I'm All Mail, Baby!

Hi folks! Happy Friday, and let’s get right to it: reader mail!



Dear RJ’s D,

Have you ever needed to be erect, but couldn’t be?

D. Weiss, Fairfax VA



Hi D,

Well, I’ve pledged from the beginning that I’d be honest with you guys, so yes—it happened exactly one time in my entire life. Thankfully, it didn’t occur on set, and it’s well-documented that Ron has never needed or used Viagra.

But in 1982, Ron was on the road promoting a new nightclub in Florida. He ended up hooking up with the owner’s daughter, Denise, and the two of them went back to her place. Mere moments before Ron was set to violate her, he could not for the life of him get the image of Linda Hunt out of his head. Earlier in the week, he’d seen “The Year of Living Dangerously”, and while Ron admired Hunt’s performance, he simply concluded this was one woman he would never want to fuck. But now here she was, firmly entrenched in his mind, and despite Denise’s best efforts, I did not rise to the occasion.



Hello RJ’s D, I love the blog, and those pics you post on Twitter are hilarious. Are you available to hire for private parties?

S. Arnold, Beachwood, OH


Hi, S, thanks for the nice words. You know, I used to do tons of private events--mostly bachelorette parties and club openings. The reason I don’t do them anymore is because of the 2003 scandal you may have read about. I was contracted to attend a bar mitzvah. Normally, I don’t do religious events, but the boy’s father was an old poker buddy, and I did it mostly as a favor. I was told by the boy that I would come up and do an aliyah—that’s a special prayer that friends and members of the family do in honor of the bar mitzvah boy. But when I got up on the bima, the boy grabbed me and began to recite his torah portion, using me as the Yad to scroll through the text. Next thing I know, his grandmother is having a heart attack in the front row, and pandemonium ensued. The one bright spot is that I picked up a few new Hebrew words.

Deconstructing Hairy

Goddamn I am one hairy fuck. I'm not even talking about Ron's mane or his signature 'stache. I'm talking about me and the boys! Not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what's the deal with pubic hair? What evolutionary purpose does it serve? To keep me warm? I'm trapped in underpants all day with a pupik the size of an Earl Anthony special sheltering me from the elements. Or I'm inside of someone's warm, wet hole.

It can't be about appearance, because few things are less attractive than the black brillo brush that goes for the landscape of my surrounding acreage. I'm sure the ladies don't dig it. Hair traps dirt and cum, and there's always, always a strand that bolts from the pack to start a new life on their tongues, only to be denied such during a momentary pause in head.

Some say "It's beautiful because it's natural."

But Sherman Potter would say, "Horse hockey!" I mean feces is natural too, but you don't see chicks burying their faces in it, even for money (well, I've seen that, but Ron knows some strange characters). And it's not like he styles it or even brushes it. That black wad of steel wool just sits there, contributing zero to my work and obscuring the fullness of my glory. I wish the guy would just shave me clean. Guys in porn do it all the time! Peter North? Man-size balls, toddler smooth. Physicists would be hard pressed to measure a fraction of friction on that package. But RJ? I haven't seen his scrotum since 1964. And as he gets older, it's only going to get worse. That mound is gonna climb me like ivy and soon I'll only look about eight inches long. Oh, the humiliation!

I'm Rubber, You're Goo

It’s occurring to me today that readers might be curious about what it’s like for me to wear jackets. If I’m being honest, I rarely wear them when I’m working. Ron’s got a solid reputation in the industry for being clean. Oh sure, the 70’s saw its fair share of crab salad, but by some miracle, he’s never had to deal with anything of the permanent variety.

The first time Ron slapped some rubber on me was when he was 17.

And yeah, it was shocking. He placed that gooey disc over my eye and then began to drape it down my shaft. It felt too tight and snug around me, and I didn’t understand what it was all about. But the moment I was plunged into Shelly Blisky’s hoo-hoo, I started to panic.

“I’m going to drown in my own goo!”

“Stop!! Ronnie, Stop it!” I thought.

But in and out I went, and as expected, the goo followed. Thankfully, there was this tiny little reservoir at the top of my head and it managed to collect most of it. So despite the fact that some of it seeped down around me, I did not drown. I guess that’s obvious since I’m here today to blog the story.

