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Mr. Know-It-All: Teen Sex Advice for Troubled Kids

13 Nov

from November 5, 2007

Hi Teens!

Mr. Know-It-All is back with another “advice” column ass-packed with crude sexual jokes, rampant drug abuse, and alcohol-fueled stupidity.

Mr. Know-It-All has found that the world is moving too God-damned fast. Like the other day at the liquor store. I was on line waiting to pay for a six-pack of something cheap when there was this lady ahead of me. She was talking on her cell phone, texting on her PDA, rocking a baby, and paying for her vodka while all the time she was carrying on a conversation with her boyfriend. What the fuck is that? That shit is productive, that’s what! Mr. Know-It-All’s idea of multitasking is taking a leak while eating a sandwich, with a chicken parm hero in one hand and his ginormous schwantz in the other. And that woman on line? I was so drunk that I puked on her. Serves her right for being sober at noon.

But I know I’m just preaching to the crazy choir here. Like everything you hear during the day. Just complain complain whine whine whine. “Global warning”- boo hoo. “The war in Iraq” waah waaah. “I’m 58th on the heart transplant list and I don’t think I’m going to make it.” Suck it up, crybaby. Want to worry about something? I’ll show you these warts I’ve found all over my ass. I swear, some of them are way inside deep.

Anyway, on to the advice. Remember, these are all real letters found in real advice columns. So enjoy! Your buddy Mr. Know-It-All finds that giving advice is better than jerking off- less chaffing.

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“My very first sexual experience was a wet-dream. I was 11 years old and I awakened to find something wet in my pajamas. I was sure I was sick, maybe even had cancer. Is this normal?”

-from a 12 year old boy

Way to go kid! Mazel Tov! Wet dreams are the orgasm’s kid brother: You get all of the mess but none of the fun. Sure, you wake up with your crotch full of the sticky juice, but look on the bright side, at least you’re sure it’s yours. Wet dreams are your body’s way of saying “Kid, time to masturbate.” You’re a man now. Stick with it and soon you’ll be more familiar with the back of your hand than with any actual girls because, let’s face it, you are a loser.

And yeah, I think you have cancer. Sorry kid, them’s the breaks. But enjoy your new hobby!

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What sort of things are expected of a girl during oral sex? You see, I want to give my boyfriend a blow-job, but I don’t know what’s expected of me, what I am supposed to do. – Becca, 16.

 Yeeeaaaaahhh, this is why I became a Certified Advice Columnist. Kid, how strong is your gag reflex? Can you train yourself to ignore it? How long can you hold your breath? What is the biggest banana you have ever eaten? Do you drive? Do you know where 1852 Canoga Park is? Are you willing to be here by 8 o’clock, alone, and tell your parents you are staying at your aunt’s? I think I can help you. Bring viagra, valium, and vodka.

Sixteen is legal right? Somebody IM me fast with a lawyer’s number. I may have a problem

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I’m 67. Will there be a time in my life when I will no longer feel the need to masturbate? I read that more and more people are living to be 100 — do they masturbate?

 You’re not a teen- get lost.

No, wait, you have a funny question, stick around. Look Gramps, Mr. Know-It-All doesn’t want to stop- why do you? Thank your lucky stars that you can still get it up at your age. I’m lucky if the old limp worm wakes up at all some days. People who live to be 100 sure want to masturbate, but they’ve got other things to worry about, like their kids looting their trust funds and sticking them into shady nursing homes. Then they get so drugged up that they can’t even remember how many toes they have, let alone masturbating. I remember this one time,  I found myself hiding under a bed in a nursing home when some old broad rolled in on her wheelchair. She was like 190, but what did she do? Took her tube of arthritis cream and did the in and out on herself. I gotta tell you true, kids, it wasn’t half bad.

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I am 16 and have never, ever masturbated. I’ve ejaculated in my sleep 3 or 4 times, though. Is this normal? I think this may make losing my virginity a much more incredible experience — am I correct?

No. Talk to the old pervert in the letter above.

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I have been masturbating for a year and a half now and do it about once a day. I masturbate in our bathroom with the door locked. I usually take 15 or 20 minutes to finish, and then I usually wait 5 more minutes for my erection to go away. My problem is that my parents think I am really going to the bathroom and that I am not feeling well, since it takes so long. I’m afraid they may bring it up at a doctor appointment. How can I can speed up the process and make my erection go away sooner?

BWAH HA HA! HOOOOO! HA HA HA HA HA ! Kid, you’re kidding, right? HAW HAW HA HA! 15 to 20 minutes? What the fuck are you thinking about, horses? Shit, if it took me that long to jerk off, then Mr. Know-It-All wouldn’t have time to write this column! And 5 minutes for your erection to go away? Mine poops out usually about 30 seconds before the climax, then I just dribble all over the place. THIS IS WHY I DO COKE!

