DWEEBLER CRAMDEN                      

From the Land of Burros but No Asses

I’m visiting my cousin, CE, in his new temporary digs in Mexico. I can’t believe Aero México tried to charge me for two seats because of my natural endowments. Hell, there were empty seats on the plane. And I bought ten drinks. They backed down, finally. But the noive!

I can’t believe CE has shamed his extended family by actually growing skinnier on Mexican food. What a gastronomic oxymoron! I think he was nearing 270 when he left Long Beach, but from his baggy jeans I can see he’s already broken one zero and may pass another if I don’t get him to the right eateries. And his beautiful wife, Kathleen, and their dog, Kenyon, have also lost weight. Must be the altitude of this central plateau.

Naturally this fact has filled me with trepidation regarding my own well-upholstered frame, the ultimate soft landing for every woman who adores me. I have lovely sofa ladies on every continent except Australia, where the weather’s just too damn hot and the woman are too easy. No challenge obtaining platypussy there; in fact, it’s probably the best place for me to spend a sexual wombatical, not that I’m in any hurry to do so. And did I mention their beach culture renders most of the female population too wiry for my tastes in any case? I have to skulk around the diabetic clinics to find someone even faintly attractive.

Now for Mexican women, most of whom are mestizos of mixed Indian and Spanish descent. It’s a sad, sad fact, but Mexico should be known as the land of flat asses. Pancake keisters. Nalgas de tortillas!

The more Indian blood in a woman here, the more likely it is that properly heated, her posterior could iron my dress shirts without leaving a single crease. Most mujeras are built squarely and carry weight in their bellies and limbs without an extra ounce to donate to that great hemisphere of feminine supremacy, as typified by Serena Williams, whose marvelous plum adorns the American sports pages. I don’t know if she’s an athlete in bed, and though a little anorexic, I’d take her if she’d have me, though we might require a few extra pillows.

I have several theories to explain the tortilla butt of the average Mexican woman. Chief among them is the fact that I have yet to see, much less sit upon, a cushiony chair or couch since coming here. One has three choices for seating: wood, stone, or metal. I suppose the original Indians sat on stone, and viewing evolution from a LaMarckian standpoint (my bottom line), it’s easy to see how their asses have flattened over the centuries. The European influx has gifted perhaps 5% of mestizo women with a respectable ass, based on my initial observations. And most of them, as elsewhere in this perverted world, are also afflicted by relative anorexia, given my tastes.

And how I hate this new retro-plague of hip-hugger jeans! As if their asses weren’t square enough without emphasizing the bisection of a square into two equal rectangles with only an imaginary a waist above. I thought the ‘60s were over (good riddance Paula Prentiss), but these new low-cut pants have descended to parts south, a fashion disaster if ever there was one. One dermal rectangle and one covered in denim. Hip-huggers have criminally de-emphasized the female ass even on those who possess one. Then all the friggin’ gay designers probably like it, as they seem intent on transforming girls into boys and vice-squat-versa.

An ass, first of all, requires a waist for proper definition. I expect the measurements of most Mexican women are something like 34-32-32-- built like the proverbial brick shithouse.

By the way, I long since devised a system to quantify the female figure. The breasts are designated first, the ass second, and the legs last. A, B, and C are used to designate types. An AAA, for instance, denotes mosquito-bite tits, a flat ass, and stork legs—think of a long distance runner or Olive Oyl. B is for medium, neither flat nor flush, a woman with the suggestion of curves but not truly curvaceous. C is for parts fully fleshed as in Marilyn Monroe. Every woman’s figure can be classified accordingly.

Relative weight can be denoted by appending a number. If no number is added it means the woman is of normal weight, a 1 (or anorexic in my book). A 2 corresponds to pleasantly padded, though beyond Reubenesque, but a 3 must be positively Dweebleresque. Thus the perfect woman, for my purposes, would resemble Marilyn Monroe inflated to at least 250 lbs., the classic ‘C3-C3-C3.’ (Any resemblance to airplane monikers in my system is purely coincidental, but you know I like soft landings.) If the figure is not proportional, say a square-bodied woman with a big rack, average butt and skinny legs, one can also denote the separate parts, as in a C2-B-A.

So, Serena Williams, because her rack is not quite of ‘C’ quality, though her legs are fine, would be a ‘B-C2-C,’ even if her ass has more muscle mass than most. We’re talking shape here, not subcutaneous composition. Most Mexican women are ‘B-A-Bs,’ although Barbara Streisand herself qualifies as a C-C-C, and I know because she was the first to wear a transparent plastic dress to the Oscars. Isn’t this fun? Madonna’s a CBC, as is Demi Moore. Poor girls, not even the greatest personal trainer can turn a B ass into a C. Butt implants are now available (I even read of an Italian woman who left a pair of them in her will for a friend), but I can’t imagine how uncomfortable they must be when sitting on stone. (Wouldn’t any woman with both a tit and butt job be forced to sleep on her side.) Moreover, considering these grotesque deceptions plastic surgeons have invented, did you know that because of internal scarring, they must be replaced apx. every ten years, just like artificial joints? What an assle!