Eesh. Is this too much information? Probably lost a few readers, but I gotta be forthright and honest.

I guess the only other noteworthy story is the time Ronnie covered me again, only this time, the panic was that I thought I had suffered some kind of stroke. I could not feel a goddamn thing. I learned later that Ron had used a rubber with its own numbing cream inside, to delay his ejaculation.

He could have warned me beforehand. Ah, but who am I to complain? For more than 30 years, I’ve been as free as the wind, because my man is a guru of ejaculatory control, and because he’s mastered the art of something George Bush couldn’t with respect to Iraq: pulling out.

Too Close For Comfort

I wish Memorial Day weekend had inspired me to reflect on the service so many of our fellow citizens have given to this great country. When I was growing up (and out), I wanted to be a soldier. I had visions of performing heroics on the battlefield, winning medals and then re-entering life as a private dick solving nutty cases.

But that isn't how I spent the holiday. I spent it fuming. Ron went out of town for a family event. He flew coach, which, as everyone knows, is second only to slave ship hard pack for traveling comfort. But at least that was Ron's choice. What neither of us had any control over was the guy in front of us. When the rows are that squeezed together, who but someone with the thoughtfulness of a Nazi would lean their seat back? I don't know why airplanes even allow for this, since whatever comfort experienced by the recliner is more than lost by the schmuck sitting behind him. I've done my time living in tight spaces, but only because society says people have to wear clothes. Society doesn't say anything about airplane comfort. It does, however, call for human decency, which is why I don't believe in putting my seat back unless the one behind me is unoccupied.

If the rows were spaced further apart so that the seat could drop back a whole foot, I could see the value in that. But I know a little something about what a couple of inches can mean, and they don't mean shit until you're talking eight or nine. When some asshole leans back, his head practically in my face, I have fantasies of releasing flesh-eating insects into his hair or dispensing an eyedropper full of HIV into his ear. It's not like they don't know they're encroaching into your personal space because sometimes they get it from the guy in front of them! It's this "share the misery" attitude that deflates my respect for people, even on a day that commemorates their sacrifice. Happy fucking Memorial Day and thanks for killing my dreams!

Come on, have a little consideration for the passengers behind you and leave the seats alone. After all, I'm living proof that being in an upright position is a joy! After two minutes on an airplane, I'm reminded just how much this cock prefers to drive.

Dick's In The Mail

It’s Friday, which means READER MAIL! Fans have been writing me with questions and I thought I’d use today’s blog to answer some of the most frequently asked questions.


1. Hello, Ron Jeremy’s Dick…long time fan, and I’ve really enjoyed reading your blog. Something I’ve always wanted to know….do you ever get sick?

--R. Moses, Charlotte NC


Great question, R. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve been sick a day in my life. That is to say, nothing internally wrong with me. Any maladies I’ve suffered have been external ones. A few years back, I developed a red blotch that really freaked Ron out. I was never worried—Ron eats a lot of fried food, so I knew it was just a pimple, but that was around the time Ron slept with Margot Kidder*, so he wasn’t sure.



2. What did you think of the American Idol results? Personally, I’m pissed as hell that Kris beat Adam.

S. Snow, Walled Lake, MI


Hi S. In hindsight, I actually see now that Adam could never have won. He was certainly the critics’ darling—and my personal favorite—but I now understand that middle America never felt comfortable with him, whereas Kris fits perfectly into the mold of a VH1, soft-rock star. There’s a rampant rumor that 38 million of the 100 million came from Kris’ hometown of Arkansas. Whatever. They’re both gonna be fine, Simon Cowell’s gonna make a ton more dough, and I’m gonna tap a myriad of muff. All is right with the world.


3. I’m a little confused. You talk about being a part of Ron, and yet I’ve seen pictures of you when you’re detached. I realize that’s the premise of “One-Eyed Monster”, but how are you able to detach in real life?

