Problems of my own.

A Recent Media Analysis tells us that 40% of everything printed so far about the Monica Lewinsky debacle has been opinion rather than fact. Forty percent! Almost one of every two words we've read on this tawdry business is some doddering old bleezebag's opinion, and even in a pluralist democracy with a free press, that's too much opinion!

In this country, in the United States of Kakatopia--where, for instance, the majority of voters in Maine stayed home during the February election because it was raining and let right-wing Imps of the Smokey Pit overrun their state to overturn their antidiscrimination bill--which is more and more manifestly not a participatory democracy, well ... Kakatopians have no use for opinion, except the opinions of meteorologists. Who needs another bleezebag? My bleezer is blocked. (I'll bet that's more than you wanted to know!)

A kakatopia, by the way, is utopia's opposite, a world made of kaka. And speaking of kaka, dear reader, I share your horror-struck fascination, your ennui, and your bowel-deep revulsion over this cocksucking Crisis in the Republic. All that needs to be said on the subject was articulated 50 years ago by the immensely wise Blanche DuBois, who advised herself (and I hope you're taking notes, President Clinton), "I must keep my hands off the children!" This goes to prove that anything worth saying is already in an American drama, and the world would be less kakatopic if it did only what playwrights tell it to do.

So I wouldn't offer an opinion on a subject already laved in drool and vomit as is the subject of Tailgate (for which Monicker we must thank Christopher Hitchens), except I can't think about anything else. If the Arkansas Abomination did in fact get his bent willy waxed by this Beverly Hills mall rat, well, he's 50 and the president of the United States, and she was 21 at the time and clearly desperately in need of counseling, and I think it's wrong, wrong, wrong, but she's of legal age, so take a Dramamine and let it be.

If, however, Schmucko lied under oath, impeach him! Call it karma for Ricky Ray Rector (the brain-damaged man he executed for the sake of the 1992 election) and for signing the Defense of Marriage Act.

It sucks, I know: Ken Starr is terrifying, a fascist; and they got away with Iran-Contra; and anything that's good news for Trent Lott is bad news for us sexual minoritarians. But we can't countenance contempt for the law, not even from a president who's been on rare occasion nice to queers; not even from a president for whom I have an abiding affection because the shape of his erect penis, if Paula Jones is to be trusted (Gennifer Flowers says she isn't), is the same list-to-the-left shape as the first erect penis I ever saw (I was 6; he was my teenage swimming teacher; I'm sure it's why I'm a homosexual).

Fascinating, isn't it, that the same Kakatopians who display such sexual maturity in being largely indifferent to the president's priapism turn into precipitationphobic puritans when it comes to homosexual rights? If he's impeached, maybe we can hire Hillary as a lobbyist for an antidiscrimination bill. Fuck the states.

I think every queer of voting age in the United States of Kakatopia ought to take up residence in Maine. Even if it's raining! We could referendum the antidiscrimination bill back in; proclaim a statewide Day of Public Atonement for Poor Citizenship, which ought to entail humiliating, slightly painful rituals for each Mainer (especially our bomb-happy secretary of defense); and, of course, abolish Christianity, at least in its fundamentalist, ovine, cud-chewing variety.

Darn, I'm out of space, and I didn't have time to tell you how much I hate all the tidy-white movies nominated this year by the wretchedly racist Kakademy of Motion Pictures. At least the prepubescent, almost preparturitional Leonardo DiCaprio didn't get nominated; that must've disappointed the North American Man/Boy Love Association and its hetero equivalents!

The entirely unsurprising, mostly unwarranted deification of cute Matt Damon, though, bodes ill for us wrinkled, warty 41-year-olds who are still dating.

That's why I'm in such a foul mood, by the way. Dating! It's hell, as I'm sure Clinton would agree. One reason I don't have space to spew about the Oscars is that The Advocate prints this photo of me over and over again. At least they could put my phone number under it. I'll bring kneepads!

My fellow Kakatopians! Have we started bombing Iraq yet?