THE US Presidential pecker has been much on the mind of Sam Snort this week.

Amid all the talk of scandal, perjury and possible impeachment, we seem to have lost sight of the disturbing fact that, according to sources on the ground (as it were), the President Of The United States of America has a bent mutton dagger, a sloping schlong, a one-eyed trouser snake that can apparently see around corners.

Is it any wonder that Bill Clinton has difficulty working out what is and isn’t sex: with yet another Oval Office tricky dick permanently by his side – or front, or back, whatever – the poor man mustn’t know whether he’s coming or going.

If he’d only consulted me before taking the stand, Sam Snort could’ve straightened things out for the Prez – especially with regard to this apparently confusing business of what constitutes a sexual act.

As it happens, my excellent new book, ‘Sam Snort’s Real Sex Guide’ – available inside bags of heroin at all our minor ports – deals in a frank and helpful way with this very subject, answering many of the questions which appear to puzzle young people and the President Of The United States.

Gobbling

Most pertinent to Bill’s present dilemma, I feel, is the chapter entitled ‘Oral Sex – Blow Job or Con Job’ in which I wrestle with the moral, pyschological and indeed spiritual complexities of the profoundly important question: does gobbling deserve to be filed under poontang?

Having given this subect at least a full five seconds of consideration, my thoughts on the matter can best be summed up as follows: who gives a flying fuck?

To quote from my own tome: “I mean, why waste time wrestling with this kind of mind shit, when you could be no-holds-barred wrestling with a consenting adult on a waterbed, with an ample supply of weed and wine close by, and the utterly butterly scene from ‘Last Tango In Paris’ showing on the domestic video.”

Fair comment, I’m sure you’ll agree. However, since it’s unlikely that Bill could have adopted this particular line of defence and expected much sympathy from the citizens of the United States, I suppose it behoves me to attempt a more forensic analysis of the core issue. What follows then, is Sam Snort’s Lexicon Of Leurve, the definitive 5-point guide to sex in the 90s. (Though it’s worth pointing out that I myself favour a room temperature of around 75 degrees).

1 Masturbation. Barely qualifies as sex at all, though more fun than watching the Lyrics Board.

2 Oral Sex: Frankly, I’m with Bill on this one. Adjacent to, but not the same as, poontang, the art of gobbling is to flat-out fucking what ball juggling is to a football match: entertaining, for sure, but a mere warmer-upper nonetheless.

3 Fornication: anything which can be labelled thus and which, furthermore, is considered a legitimate activity, even in restricted circumstances, by orthodox religion, can in no way be considered a proper sexual act. Just to be clear about this: the fact that you may be the parents of 19 children counts for nothing. As far as Sam Snort is concerned, you still haven’t had sex.

4. Orgy: anything involving more than two in a bed and multiple orgasms, plus oils, whips, leather, machinery, fast white powders and a quart of Jim Beam, is definitely heading in the right direction but still stops short of qualifying as undiluted poonang. On the face of it, this might appear to make no sense but all becomes clear in our fifth and final point.

5. Poontang. The sexual act involving marathon man Sam Snort, possessor of the only male appendage – The Great Knob Of Snort – visible from outer space. All the sexual acts that have ever been enacted since the dawn of time add up to nothing more than a limp handshake compared to even five minutes in the company of the World’s Greatest Lover (and Rock Journalist). There may have been no sex in Ireland until the Late, Late Show but there was no poontang anywhere until Sam Snort first rose to the occasion and caused total eclipse of the sun in the South Sea Islands.

Doodle Danged

So there you have it. Too late for Bill, sadly, but the only defence that could really have stood up in court. “Ah may have danged my doodle once or twice,” Bill could have told the grand jury, “but I, sir, am no Sam Snort.”

So remember that the next time your loved one accuses you of infidelity: if you haven’t scorched the satin sheets in the master bedoom at Snort Towers, you are still technically a virgin. Inhaling the crooked pipe don’t even come close.

• Your ever lovin’, ramrod straight, Samuel J. Snort Esq.