R. Simmons, San Diago, CA


Well, R., this is probably the most common question I get asked. I can’t really go into the actual physics of the process, but suffice it to say, it’s more complicated than any mindfuck Stephen Hawking could engender. The first time it happened was when Ron turned 13. He was in the gym changing, and the kids were making fun of how enormous I was. Jealous, of course, but at that age, Ron just felt ashamed. Back home, he knelt down and prayed: “I wish I wasn’t burdened with this monster.”

And like that, it happened. Proof of God? Maybe. But that night, I got my first taste of freedom. I didn’t do anything that spectacular. I simply went to the 7-11 and bought some gum. But the feeling of independence was incredible.

I felt strange, though, without Ron, and he without me. We made a pact that night to separate only when it was mutually beneficial. I have a lot more to say on this subject, but I thought I’d at least make a dent in the subject.

Happy Memorial Day everyone! So long.

*Just got a call from my lawyer who advised me to make it clear that Ron never slept with Margot Kidder, nor do I have any first-hand knowledge that she’s in possession of an STD. My memory may be faulty. What I know for sure is that Ron often sings the “Superman” theme when he first reveals me to women, so maybe I got confused.

Post CoIDOL

Say what you want, but I think it’s downright irresponsible to ignore what is arguably the biggest show on television. And while today’s weblogs are drowning in post-show analysis, how many of them offer the prospective of a 10-inch flesh rod?

Yes, readers, it’s time for my American Idol recap, exactly as I remember hearing things night:

“THIS…is American Idol”

“ Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to watch ‘Idol’”.

“Here…now we’re watching ‘Idol’, but honey, I have GOT to see those tits.”

“Ronnie, you just don’t quit.”

“….now let’s go over to the other side and talk to Adam Lambert’s paren—“

“RON!”

“What?”

“I’m on my period.”

“Sweetie, can I show you something.”

“…ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Lionel Richie!”

“Oh my sweet Jesus, it looks like it’s breathing.”

“It’s breathing for you, honey.”

“….final Ford Focus video of the season…”

“Put it in put it in put it in put it in!”

“Actually, I kinda wanna see this. Adam with Queen. Perfec—“

“Goddamn it put it in!”

“Okay, baby….here it comes…”

“…winner is…Kris Allen!”

“What the fuck?!”

“What the fuck!”

“What the fuck?”

“Put it in!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ron, it’s shrinking. Hurry!”

“I’m at loss.”

“I guess I am, too.”

An Even Bigger Dick

I'm sick and tired of seeing the former vice president on tv. He sits there in judgment of Obama as if from some moral and political pedestal, aiming preposterous criticisms at the President like the bitter old fuck he is. How is it that America stood by while Count Dracula was a heartbeat away from the Oval Office for eight years? I think when we look back on the Bush Administration, we'll shake our heads about Cheney more than anything else.

Bush was a stupid fratboy with zero vision and only slightly more humanity. He had less political charisma than anyone on "Saved By The Bell," but he wasn't evil. Cheney, on the other hand, is a scary man. Never mind that he looks and acts like Laurence Olivier in "Marathon Man." This guy oozes bloodlust from every pore. His disregard for civil liberties and contempt for anyone who opposes him is unparalleled in Washington power circles, and the fact that he's lasted in that town so long is a sad comment on our tolerance for fascists dressed up as patriots.

I'll just bet he's got a little nub between his legs. His behavior is typical of guys who compensate for having little penises. In every possible way, he gives dicks everywhere a bad name.

A Diary A Diary A Diary A Diary A...

Every now and then I go to a live show in Hollywood called "Mortified." People get up on stage and read stuff they wrote when they were in middle school or high school. Sometimes it's from their diaries, sometimes it's poems or songs. But it's always mortifying and gets big laughs, which is the point. The distance between now and when they wrote it is big enough (one hopes) to make the evening full of laughter instead of pain. But it's the pain that makes the experience so universal and thus appealing and communal. We've all been there.