What Mexican women need to compete in the global sex market is an influx of new blood. We all know most black women are either CCBs or BCBs, their legs usually Bs because of skinny calves. But if we were to export, say, five million shiftless black deadbeat roostering dads and spread them throughout Mexico, emptying much of the American prison population for nonviolent crimes, the resulting generation of Mexican women might approach perfection, especially since they would, besides being hindly gifted, also overcome the chicken leg gene so common among blacks. Their main remaining defect would be a certain broad-shoulderedness, but somebody has to carry water uphill. And if fed properly, I could come back in twenty years and have a flock of 3C-3C-3Cs at my disposal.

Speaking of disposal, a word about Mexican plumbing. Besides the fact that the seats are too narrow and shallow for any respectable industrial-sized butt like my own, the pipes are too fragile to handle any paper, so after you wipe your arse you must throw your original Jackson Pollock miniature in the trash. I find this a great help, not only as a casual Rorschach for my usual jovial mood, but also as a preview to the color and consistency of my stool (and in Mexico that seems to be a day-to-day proposition, especially if one can’t resist greasy street vendors, and I can’t). So while meditating on the throne upon which the blessed Elvis was assumpted, you can get actually preview the impending revelation of your glorious waste before adding it to the local reservoirs from which Mexicans obtain their tap water. I’ve noticed I’ve been producing more bile here for some reason, experiencing a slight Doppler shift towards green. Yet even I have the good taste not to bore you with the bland, watery, bleached yellow offerings the occasional case of turista inflicts.

Did I mention this was an artistic town?

“People under 50 talk about sex while those over 50 talk about their bowels.” Being on the cusp, or crease, as it were, I can’t resist trumpeting both. And ye of superior breeding, with your linen tablecloths and crystal chandeliers, O tell me how often the latter (nether) subject comes up in conversation during even the most exalted repasts! Isn’t it only natural to discuss an exit strategy while swallowing a culinary invasion? A well-balanced man should be equally at ease in discussing his exits and entrances, I think. To quote Abraham Maslow: “A self-actualized person has no aversion to bodily functions.” I don’t think the good psychologist takes his point far enough, however. I believe a self-actualized person, in his bodily self-esteem, should glory in his bodily functions. And anyone who claims otherwise I consider a hippo-(shit)-crite. Who doesn’t like the smell of his own? “The quality of life depends upon the liver.” (I would mention one exception, however: following an over-ingestion of garlic, the garlic-fart or “gart” can be intolerable even to its maker.)

Another unfortunate thing about this town where CE has flown to escape his nonexistent fans (though I could swear I heard him singing “I am a net god!” in the shower): as in other lands, even if women gain a healthy amount of subcutaneous lipoid deposits, their shape remains the same. But I do have my greedy eyes on one woman in particular, a B2-B2-B2 whom I’ll call “Maria.” My ambition, I’m sorry to confess, is not purely sexual, as she has a thriving pharmacy downtown and is the wealthiest woman in town, owning near half the real estate according to the cabbies. Fortyish, a legend in her own prime, she has buried either five or six husbands depending on whom you talk to. (Speaking of cabs, it is a great indignity to my MarlonBrandonian, OrsonWellesean ass to try and squeeze into the little Nissans here. I sometimes fear my left cheek may interfere with shifting, but have had no accidents yet, thank the Great Behind.)

Back to Maria. Not a bad ass for a Mexican, and with proper feeding it might even improve enough to satisfy my Hindenbergian fetish. (Ah, Serena!) As I am normally the one who gets paid in any relationship of pleasure, having a reputation as “Gigolosaurus to the Well-Upholstered,” I can make an exception for a woman of great wealth. I have expensive habits, after all, though no nun.

What remains to be ascertained is whether she has buried five or six husbands, as I would only volunteer to be the lucky seventh. Of her last two husbands, the first was a wealthy Mexican doctor, the second an even wealthier American. Already pregnant from her late Mexican husband, she re-married quickly and in her legendary persuasiveness led the American husband (#6?) to believe the dark (moreno) boy thus conceived was his own. The locals still laugh about how the dumb gringo used to carry the boy around, though they were too polite (else respectful of Maria) to tell him the obvious truth.

