I'd never heard of your column until I started a new job. I found out about it because every Wednesday, when The Village Voice comes out in New York, this creep I work with comes into the conference room at lunchtime, where the rest of us are eating, and reads us the disgusting letters you print from the perverts and degenerates that write to you. He asks us what our advice would be before he reads your filthy answers. If I were to speak my mind, my answer would be that you and your readers should have your mouths washed out with soap, but I'm new to this job and I don't want to make a fuss. Sign me (as I'm sure you would appreciate, Mr. Acronym):
Doofus Intentionally Reads Terrible Blather At Group
Knowing that this would be the last time you ever read my column (or had it read to you), DIRTBAG, I selected the letters above with you in mind. Straitjackets, denim fetish, wet-and-messy fetish, piss, shit, and necrophilia... It's quite a sendoff, no? As for your threat to wash my readers' mouths out with soap, I'll certainly hear from readers who get off on that after your letter appears—and all e-mails from soap fetishists will be forwarded right on to you, DIRTBAG, in case you wanna make good on your threat. But while we wait for those letters to pour in, let's consider this: Any employer in New York City large enough to have a conference room must also have a sexual-harassment policy in place. Perhaps you should be complaining to your human-resources manager about that dirtbag you work with and not to me?
Y'know, that just makes me happy. All 'round. He offers useful advice packaged up with a dirty feeling and poetic justice.