Case in point:

March 12, 1965

Dear Diary,

Today is my 12th birthday. But is it a happy birthday? I dare say not, for I am one sorry freek. Everyone else in gym looks the same. You ask how I know this? Fine. During showers after swimming. It's clear as daylight. I'm twice the size of the biggest guy! Why doesn't Ron go on a diet??????? Nana is on a diet and it seems to be working. Ron just needs to buy dietetic food like ice milk. Then the guys would stop staring at me all the time. Especially Coach Smolka. He even told Ron that if I weighed too much it could drain blood from his brain and that if he held it he'd know how much it weighed. Ron said no. Maybe he's in denile. Anyway, I'm just glad that none of the girls in school have seen me. I think they would run in the other direction. Except for Carrie Jarvis, the neighbor who stays with Ron when Mom and Dad go out. She tried to kiss me! And I thought I was weired. Ron tries all his new jokes on her, but she never laughs. She just stares at me and scratches herself between the legs. Maybe she's got lice like Eric Hurst because she does it all the time. Aaagh! I'm feeling full again! This happens to me 50 times a day and it always ends with a seizure. Am I dying? God? Are you there? Why me??? What have I done to deserve this?

Drag Me Straight To DVD

I’m feeling a little defensive today on behalf of “One-Eyed Monster”, my current film. Don’t get me wrong, it’s doing very well! The buzz has been tremendous, and it’s definitely developing the following I’d always hoped it would.

But I’ve been reading some of the reviews, and while most are positive, several of them have become quite fond of the phrase “Straight to DVD.”

As a pure fact, they are correct. This film was released on DVD; in other words, not in theaters first. But my gripe has to do with them using the phrase pejoratively. As in—“Not good enough to be released theatrically.”

What many outside the industry fail to understand is that it costs a lot of money to release a movie theatrically, and “One-Eyed Monster” is a low-budget indie. So producers often have to way the financial risks of spending a lot to promote a movie that’s commercially risky, even if it’s a good film. Did you know that “Slumdog Millionaire” was almost a straight-to-dvd movie, rescued only at the last minute by Fox Searchlight? True fact.

Word on the street is that “One-Eyed Monster” may someday become a theatrical midnight movie staple. In the meantime, check it out on Amazon, or put it on your Netflix queue, and I think you’ll have a lot of fun. You heard it straight from the dick’s hole.

By the way, this is not to say that there aren’t movies out there released straight to DVD that totally suck. Many of them do. To wit, here are three of my favorites:

“Beating Meridith” (1989) Playing herself in what should have been a tour de force performance, Meridith Baxter is severely beaten six times in the course of the three and half hour film. No explanation is ever given.


“No Reservations 2” (2009) Word is that two executives at Castlerock were fired for incomprehensibly greenlighting this obscure sequel, considering the first “No Reservations” was seen by no one. That’s not an exaggeration, by the way. Boxofficemojo.com shows the box office gross at exactly $9.00, and that’s only because a man in Michigan was not allowed to have his money returned when he walked out during the opening credits.


“Where Am I?”—(1977) It has now attained cult status, but back then, the only film directed by a barely-functioning retarded man was considered too risky to put in theaters. The script on which it’s based “Meant For Each Other”, follows the story of a divorced couple attempting a second chance, but the director kept the camera aimed at his own shoes for 90 percent of the movie. Also, the dialogue is barely recognizable, since mostly what you hear is the sound of the director’s voice repeating the same phrase endlessly, which ultimately became the film’s new title.

The Jeremy Brothers

Yesterday was the birthday of Ron's right testicle. His left testicle descended two days later, so we'll be celebrating tomorrow. Even though they're two days apart, I've always thought of them as twins. Wouldn't you? They hang together all the time--and I mean all the time--they look exactly alike, they function identically, and they're both extremely sensitive guys. I've always felt like an older brother to them, and I suppose it's been difficult living in my shadow (although Ron's knees live in my shadow, too). I've always gotten all the attention, thanks to my size and RJ's career ambitions. Sure, every now and then one of Ron's co-stars licks them and tickles them. But let's face it; they've been neglected (and I'm not even talking about the fact that they've never had a simple haircut). They never get to experience the joy of entering a pussy or an anus. Even the one purpose for which they were designed has been ignored. And yet they're asked, sometimes on a half-hourly basis, to manufacture seed as if Ron was trying to populate Dallas.

