Account of a Visit from Federal Agents

was the night before Christmas, and I was forlorn
Ne’r a vibrator whirring in the Valley of Porn;
The studios closed reluctantly down,
For fear that girls’ parents had flown into town;
The day so beloved of all Christian saints,
Found trannys’ surprises tucked under their taints,
And I in my tube socks, and you in your glitter
Had just prepped your ass for a poke in the shitter —

hen out on the stairs of our place in Van Nuys,
Came the surefooted clump of FBI guys.
Away to the closet where I keep the IDs,
I flew to inspect the accounts of disease.
The moon through the sheen of the fog and the rain,
Made it look like Wicked was filming again;
And the Feds’ feral shouts from behind the locked door,
Were like thin, fearful teens railed by one Max Hardcore.

heir hands balled in fists of self-righteous rage,
They said, “This young harlot is just half your age!”
I hastened to cover myself with more socks,
And they rifled through my 2257 docs
“Now! Audrey, now! Aiden, now! Lorelei Lee,
“On! Bobbi, on! Flower, on! Nina Hartley;
“From the Dirtpipe Milkshake! To the rim of your gape!
“Have you shot any movies of hot nostril rape?”
I admitted I hadn’t, but should I get to it
I’d call Adrianna Nicole: “Bet she’d do it.”

o out to the warehouse they searched all my screeners,
Looking for content obscene and obscener:
They marveled at Kylie and Sara Vandella,
Were shocked at the acts of the aged De’Bella.
They wondered at Sasha, they drooled over Bree,
Jealous that Jenny had made drinks for me,
Or that Stoya had taken a snap of her snatch;
Or Lorena allowed me to wash off her thatch.
And they said as they looked at the porn on the shelves
“We get these erections in spite of ourselves.”

wondered again why so many behaved
Like consenting adults just need to be saved,
As if billions of pairs of boobies online
Were just being ogled by one creepy guy,
As if thousands of women, like desperate Joads.
Dropped out of their grad schools for summa cum loads
Abandoned their theses and novels and yoga,
Embarked to the parkless Park of Canoga,
Or neighboring Chatsworth where, off of DeSoto
They’d grudgingly pose for the boxcover photo
That, if they’d the choice, they’d surely have said,
“I swallowed those dicks with a gun to my head.”

hey turned with tears glistening and, covered in jism
They said, “You are a model of First Amendment Patriotism.”
They gave me a medal, and a brand new Mercedes
And told me to keep writing ’bout naked ladies.
They left with signed photos of Sophia Santi —
Saying, “You’re America’s Beloved Porn Journalist, Gram Ponante.”

Sincere wishes for happy holidays, everybody; you make this job even more enjoyable than it should be.

The top image was taken from a visit to the set of Hustler’s Christmas in Memphis.