This may seem a little unrelated, but rather amusing...hell, Dunf's talking South Park. That should kick ass...
August 2, 1998
Slick Willy goin' South
By GARY DUNFORD Toronto Sun
PRESIDENT OF SOUTH PARK: Yes, she kept the dirty, scuzzy dress. So much for all those weepy movie images of pressed roses in the yearbook, carefully folded prom invites, hope chests of linens and sweet-smelling cedar balls. Goodbye to the props of romantic nostalgia. Monica Lewinsky shows us the way. You prepare a hope chest for the prosecution, honey. Answering machine tapes, sweetie. E-mail, darlin'. And most certainly, the incriminating DNA piece d'amour: A dirty blue cocktail dress with a splash of what those adorable South Park kids call his "steamy man chowder" on it. Eww. Here is disturbing news of what women really want: Evidence. A dirty dress that you first hide away, never to be washed, in the hope chest. Rush it on to mom -- your mother! -- when snoop squads come knocking. The garment then goes to the special prosecutor, the FBI lab, and DNA detective Barry Scheck. This dress could become more famous than O.J.'s glove. I just hope it has an Air Miles card. But it's not evidence of sex, you see -- only possible perjury. Doing -- uh, what Monica says they did -- is something short of sex. For in the arcane world of Arkansas, when a man puts his hooba hooba in a lady's dippetydoo, it's not sex. If it went in her crickety crotchety, well then everything would be different. So when he says, "I never had sex with that woman," he thinks he's telling the truth. And so should we. And Ken Starr is just a dirty old man who is ashamed to unzip his pants. What we have here is a failure to commune-cate. All hail the first president of South Park. Something like this could never happen in Canada -- unless maybe you lived in Thornhill. Here, it would involve a bondage bungalow, and scores of paunchy, middle-aged people, tarted up in chain and leather, playing at sado-masochism. And turns out THAT's not sex, either! Playfully whipping a man's hooba hooba while he's handcuffed to the chandelier has nothing to do with sex, assure various experts paraded thru court last week. There is no actual contact with a woman's snickerdeedee. Lashes from the whip are merely erotic entertainment. Bondage brain candy. Snack food sex. Kinda sad, actually. For like every Saturday Night Live sketch since 1988, all that work, but no punchline or payoff. It's like asking a shrugging Chretien about the loonie. You want satisfaction? Try Toronto's Tupperware dungeons. Titillation, big-haired women, plus free parking. Is it any wonder the rest of us are so confused, so dissatisfied in our own lives? Apparently, we don't know what sex is. What we thought was sex is merely some baffling prelude, way short of yer Big Bang. We are information-deprived. Slow learners. When Chef -- South Park's cafeteria love god -- sings of Hot Lava and Love Gravy he's describing a torrid sexual summit none of us may ever get to visit. How you get up there is as unknowable as answering who shot Kenny. The bastards.Fortunately, Mike Wallace and a producer are huddled with Monica, preparing her for testimony on the 60 Minutes season premiere. Current affairs, star-crossed with Melrose Place. Here is the sexual education we seek. Yes, there may be talk of semen. Or anal probes. The plot line is moving well beyond punditry. I give up. Perhaps it's time to take Crisis at the White House off the front page, move it back closer to the comics. It's info-tainment, at best. The Presidential farce is now in the hands of Matt Drudge, the South Park gang and the Zucker Brothers. But if we're gonna have presidents from South Park, I urge Americans to vote for Eric Cartman. He da dude. My main Megaman. Not fat, just big-boned. And Cartman's big-haired mom is one hot babe. Hooba hooba. Wash your hands before you open the hope chest, dude. No splashing. Now, pass the Cheesie Poofs.