Still, don't feel too sorry for them. They have each other. Me, I have an endless series of casual relationships. No, not denying they feel good. But after all these years, I'd love to forge a more serious relationship. A cock needs companionship like anyone else. So I've been thinking of moving back home. I know that sounds crazy on many levels. Why on earth would I give up the life to which I've always aspired--living in southern California and enjoying a level of Hollywood success that most dicks only dream about from the confines of their ordinary routines? And you'd rightly ask how I can possibly separate from the twins. We've grown up together, worked together and made our name together. We go together.

Don't judge me too much. Being away from LA, it'll be a lot easier to provide for my particular needs. As Ron gets older, it's going to be much harder for me to get work. Even now, he's doing more reality stuff and mainstream films than porn. Plus, I don't think it's immodest to say that I've grown accustomed to a quality of life over the years; going back to struggling is not an option. Back in the hometown, I have no idea what I'll do; I only do one thing, and there just isn't the opportunity there that there is here. As the line goes, I'll think about it tomorrow. I've tried to convince the twins to come with me (our whole lives, they've always come with me), and I think at least one of them is considering it. The other one's not taking it well; in fact he's been pretty teste about it.

I didn't mean to alarm anyone. This may not happen for a year or so. In the meantime, I'll be here, plugging away. And if little by little my anxiety grows over the days to come, at least I'll be around the best balls a dick could ever hope to have.

Happy Birthday, guys!

Venus' Half Shell

*****GUEST BLOGGER****

Hi everyone! Wow…I have to say I’m very honored to have been asked to guest blog for Ron Jeremy’s dick. He’s got a big audition today for a new reality show (“I’m A Celebrity’s Cock, Get Me Out of Here!”) and told me I was his first call.

So. Okay. I’m a little nervous that I won’t be as entertaining as he is, but I’ll do my best. I guess I’ll start by introducing myself.

I’m Jenna Jameson’s vagina.

I don’t have the resume RJ’s D has, obviously, but if you’ve watched porn over the last 10 years, you’re still very familiar with my work. I’ve been penetrated by the best in the business. I must say, also, that I feel very fortunate to have appeared in films at this point in history. I’m talking about the Brazilian Wax point in history.

That trend really took off about 10 years ago, and it powerfully increased my visibility in the industry. I feel sorry for Annette Haven’s pussy. Now there was a real talent of 70’s hard core, but she never got recognized on the streets. How could she? Annette obscured her with a veritable black forest. Back in those days, it used to look like guys were fornicating with Chia Pets.

So I did well for myself.

And yes, like Ron Jeremy’s dick, I made my attempts to try different roles over the years. I don’t have the equivalent of his star turn in “One-Eyed Monster”. The closest I came was when I auditioned a few years back for the feature film, “Teeth”. They ended up casting some unknown cunt in the role.

Ugh, I sound bitter. Probably not the best use of this blog. I should make some sort of statement, right? Like as a role model. Okay…I wanna say something to all my fellow vaginas, but especially to those in the business: grow old gracefully! This whole trend to be rejuvenated is just so much bullshit. Clearly dreamed up by some male pig who claims we need to feel tighter, when the real problem is his tiny, pathetic cock and its inability to feel our wet walls.

Not bad, huh? I’m a snatural!

Good Sex-ting & Dick's Picks

Click to engorge


Another day, another blog entry. I usually take my place at the computer and start with some playful keystrokes, nothing concrete in mind. If I'm tired it can take a little while before an idea hits me. Soon enough, though, the creative juices start flowing through me, and the words that emerge as my strokes begin to quicken become more and more provocative, that's right, I'm waking up, my senses are sharpening, a joke here, a pun there, a rant takes shape and I'm seeing the full flowering of a position--I need a word for...where's my dicktionary? Ah, that's it, that's the word I'm looking for, good! Good! I've set it up, the premise is there it's all there, the arguments made, concessions offered but now it's time to bring it home, I'm ready for the payoff but I need one final line, one glorious turn of phrase and then I'm there, come on come on! What is it?? Oh! Yes! I have it! Here's the punchline--a devastatingly funny and cogent gush of literary bravado I'M BLOGGING, I'M BLOGGING, I'M BLOGGING!