Further, if I become her seventh husband, I may even survive her, else succumb to a natural death, as my body has been a toxic waste dump ever since I drank my first beer at age five. I stand (or preferably sit) unbloodied and unbowed after over forty years of abusing food, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, and every other oral or psychedelic pleasure to be had on this earth, including Jimson Weed and glue-sniffing. Although Maria owns a busy pharmacy and has access to all manner of lethal drugs, I wouldn’t even need to hire a taster. Anyone who tries to poison the mighty Dweebler has a big surprise coming. I’m not Hamlet’s father, for God’s sake; I think even Lucretia Borgia would have given up on me. I’m the fat white mouse who’s escaped every research facility in the world, both accredited and non-accredited. Before I discovered my gift with the large ladies, my income was mainly derived from paid volunteer studies for new drugs. Others sometimes died but I never suffered a single side effect. I could out-Rasta Bob Marley (dead of lung cancer at 38) or out-drink Richard Burton, Richard Harris and Peter O’Toole combined. And I can definitely out-eat Marlon Brando, wandering in a flowered mumu on his island in Tahiti.

I could out-dose Timothy Leary or Baba Ram Das-- speaking of whom, my dim cousin, that inexcusable fan of the late pencil-thin mummy, T.S. Eliot, likes to discuss the greatness of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. I read Baba Ram Das in high school, and he said the same thing as Eliot much more succinctly in just the title of his book, BE HERE NOW.

God, how he bores me, cousin CE and his pretentious attachment to highbrow literature! He doesn’t even like WrestleMania, but I hear rumors his guest editor for this issue is publishing something called "PoemMania." Fuck all the anemic blueblood wannabes. Give me a hot dog and a John Wayne flick!

Anyway, in my plan to court Maria (while temporary propinquity beckons), I have been frequenting her pharmacy and stocking up on corticosteroids to increase my girth, more round my moon face, perhaps even achieve the classic, pathognomonic “buffalo hump” of Cushing’s disease, so ass to render my corpus even more irresistible. Thus far I haven’t asked her to dinner, but love foam has passed between our eyes if I’m not mistaken, though my eyes have been squeezed a bit tight by my attendant flesh. It’s not that I need glasses, more swimming goggles to keep my upper lids from obscuring my pupils entirely. Plastic surgery is good for something, I suppose.

There’s a saying down here, “It doesn’t matter how many times you’re married or divorced, only the last spouse is for keeps.” And if I achieve such hallowed status with Maria, I plan to be for keeps, although she may be in danger of being crushed during the act, which would, of course, not only make me innocent of her death but also the wealthiest man in town, with a free pipeline to all the drugs I want. What’s important is that she believes I have money, so I’m always flashing my wad of pesos around and dropping bills on the linoleum when I visit her business, ignoring them as children and employees happily scoop them up. If my strategy succeeds, I may soon be stashing my wad as well. And then I’ll fatten up Maria and all will be well, all manner of things shall be well.

One last word: As for my dim cousin, CE, he may be the luckiest man in town, as his wife, the beautiful Kathleen, without my indiscreetly assigning her letters and numbers, has a real waist and a behind to beat all the natives in this ass-forsaken town, white as the moon to boot (or so I imagine, never having had the pleasure of seeing it). Good thing she’s too skinny for moi or I might be tempted to work my sofa magic on her. What she sees in my cousin I’ll never know, though as a surgeon and musician he reputedly has good hands.

I will say no more lest I wear out my welcome here, but I sure hope I don’t wear out my ass; it seems the most precious commodity here in Flatland, Mexico.

--Dweebler A. (‘A’ is for Asshole) Cramden




Prior to becoming a used car salesman, Dweebler A. Cramden ('A' is for Asshole) served as general toadie to Neil Diamond, thinking himself too ugly for anything but middle-aged ass, in the hopes of borrowing some of the Master's (King and Boss were taken) magnetism. But being only a toadie, he was stuck with the roadies' discards, which means his groupies rarely weighed less than three hundred pounds, roughly the size of an Alaskan Halibut. Still, Dweebler maintains that "fat is where it's at" since Reubeneschatology predicts such females to be as indulgent of him as they are of food. And without going into mechanics, Dweebler insists his harem ("my bonny whales") have much more to offer than the pseudovoodoophonyboobjobskinnyplastic blonde types others pursue. Besides (he reminds us), big girl's boobs are almost always real, since breasts are mainly fat, as are buns and all the other soft parts. It's just a question of the skin quality which overlies them. If beauty is only skin deep, surely his treasured cephaloblimps have more of it, since their skin is indubitably deeper. But enough of this detour into his private lipoloungelizard life.

As for his literary career, Dweebler has been rejected by every earthly magazine at least once, but he is extremely proud of his publication in RealPoetik ("Billy and Willey-Nilly"), that microsecond of fame that made it all worthwhile. Before he discovered the financial advantages of the web, Dweebler feared his commissions on used Yugos could never match his postage habit, so he received treatment through a forty-step program called "Rejections Anonymous." He is happy to report that (one day at a time) he now resists the urge to mail poems to Poetry and respects their once-a-year submission limit Nazipoeticpolicy. Dweebler just celebrated three days of submitobriety! His favorite writers are Kilgore Trout, Susan Polis Schultz and Hugh Prather.