm ready to take the next step. And lest you doubt the seriousness of my enterprise, let me just say that after hours of intensive research, I've formulated a comprehensive list of reasons why the female sex needs a prostate, less than half of which include some variation of "dude...orgasms," "orgasms.. .yummy," or "hehehe...butt orgasms."

First of all, patriarchy has always kept us under their yoke of oppression. The media sends out insidious messages about our bodies and appearances. There are so many lies that we then internalize; our bodies must be perfect. We are subject to the male gaze; J-Lo's ass is preferable to that of Anna Nicole Smith. It never ends. But the prostate is the one potential erogenous zone that doesn't have to be cute. It's an especially guy thing: unlike boobies, once it turns cancerous, blackens, and ultimately rots off, no one cares. Of course, it doesn't necessarily have to be ugly. I have big plans for mine. My hypothetical prostate would be pink. And sparkly. Possibly adorned with pony stickers, but definitely scented with the faint hint of lavender.

Despite the fact that the prostate provides no aesthetic appeal, the perverse, bisexual, slightly lewd part of me would really love to see men try to co-opt just one more part of the female anatomy. Just what would marketing execs to do make the prostate look hot? I envision a new episode of "Punk'd", featuring a smirking Ashton Krutcher sodomizing an unconscious pop star, while informing the audience, "Don't worry...she's enjoying it!" And think of the implications for the raging lesbian-obsessed male under twenty one. After all, hasn't the image of a pair of buxom blonde coeds fondling each other's breasts become passé? With that in mind, I'm really looking forward to the release of a video of the soon-to-be-legal Olsen twins, dressed in matching white lingerie, Ashley leaning forward, a devilish "come hither" look in her eyes, a tube of lubricant in her rubber gloved hands, saying in a low voice, "Come on, Mary Kate, you know the risk of prostate cancer is up 40% in the female 18-25 bracket."

Besides, I'm tired of gay men and their monopoly on cramming things up their asses. It's one more facet of male life that we as women have been time and time denied, and I for one would like to put a stop to it. "Take back the night!" - Along with Mars Bars, gerbils, toads, and other animals small enough to live and reproduce within the excretory system.
And because I've got to flesh out my list: "dude...orgasms," "orgasms... yummy," and "hehehe...butt orgasms."

Ah yes, onto the orgasms. Sure, I've made my feminist outlook sparkling clear - but I'm realistic too. Let's face it, life is a misogynistic hell. Fast forward twenty, thirty years. After decades of popping out babies for The Man (TM) coupled with cancer spreading to my womanly parts, my uterus will cave in, crushing my clitoris, cervix, and what men have convinced me is my G-Spot, leaving everything within my labia looking like a modern day Waco. When I'm left to rot in whatever part of Bellevue my ingrate offspring have shoved me into, my body so unappealing that even the hunchback orderly with an IQ-hovering around room temperature won't shell out five bucks to have his way with me, it's nice to know that my capacity for orgasms will remain intact.