Typing....few...more letttters....zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.


Okay, I'm back.

There's a scene in "One-Eyed Monster" where the eternal question is posed: If you could fuck anyone in any orifice, who would it be and how would you do it? Considering how many women I've had over the years, it's difficult to imagine that there might be holes out there I still pine for (and I do mean pine). Here are a few off the top of my head:

Mouth
Maureen Dowd
Lisa Bonet
Courtney Cox
Thandie Newton
Joan Allen
Lois Griffin
Jewel
Jane Fonda
Kelly Pickler
Penelope Cruz
The Brady Girls

Ass
Susan Anton
Gloria Steinem
Carla Gugino
Jem
Annette O'Toole
Chelsea Clinton
Mel Harris

Pussy
Farrah Fawcett (when she's 90 I will still want to nail her)
Catherine Zeta Jones
Jessica Harper (circa 1983)
Anna Paquin
Kim Richards
Debra Messing
Jan Smithers
Meredith Baxter Birney
all the In Living Color "Fly Girls"

Ron's Monster Was Here

I’ve been getting a lot of mail recently asking about my acting work outside of porn, and “One-Eyed Monster”. It’s understandable that many of you would be unfamiliar with my career; sadly, it’s because with the exception of one major film, every part I ever played on screen got left on the cutting room floor. In the future, I plan to write about some of those movies, and in each case, why I eventually went the way of Kevin Costner in “The Big Chill”.

But today, what’s on my mind is one particular heartbreak: “The Shawshank Redemption.” From the moment I read the script, I knew it was destined to become the masterpiece that it is. I’d been friends with Frank Darabont in the early 90’s, and it was I who introduced him to Stephen King at Hugh Hefner’s annual Tacos and Tits Cinco De Mayo celebration. So it was a huge honor to have a part written especially for me.

Here's a tiny sample from the original script:

EXT. Prison Yard –Day

The prisoners are gathered in the yard, in groups of four or five. Some are talking, others are lifting weights. RED is tossing a baseball with HEYWOOD, when ANDY saunters up to him.

ANDY
I understand you’re a man who knows how to get things.

RED
I’ve been known to locate things from time to time.

ANDY
I wonder if you could get me a giant cock?

Okay, obviously I didn’t appear in that scene but you can see how it set up my eventual appearance. In the original script, Andy is able to tunnel out in a matter of hours, given my enormity. But the studio was unhappy with the dailies, and Frank realized it would probably be more dramatic for it to take Andy 19 years to tunnel out. That's when I got replaced with a rock hammer.

P.S. I referred at the beginning to a major film where I wasn’t cut. It was “The Piano.” A lot of people think that was Harvey Keitel’s penis, but no, it was me. Like DeNiro for “Raging Bull”, I lost a ton of weight for that part so I could appear much smaller.

Don’t ever accuse me of not being dedicated to my art.

Good Wood & Bad Wood

Living in LA as I do--and I mean Los Angeles, not "Los Angeles of Anaheim"--my baseball team is the Dodgers. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. I mean that...for the team, though; not for any individual players, who are as transient these days as the people who come to see them play. So my vows do not extend to Manny Ramirez, who, as every follower of the game knows now, was recently suspended for 50 games after having violated MLB doping rules.

I know I have a tendency in these blogs to make extended comparisons, but I really did see in Manny a kindred spirit. Here was a kid, like me, whose legend grew as his bat got heavier and heavier. We'd stop at first, second and third base only long enough to move on--going all the way was our mission, and millions of people have watched us do it over the years. Where the comparison breaks down (aside from the fact that he's switched teams and I never have) is, sadly, in his use of banned substances to enhance his performance. Ron has always been proud to claim that he's never used Viagra or any substance to artificially enhance my stamina and power. Remember when Albert Belle, Manny's former teammate on the Indians, was accused of using a corked bat by the White Sox? He responded to the camera by pointing to his flexed bicep. Well, Ron could do--and does--the same thing with me. I'm known primarily for my size, but lots of guys have big dicks. Shit, Captain Kangaroo's pipe looked like the drain under my front yard, I'll bet you didn't know that. And in the majors, lots of guys can hit homeruns. But can these people score as consistently and with as much raw power and entertainment value as Manny and I can? It's called talent! Manny, you schmuck! You doping dope! I saw you as a fellow destroyer. Yes, the Yankees have a rod (or A-Rod, as it calls itself), but to me it was in you that I really saw myself. Not any more. Know why? Because I'm a cock. You? You're a pussy. Thanks a lot. Calling Major League Baseball! Is there anyone out there still swinging for the fences with honest wood?

