Andy Rooney of 60 Minutes on nailing hookers

I've been thinking about hookers a lot lately. Probably because of this whole Eliot Spitzer mess. It seems to me that nailing a hooker these days is more complicated than advanced algebra. In the first place, if you want to find a hooker, there are all those ads in the back of weekly newspapers to filter through. There are ads for Asian hookers, Russian hookers, black hookers, barely legal hookers, heavily tattooed hookers, S&M hookers...it's all so confusing, not to mention having to worry about whether or not the number you're calling to order the hooker is being wire-tapped. Back when I was Spitzer's age, you just walked into the local flophouse and you took whatever hole was available. Or you could always venture down to Times Square and find one on the corner. You certainly can't do that any longer. We can all thank Rudy Giuliani for that.



And since when does buying condoms require a slide ruler? Does the world really need flavored condoms, textured condoms, vibrating condoms, candy-colored condoms, micro-thin condoms, or condoms with Jackson Pollock patterns on them? I think not. Back in the day, the only option was lamb skin, and that was just fine by me. Heck, you didn't even really need a condom to nail a hooker back then. There really wasn't anything to fear catching that a shot of penicillin couldn't cure. Condoms take all the fun out of hooker-nailing. Nailing a hooker with a condom is kind of like dining at a steakhouse without use of your olfactory senses.

And enough already with the pubic hair grooming. Back in my day there wasn't any variation in how a hooker let her garden grow. There was no triangle, pyramid, or landing strip, much less the shiny Yul Brenner look. There was just bush. Big, bold, thick, stinking bush. Like my eyebrows.



It's all so confusing. Aw, to heck with it. I'll just stay home and jack off.


This should go without saying, but this is an imaginary monologue.

Previously: Andy Rooney shops for breakfast cereal