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How come whenever I’m done masturbating, I feel like I was being stupid and have the urge to put on my clothes immediately?
– age 14, New York

14, welcome to adulthood. That thing between your legs will make you do very stupid things throughout your life, and the sad part is, you always know they are stupid. Guys will climb over jagged rocks if their cocks tell them that there may be a naked boob on the other side. An erection is like a stupid-finder. The first time I ever did heroin was because I was trying to impress my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Clausen. Man, what a rack she had. Oh yeah, Mrs. Clausen, ohhhhh……..

What? Oh yeah, the 14 year-old kid. Look kid, just pull up your pants and forget about it.

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That’s it for this week’s column. I hope that you have all learned something form your pal Mr. Know-It-All. I would like to leave you now with the advice that my father gave to me- “Wipe that up son, and don’t let your mother catch you in her closet.” 

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Mr. Orcini

13 Nov

from October 20, 2007

As teachers, we have a great responsibility. We have been given a sacred trust, the handling of young minds. We have been charged with the education of future generations. It is truly an awesome task. We have a great opportunity to enlighten and mold the youth of America, but many teachers also have great capacity to instill fear and loathing in their charges. Teachers also have the ability to instill fear.

One man who tried, but failed, to instill fear was the swaggering buffoon named Mr. Orcini of Mark Twain Junior high School.

Ah, Mark Twain, my old alma mater. Home to science teachers with colorful nicknames like “Rocky Slabhead” and social studies teachers who taught ancient Babylonian on the side and had rabbinical aspirations. They were an odd bunch. But as anyone who spent any time in a school knows, the oddest teachers are usually gym teachers. I once had a gym teacher who dropped his pants and walked around in his boxers on the first day to show us that there was no shame in the human body. You should have seen him run behind the bleachers when a female student walked in. (I wonder if he managed to keep his job?) And then there was ORCINI.

Mr. Orcini was quite a sight. He usually dressed in shiny and very tight Mafia suits, like the ones you see on Henry and Jimmy in Goodfellas. His shirt was usually unbuttoned to his fly and he had enough gold chains around his neck to kill a lesser man. He had slick black hair and a thin mustache. Ever see The Adventures of Robin Hood? Think of him as what Errol Flynn would look like if he took elephant steroids and strode around like Mussolini. This guy had muscles and he wanted everyone to know it. He looked like he had gone to the gas station and used the air hose to inflate himself. All he needed was “bad Italian stereotype” stamped on his forehead.

(My favorite Orcini story actually took place years after I graduated. I was on a bus and it couldn’t pull out of a stop because of a double parked car. The bus driver honked and the car’s driver came out of a store- it was Mr. Orcini. I didn’t hear his words, but he yelled at the driver and shook his fist at the bus. Not the driver, the bus. He actually threatened to punch the bus!)

He was a figure of , well, not fear, not exactly. I think if anything, we harbored a secret desire to see him fly off into a steroid rage. But on someone else. No one wanted to be the one he unloaded on. One time me and my friends were fooling around in the gym. This included chasing around Peter Bosco with a basketball. Orcini of course yelled at us in a deep phony voice, but I claimed that we were just playing basketball. The only thing that kept Orcini from lumbering over and bellowing some more was the fact that I took the basketball and made the shot from across the court. (It may have been the only basket I made in high school.)

On another occasion (or maybe the same one) he bellowed in disbelief about how we, with all the gym equipment around us, were playing with a door. And Bosco had to explain to him why he tied his shoes to the balance beam. (Orcini, in  a deep deliberate voice- “You tied your shoes to a balance beam?”) For some reason, I can’t imagine why, Bosco had the totally outrageous and implausible idea that me and Marc just might, you know, might possibly take his shoes and, I don’t know, throw them out the window or something. Really, me?

As a teacher now, I reflect back on Mr. Orcini and wonder, what the fuck was his problem? He walked around like he owned the world, and acted like a third rate Mafia leg-breaker, which he might have been. He seemed to get off on intimidating junior high school kids and I wonder how he felt about junior high school girls, if you know what I mean. He was mean and cruel and he knew it.

I may have been a little nasty to certain people in my life, but at least I never had a nasty life. I just wonder where he is now. I bet either in jail or dead.

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NOTE TO MR. ORCINI.

First off, I have to be honest- I’m not sure if your name is spelled “Orcini” or “Orsini” and I really don’t care. I went with the former because it begins with “Orc” and both sums up your personality and makes a nice Lord of the Rings reference.

Secondly, everything I have written here is true. If you try to sue me, send your goons after me, or lumber over and bellow at me, I’ll start making up some even worse stuff.

And thirdly, if you still insist on being a pain in my ass, I’ll simply claim that “Mr. Orcini” is a fictional creation, like Santa Claus and moderate Iranians. After all, who would believe any of this is true?

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NOTE TO MY READERS.

All of this is true.

I know that I claim that a lot of stuff I write is true, but this is truly true. (What, you really thought that one of my ancestors was “that sailing Scottish Jew?”)

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