Now THAT'S How You Get A Job

Hollywood is a strange place. Only here would I--Ron Jeremy's Dick--have to actually audition for the part of Ron Jeremy's Dick. I remember when I got the breakdown of "One-Eyed Monster" ("Middle-aged penis of porn legend Ron Jeremy; needs to be same length and girth, menacing, SAG only") I thought to myself, I'm PERFECT for this. I AM this.

But they still made me audition. Don't believe it? Check this out, then. The actual audition footage.

The Oceanic 9 (and 3/4)

Owing to my nature and Ron's work, I'm frequently glued to things. But last night--being Wednesday--it wasn't a belly or someone's hair or Ron's underwear. It was the TV, and the reason is "Lost."

I don't have a natural affinity for the tube (which is what TV was called when I was growing up) as it was a cruel playground nickname for me, long before I accepted and even embraced my size. But when it comes to "Lost," I can't be disturbed. My therapist suspects an over-identification with the island.

We upset the normal sense of time and space. We both have a strange and magical power over people--they're either reviled by us or they can't "quit" us. We're populated by creatures (in the island's case, hostiles and the Dharma Initiative; in my case, sperm) in epic and eternal competition. At times we seem to heal people, and at times we make them sick. And thanks to Ron's busy and storied career, some of it preserved on DVD, people often find themselves experiencing us, alternately, in 2009 and 1977.

There are as many twisty strands in "Lost" as there are in Ron's ball hair, and I'm attached for life to both.

I also love to watch "Real Time with Bill Maher," but that's because we're both big, funny pricks. Don't need a shrink to see that.

One Giant Leap for Ronkind

The summer of 1969 was historic. But not because of the full-scale Vietnam protests, Woodstock, or the fact that a man stepped foot on the moon. No—something WAY more monumental happened that balmy summer in New York.

Ron Jeremy lost his virginity.

Without question, the number one question I get asked all the time: what was that like for me?

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Tuesday and, as usual, I had fallen asleep to the sounds of “My Three Sons” (the whistling got me every time). Ron was nestled safely in the arms of his girlfriend, Mindy Friedman, and I was nestled safely under his sweaty boxers. I was at peace. Suddenly, without warning, I was awakened by that awful “zipping” sound, and a harsh burst of light exploded into my eye. I was awake, alright, and feeling a head rush like no other.

Oh sure, I’d had this strange head rush before—many times, in fact. But it usually happened more gradually, and always after being lovingly cradled in Ron’s greasy hand.

This was uniquely different.

Before I could collect my bearings, I was headed at full speed towards a dark patch of hair. What is this, I thought? I’m going to crash into someone’s head. Why would Ron inflict this kind of pain on us both? Why would Ron---

MPHHHHGHGGGHGHG!

I’m somewhere I’ve never been. It’s completely dark, but I can make out bits of glistening skin and some weird tubes. I’m suffocating. I can’t breathe. Where am I?

NGGGHAHHH!

I’m out. I’m free. I can breathe. What the hell was th---

MPHHHHGHGHHHHHH!

Goddammnit I’m in again. What the fuck is he doing? I’m feeling sick. I’m really feeling nauseous. Oh my god I’m gonna be sick!

And as if Ron knew, he freed me one last time, and I instantly threw up all over Cindy’s abdomen.

It seemed like the longest night of my life, but in truth, the whole experience lasted about a minute.

To America, We're Coming!

I'm always tempted to channel Yakov Smirnov when I consider just how magical a place America is, how lucky I am to live here and how different it could have been had my four-inch-fathers not made the perilous journey to freedom. Ron's grandfather's dick, born in Klengel, Germany, departed on the Bremen in 1935, fleeing Nazi persecution and hoping to start a new life in a land of opportunity and tolerance.

