Wednesday, January 21, 2009


y fellow American—who also happens to be my husband,

On September the 11th, 2001, our enemies destroyed two long, hard, erect pillars of America. As my primary ally in this war on menopause, it is your patriotic duty to muster the regionalized enthusiasm necessary to raise at least one of your own in response.

I realize that, during the past few months, events have not played out exactly as planned—my mother coming to live with us after daddy left her, for example, or Timmy’s decision to drop out of high school to pursue a dog-grooming business with his “lifemate,” Russell—but you must understand: Failure now will only embolden our therapists.

To counter these perils boldly and decisively, I have consulted with my advisors (you remember Donna and Harriet from book club, right?), and they have unanimously affirmed that what we (you) need is a larger and better-equipped ground force. I have dubbed this new strategy “The Surge.” Your role in this operational upgrade is a relatively simple one: Take the damn pills Dr. Zimmerman prescribed for you. They don’t make you any less of a man, O.K.? You’re only less of a man if you aren’t doing everything you can to satisfy your wife.

To maximize any potential successes realized during the the Surge, I am also introducing a secondary mission objective called “The Pause.” During the Pause, you and your squadron are to maintain your position, neither ceding previously secured territories nor advancing into new ones. In other words, this isn’t Whac-A-Mole, O.K.? Just lie still once in awhile and let me do my thing.

While we’re on the subject of strategy, I realize that a successful lovemaking mission must extend beyond the missionary, and I am willing to explore new tactics and techniques as they develop in the heat of battle (or “passion”—whatever you care to call it). However, as I’ve told you time and again, just because Desiree St. James from Flexible, Sexable 3 seems to enjoy “the piledriver,” does not mean it is likely to be the least bit satisfying—or comfortable—in real life. Likewise, I have made it clear to you that, while our initial engagement may have been open-ended (thanks to you taking five years to finally grow a pair), our lovemaking is not, so please stop trying to stick it in my end.

Of course, as with any long and arduous campaign, mistakes have been made on both sides, and I am prepared to shoulder some of the responsibility for those consequences brought about (or, more accurately, not brought about) by recent courses of action. By resolving to expand our real-time intelligence-sharing capabilities, I hope to avoid such lapses in the future. For example, I might point out during the fore-planning stages of an operation that, despite the central role the regrettably desert-like “Middle East” plays in our mutual endeavor, it would be foolhardy and shortsighted to ignore the two prominent (though, as you’ve made known, not prominent enough) northern regions as well.

As far as enlisting outside support goes, lord knows you’ve been barking up that tree since we started dating. But unlike some other things I could name, my stance on this approach remains firm: No bipartisan committee will ever breach the walls of what you so annoyingly refer to as “The Groan Zone.” (F.Y.I., your references to “Afghanalstan” are equally juvenile, not to mention pointless.) That said, if we remain unable to negotiate certain hotbeds of counterinsurgency, I will not hesitate to bring in a reserve battery unit—especially the one in the top drawer of my dresser with the variable speeds and power settings and flexible extension.

Of course, as crucial as each of the above elements is to the success of our mission, there is one guiding principle that must be adhered to above all else, and that is this: No matter how encouraging the situation on the ground appears, and no matter how close it seems we are to victory, we (you) must withstand public and pubic pressure to pull out too early. Such an irresponsible act could easily reverse any gains we have made to that point while jeopardizing our potential for long-term success. Moreover, a reckless withdrawal is also likely to prove devastating on the home front, especially as it pertains to your collection of “vintage erotica” (though you’re deluding yourself if you really think an incomplete set of Penthouse magazines from the mid-nineties qualifies as “vintage”—or “erotica,” for that matter). To reiterate: There is no acceptable justification for premature evacuation, so let us not waste another moment in considering the conditions necessary for extraction and, instead, redouble our efforts to put as many resources into the region as possible. To reinforce this approach, I intend, over the next week, to requisition one billion additional sperm for our cause, the vast majority of which are to be deployed to my vaginal canal and not my face, so stop asking. (Seriously, it’s never going to happen.)

Thank you, and may God continue to bless this union, despite your persistent erectile dysfunction.

Trevor Macomber is a corporate writer from Connecticut—and yes, that phrase sounds as schmucky to him as it does to you. When not busy fellating “the man,” Trevor enjoys updating his web log (or “weg,” as the kids are calling it) at He also enjoys pepperoni calzones. So, you know, if you’re not gonna finish that …

Oh, Yes. We Can. Hail to the Chief.
So Long, Mr. President: Bush Feet Under The Final Moments of the George W. Bush Administration
Thank You, Mr. President, Pt. II Republishing some more of Y.P.R.’s past tributes to our 43rd president and his awesome administration.

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