Y'know, once you are given the knowledge that the president of the United States once used a White House intern as a humidor, it's a pretty safe bet nothing else will ever shock you. The mental image of that alone is enough to create universal desensitization. But there had to have been an event that brought about the benumbing down of America, because despite the fact that we were given detailed information of the sordid, twisted events that took place behind the closed doors of the oval office, not only was President Clinton able to escape indictment, during the scandal, he maintained the some of the highest approval ratings of his entire administration. Somehow, we were a lot more complacent about all that than I ever thought we would be. Something had to happen before the Soap Opera of 'As The Intern Turns' that made us more forgiving of that kind of behavior. And here it is:

Two words: Marv Albert.

In fact, when Bill Clinton eventually sits down to write his memoirs, he should dedicate them to the diminutive sportscaster, because Marv's little brush with iniquity set a precedent for apathy towards sexually aberrant behavior that ultimately resulted in Bubba's acquittal. And yet, I'll be you a hundred bucks that he never even sent the bald little reprobate a Thank You card. Well, I'm going to give Marv his props. Walk proud, man. You're a true pioneer.

Marv helped to change the course of public thought awhile back when he got himself into this little jam for allegedly engaging in some rough sex with a woman who didn't appreciate her back being used as a teething ring. In the midst of all the allegations and recriminations, it was also revealed that ol' Marv was once found in a hotel room in a garter belt and panties, singing show tunes with a transvestite.

But that's not the best part of the story. The best part of the story comes when he was booked. Apparently, Marv wasn't all that concerned that the most intimate details of his boudoir behavior were about to be made public. Oh no.

He was more worried that the police were going to take his mug shot without him wearing his toupee.

Now, forget for a moment that Marv's rug looks like a piece of Arugula that was styled during a 1978 screening of 'Saturday Night Fever'. As toupees go, this one is about as natural as the field at the Houston Astrodome. In fact, it couldn't look more artificial if it was also the same color. It's not like the hairpiece would have been a surprise to anyone, because that thing couldn't be more conspicuously obvious if it had a fucking chinstrap.

But let's just think about the irony of this situation, shall we?

Here's a guy who has been found in a hotel room in a garter belt and panties, singing show tunes with a transvestite.

And yet he's worried that we'll find out he's bald.

I mean, I would think that once we've been given the information that you've been found in a hotel room in a garter belt and panties singing show tunes with a transvestite, our knowing you wear a hairpiece is the least of your problems.

Somehow, the whole thing left me feeling very unsettled. It's not like I'd led that sheltered an existence that I didn't know that those kinds of things happened every day. It was just that it happened with Marv. Marv! Ol', 'Kick save and a beauty, he shoots he scores, YESSSSSS!' Marv! I immediately thought of all the naked sweaty guys he'd interviewed in post game locker rooms. I wondered how they felt, now knowing that Marv didn't just appreciate and admire their athletic prowess, he was probably looking for another potential drag duet partner to join him in a rousing chorus of 'I Feel Pretty.'

I guess I don't quite understand the appeal of sexual fetishes. To me, the plain old vanilla missionary position bumping of the uglies is among God's greatest creations…a miracle in itself to be cherished and revered. Perhaps it's the rarity of the occurrence that makes it so special for me, but the "Three Minute, Horizontal-Bounce, Roll Over, Dismount, Fall Asleep" has served me well over the years. I don't need some strange, twisted scenario for me to gain gratification. I get a chub if my wife just sticks her tongue in my mouth. I have no insatiable desire for a midget in nipple clamps and a leather bustier and a pirate hat to smear tapioca on my fat ass.

But for awhile there, soon after the revelations about Marv and then later again, the President, I started to think that maybe there was something wrong with me. I thought I was missing out on something here. Obviously, if Marv Albert was that kinky, and even THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES had a little bit of Fellini's Satyricon in him, then everybody had to have some kind of strange sexual appetite. I actually began to worry that I had a problem because I didn't think dressing in diapers could arouse me, nor would having a dog collar thrust around my neck and being led around on a leash. I had been spanked enough in my wayward delinquent youth to know that it was not going to get my motor running as a sexually active adult. I know that guy stole all of Marla Maples shoes so he could do nasty things to them, but personally, I am repulsed by anything and everything that is even remotely related to the human foot.

But if Marv did it, then I was sure there were more out there. The 'last person you would think' types: Your stockbrokers, your doctors, your account managers, maybe even your neighbors. They're out there, folks. At this very moment as you read this, someone you might even know, is actually paying someone to pee on him or her. Paying someone to shit on them.

I mean, if you want to get shit on, save your money and go work for the Post Office.

I have never, nor would I ever, consider trying this kind of stuff. Therefore, I won't cast aspersions upon it. Obviously, these things were not devised for me to appreciate or comprehend. I will not pass judgement on them, as I am a firm believer that you have the right to do whatever the hell you want, with whoever the hell you want, as many the hell times as you want, in the privacy of your own home, so long as it's between consenting adults and I don't have to listen to you talk about it afterwards.

But there is one fetish in particular that I absolutely do not understand, and despite the above disclaimer, find too bizarre to sanction. Perhaps someone could enlighten me as to the benefits of the practice, but…

What the hell is the deal with the gerbil?

Don't get me wrong, I'm an animal lover like the next guy. I think gerbils are cute, I think they're cuddly, but I have to say, the last place I would ever think about sticking one of these things would have to be…my ass.

I've heard stories from friends who are emergency room nurses about folks coming in with various and sundry household items lodged firmly in their nether orifices; everything from light bulbs to Peanut Butter jars. To me, they are nothing more than the unfortunate consequences of a healthy human curiosity. Although I would never engage in it, I could actually see it being a kind of sporting event. A real competitive situation where the size and creativity of the object crammed in the blowhole would be the criteria upon which points were awarded. I can see it as a game of 'I Dare You' getting out of hand. After all, swallowing goldfish was quite the pastime during the Roaring Twenties. You know these crazy college kids.

But to deliberately banish a small rodent to the confines of your lower digestive tract…I'm clueless to the appeal. First of all, they're nocturnal animals, so once you stick one up there you can pretty much forget about getting any sleep. Plus, I would think it's potentially dangerous…not just to the animal in question. It's really not the kind of thing that one should do without some kind of supervision, a 'spotter' if you will, to make sure that it all goes well. I've never seen any 'Gerbil Jamming for Dummies' books, so you're pretty much on your own, and there's really a danger that some uninitiated adventurer would make the mistake of sticking the little exercise wheel up there too.

But I guess what I find most disturbing about the practice is, not that it occurs, but that someone actually came up with the idea. Who the hell was sitting home on a Saturday Night, looking at the Habitrail thinking:

"Y'know…I bet that would feel REALLY good…"

What is the purpose? You keep it in there until February, and if it pops its head out and sees its shadow it means we're going to have another six weeks of winter?

Where are the Animal Rights Activists on this one? Where's the PETA campaign against Gerbil Abuse? Where's the celebrity spokesperson for the cause? I'm sure they could get just about anybody to do some Public Service T.V. spots. Except maybe Richard Gere.

But because Marv Albert made us realize that EVERYBODY is capable of something weird, I completely believe that President Clinton would STILL have been exonerated, even if he had been accused of being one of these gerbil jockeys.

The scenario would have played out pretty much the same way. The tape of his press conference, in which he looked at the camera, puppydog eyes filled with anger and indignation, lower lip bitten, as he shook his finger at us and said:

"For the last time…I did not have…sexual relations…with that…gerbil."

The only thing that would have been different would be the cigar.

Because there are just some things that even rodents won't do.