THERE HAVE been certain landmark events in the decline – nay the degeneration – of human civilisation. The invention of Christianity, the Prohibition of alcohol, the release of a new Howard Jones album, – all of these offered signs that the human being is indeed an incorrigible beast; and what’s more one that needs expert guidance at all times from people like Sam Snort, lest everything might finally crumble to dust.

Now, the species faces a new challenge which is so monumental in its implications, that all men of good will must dedicate their every waking hour to fighting it with might and main, with blood and thunder, with Sam Snort leading the van, his pecker poised and ready to charge.

I speak, of course, of the incredible decision of the court in Manassas to acquit Lorena Bobbitt of the charge of slicing off her husband’s mickey, on the grounds that she was temporarily insane.

Well, she isn’t the only one who is temporarily fucking insane in the light of the Manassas apocalypse.

I have known a lot of crazy chicks in my time, but none of them expressed the inclination to sever my mighty sword, other than as a souvenir of the golden moments they had shared under the thunder of Samuel B. Snort.

The appalling thing about the Bobbitt decision is that it seemed to imply that it is less injurious to a man’s health to slice off his dick, than to amputate any other part of his miserable anatomy, like, for example, his head. This is simply not true.

SHARP OBJECTS

If you sliced off a guy’s head, you could plead insanity, and you might get off, but you wouldn’t get out of a padded cell for a very long time afterwards.

Cut off his love-truncheon, and you’ll soon be walking the streets, appearing on the Oprah Winfrey show, and encouraging other demented babes to go further and emasculate. The dangers are too horrendous not to dwell on . . .

It seems abundantly clear to me that a man can get by without a head if he looks after himself and gets a new one sewn on. They can do great things nowadays.

He can not, however, get by without a crawling king snake, no matter what way you cut it. If you’ll pardon the expression.

John Bobbitt was brain-dead anyway, so decapitation would not have made much difference to him, other than preventing him from giving good head – which, we gather, he was not inclined to do at the best of times.

It isn’t so much that he had a prick, he was a prick in every conceivable sense. He was his prick, and his prick was he. Now, since this same prick has been slain, he does not exist to any intent or purpose, so the charge should really have been one of first-degree murder.

Sam Snort, as you know, is a man who has never been phased by anything that the world has had to throw at him, short of a bill from some babe for services rendered, when of course it should be the other way round.

The Bobbitt catastrophe, though, has put me on the back foot for the first time since Jimi bought the farm.

Babes have been as meat and drink to me, and yet from now on I must sniff them for poisonous intent. Henry VIII only chopped their heads off, which, as I have pointed out, can be a relatively harmless procedure. The thought of a babe with amputatory designs on Hissing Sid is one which rattles my cage to the very floorboards.

Why, only the other night, I had this chick around to my vixen pit for some routine rumpy-pumpy, and I actually searched her at the door for sharp objects.

May Day! May Day!

Then, after a few rounds of Jack Daniels, when we were butt naked, I performed what in Republican circles is known as a strip-search, checking every orifice for anything with a pointy edge. The chick kinda enjoyed it, but it seemed to cramp my usual flamboyant leurve-routine, saying things like “you don’t happen to have something up your ass that Uncle Sam should know about?”.

Then, when we had wrestled in the bear-pit of erotic abandon for many hours, the urge to rest came upon us, a desire to sleep, perchance to dream.

No fucking way, Jose!

She slumbered away quietly enough, but old Sam Snort kept one eye open, alert for any sudden movements which might forever extinguish what my good buddy Bob Seger has called the fire down below.

I got up to restore my spirits with a blast of marching powder, and was proceeding to chop the bugger up, when I thought: “Is this a dagger that I see before me?” Even the word “chop” resounded through my skull with a sickening echo.

My love-palace is now entirely full of plastic knives. If Lorena Bobbitt is temporarily insane, then Sam Snort is due for a spell in the nuthouse too, at this gruesome rate of going.

I think it is time for me to address the world on prime time television about this lamentable turn of events in human civilisation.

I will wax biblical: “For what does it profit a man if he corners the market in amphetamines, but suffers the loss of his own John Thomas?”

I will wax sympathetic: “I know that you babes out there are pissed off because fate has ordained that you will never sit on the Snortian pecker, but I’ll try to fit you in, and in the meantime, drop that breadknife!”

I will wax philosophical: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but having my dick thrown into a carpark will hurt me. And it will hurt you more, little lady.”

I will wax, but I will not wane. This is an all-out alert. Mayday, mayday! Full-scale emergency! Man the pumps! Cut the dinghies loose!~

Cut! Cut! You didn’t hear me saying that word!