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Wednesday, August 13, 2003   |    Fiction


California, Ho!

“In Like Me” by Larry Flynt

Yeargghhh, howdy, folks. You may lookit me and see “Larry Flynt, smut peddler,” but you folks is got all wrong. That was the old me. Welcome to new me, Gub’na Larry Hustler. The choice of the Golden State.

Schwarzenegger? Muscle-bound girly man. I’ve got black-and-whites of him and Stallone in ‘85 waxing each other’s chests. Coleman? Little imp. He once got lost for three days in the cleavage of a stripper named Honey Melons. Huffington? Loose and easy like a pair of sweatpants sized XXL. Nailed her twice; she talks dirty talk in four languages. How many candidates are respectable, self-made millionaire businessmen? Only one: Gub’na Larry Hustler.

There are a couple of big pluses about me. One: I cannot be killed by conventional weapons. I’ve already been shot. Sure, I’m in a wheelchair, but I’d like to see those bastards try to get me again. I’ll chew their throats out. If they want to kill me, they’ll have to nuke the whole damn city. You want me? I’m right here! Two, I like anal intercourse. You may be asking why that’s a plus? Well, technically, through the wonders of anal, all girls can remain virgins. Golden State, indeed.

Because I respect the working class, I won’t live in the Governor’s mansion off of the taxpayers’ hard-earned money. Have you ever even been to Sacramento? It’s a horrible city and all of the women are uglier than a bucket of dog poop. I’ll be living in Los Angeles, a stone’s throw from my Hustler Casino (endorsed by legendary actor Dick Van Patten). Living next-door and serving as Lt. Governor will be the Doublemint Twins.

The unoccupied Governor’s mansion will be torn down and replaced by Gub’na Larry Hustler’s House of Swank: a getaway resort for adult and children who like it raw and nasty. It will be an unparalleled experience for one and all.

All existing gov’ment offices and state courts and other such red-tape hoo-hah will be shut down immediately, and the folks responsible for the bungling inefficiency that got us all into this mess will be blindfolded, duct-taped, and carted off to Nevada. All future decisions, laws, and other stuff will be made by a Council of Elders, to be appointed by me, the Overseer. As Overseer, I will get to wear a funny hat. The hat will be named “Smooth Eunice,” after the first girl who let me stick it in her back door.

You want to cut the budget deficit? It’s easy. Gub’na Larry’s 3-step plan. One, call Bob Guccione and make him pay up on that million-dollar bet that I couldn’t get the two Peruvian chicks we met out at Cap’t Bob’s Shrimp Shack to make out. Two, put a slot machine in every outhouse and whorehouse from here to San Bernadino. Three, the Gub’na Larry Hustler Kissing Booth. $10 a pop. Step right up.

Also, we’re going to import tequila that tastes like gasoline from Tijuana and get Diane Feinstein and Barbara Boxer so drunk that they finally take the rod out of their asses and get it on with a trucker named Smokey Phil.

Furthermore, a rocket-powered hovercraft shall replace my wheelchair. Removable sidecars will flank it, and Asian hookers will occupy the sidecars. Appointments to see me will come with “happy endings” from my Asiatic whores.

Gargh harghh larmphum grum. Uh, oh, I’m slerrin’ my speeff again. Need more uppers. Vote Flynt, ya pansies.