How to do the wrong thing right

666: The mark of The Beast!

OK, listen to me, loud and clear, you beastly-brainwashed boys of mine, as this is the only column in which dear sweet Howard intends to address your ridiculous Rosemary’s Baby/Omen/Exorcist tripe again: Considering the Stygian depths of depravity I must descend to in order to research your “normal” questions, we’re gonna nip things in the bud right now regarding all these Lucifer-has-arisen conspiracies y’all are inundating me with of late. Granted, Howard understands completely that our concerns basically boil down to 6 topics: Phallus size, fellatio, fornication, fisting, felching and fucking — all of them perversely alliterative of the “eff” sound. Creepier still, F is the 6th letter of the alphabet and our current ninth month of September (9) turns into a 6 hung upside down… for whatever gaily satanic hokum that’s worth. Seriously, guys, let’s try scything down, just a wee bit, your grainy intrigues over our current Dear Leader being nothing short of The Antichrist incarnate; I’m simply not going to justify (wink, wink) answering any of this trash. So let’s get the hell to it!

Dear Howard,

During our annual “forced-bonding” family vay-cay last week in (barf! Just shoot me, please!) Orlando, aka Dante’s 6th ring of Hell, Dad chucked my phone into The Haunted Mansion swamp. It seems I was paying slightly more attention to dick pix than my dick 11-year-old brother I was supposed to be watching. In my defense, Howard, that little pre-pubes’ perv sure seemed a helluva lot more fascinated by my escape than he was in some neon-orange glowing amoeba shambling ghoulishly about our queue, sing-songing, “Repeat after me, everybody now, ‘Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a 44, no less, no more!’” “Daddy,” grinned the snitching punk (just before my phone got tossed like a grenade) “when you stick pencils down your Mr. Happy, which end goes first, the sharp end or the eraser?” Howard, what’s the best angle to go about assuring my antichrist Dad that, oh, yes, old man, you will be buying me another phone? — Roddy A.M.

Dear Ramrod,

Ah, is that the ambrosial whiff of blackmail I smell? First things first, though: Hooray, at last! Rod, yours is my very first “sounding” question ever! (I was starting to wonder what was taking you boys so long.) For any of my dear readers who’ve just been, say, newly released from a Tibetan monastery, “sounding” is the sybaritic art of shoving a series of ever-wider rods down one’s urethra (the male penis opening). In essence, if you’re the kind of seen-it-all/done-it-all sexual adventurist bored to friggin’ ennui by plain old anal intercourse, then fucking your dick shaft with pencils, ink pens, knitting needles, Twizzler sticks, etc., just might be the perfect “serenity now” first step toward achieving some of those innocence-lost, past sexual thrills you’ve been so longing to regain. But I digress; back, Redrum, to your question: Just how quickly do you desire that new phone? If you ask me, the surefire quickest way is to vow before Daddy, via crossing your unholy heart, that the sooner he obeys you, the sooner he’ll never in his life have to worry about waking up tied to his bed one night with the sharp ends of 6 duct tape-wrapped pencils simultaneously fucking his pee shaft. As an addendum, Rod, I’d like to thank you for, well, not being my 666th reader feeling duty-bound to, yet again, inform me on the side, apropos of absolutely nothing, that our current Dear Leader’s family owns the most expensive single building ever purchased in the United States, located at (cue up the organ swells and lightning cracks!) 666 Fifth Avenue. Ahhh! By the way, too, equally apropos of absolutely nothing to do with your question, Riddick, the coat of arms at Mar-a-Lago (merely a sinister short drive away from Disney World!) contains three number 6 symbols. Please, merciful God in Heaven, save us!

Dear Howard,

I read your column regularly and I’ve an axe to grind: It seems patently obvious to me that many of your questions are from showboaters just hoping that the more outrageously crazy their questions are, the better their chances are you’ll publish them, as opposed to real problems that we in the LGBT community face regularly every day. How do you drudge up the tolerance for these attention-seeking freaks; why do you answer them at all?—Mary

Dear Little Miss Contrary,

Uh, because it’s my job, that’s why. What would you suggest I do? Send anthrax-laced, poison pen letters back to my “attention-seeking freaks,” as you call them? Turn on your television, Marylou. Pick a channel, any channel. Perhaps you’ve been too busy tending your supremacy garden to notice we’ve entered a new age now, en vogue from the top down, by the morally bankrupt. Thankfully, however, our Dear Leader is not The Antichrist; he’s just an idiot, garden-variety sociopath, is all. Oh, but FYI, that rheumatoid hand gesture he most commonly uses — you know, where he presses his forefinger against his thumb and extends outward his other three tiny fingers — it’s known as, wait for it, The Triangle of Satan. As the famous, six-hundred-sixty-six worded Facebook post from British writer, Matt Haig, torpidly concludes, “It might be the end of the world. But we still can’t switch to another channel.”

— Howard Lewis Russell

Do you (attention-seeking freaks and all) have a question — about etiquette, love, life or work — that needs a special spin from Howard? Send your problem to and he may answer it.

This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition September 22, 2017.