He arrived at Ellis Island on May 27. His name was Moishe Hyattinksky's Schmeckel, but it was Americanized by an immigration officer to Hyatt P. Niss. He rented a room from a cousin in Queens and looked for employment. Life for dicks just off the boat was hard, but not in a good way. In Germany Moishe had led a team of scientists doing testicular cancer research. But his credentials were meaningless in the new country, so he found work as a test subject in a urology lab six blocks from his cousin's apartment. For ten cents a day he'd submit to experiments of a kind he used to conduct on rat dicks. It was grueling, but he managed to survive without working the 15 hour days that many of his brethren were spending in Lower East Side sweat shops sewing shirts and pants.

Eventually he met a spirited, petite vagina, herself an immigrant from Austria, and they started a family. In 1939 Moishe left the urology lab to start a business importing cock-rings from sympathetic Gentile friends of his in Munich. German technology was world-famous for a reason, and soon Moishe was making a lot of money, much of which he used to sponsor other schmeckels seeking freedom.

Moishe died shortly after I was born, but family lore has it that when he first saw me, he gasped "Die tests! Ich habe ihn." He believed all those experiments he subjected himself to had altered his sperm, creating a mutant gene that must have skipped a generation. Moishe was only four inches; enough said.

So this blog is dedicated to Moishe and to America's promise. The Statue of Liberty says "Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled penises longing to be free." As if she knew where my destiny lay.

What a country!

I'm A Little Bit Country

Understanding full well that my acting days are nearing their end, I’ve begun to explore my other passion: music. What may surprise you, though, is that I’m a Country fan, always have been. So I’d like to share with y’all (yeah, I’ve got the lingo down) a song I just wrote last week. Let me know what you think!

In Africa there’s hysteria
People runnin’ round with Malaria
Now Mexico is making headlines too
And causin’ folks a scare.

Darlin’ I hope that this isn’t wrong.
Talkin’ bout these illnesses in my love song.
I wrote it down just to say to you
That I really care.

CHORUS:

Oh you can give me e-ver-y disease
A fella can acquire above the knees.
And I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu.
I’m just scared over losing you.


Syphilis and herpes don’t mean a thing
If I can fit your finger with a diamond ring.
Give me Gonorrhea ‘till the cows come home
As long as I’m with you.

Honey I would never get rid ‘a ya
Even if I caught me some Chlamydia
My genital warts have inspired this tome
As well as puss-like goo

CHORUS:

Oh you can give me e-ver-y disease
A fella can acquire above the knees.
So I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu
I’m just scared over losing you.

Yeah, I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu
I’m just scared over losing you.


©2009 Ron Jeremy’s Dick

Justice Is One-Eyed

I read that U.S. Supreme Court Justice David Souter has announced his retirement. I'm sure speculation in Washington is rampant as to whom Obama will nominate to replace him. May I suggest an unlikely but entirely viable candidate?

Me.

Yeah, that's right. I want to sit on the U.S. Supreme Court. I don't think there are any restrictions on who can serve, as long as he or she has a law degree. I can get a law degree in two days; Ron has friends with connections. What would I have to do--listen to people argue and defend? Ask questions to trip them up? Make up my mind and then have my law clerks write it up? I don't see what the big deal is.

But I do see the value in preventing the inevitably endless nomination/confirmation merry-go-round. And I can provide that because I'm not conservative or liberal. I'm a Pubertarian. I believe in a woman's right to shave her thatch. I support cum control and no cock left in someone's behind. We need to reduce our dependence on Viagra and fund clean hole technology. Constitutionally, I'm a strict cunt-structionist. I want erection reform. I'm for creating or saving 3 million blowjobs within the next four years. I could go on and on, but ultimately, I think having a dick on the bench (besides Scalia) is good for America. If justice is blind, I clearly come a lot closer to that than all the two-eyed judges.

Mr. President, I submit my candidacy for the job. Sometimes I hang left, sometimes I hang right. But one thing is clear: the constitution is vulnerable to gross misinterpretation. Let me be the judge of that.