From: mgundeko@pcserver2.Naitc.Com (Murthy Gundekota)
Subject: The Gundekota File: Pitiful Pornography in Debonair
Organization: Somewhere near Chicago
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 92 16:57:47 GMT


The Gundekota File-Entry#9: Pitiful Pornography in Debonair
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Pornography to me is the depiction of human anatomy and its products
in some form of expression: photographs, writings, cartoons, etc.
Those who go hell over the haywire in the water closet are also
usually the people who can't stand the sight of turds on the street.
And how many times can that happen in India? Why India? In the
stony-faced dog-pounding white-washed drug-pinned Chicago suburb where
I live, I can't stand the sight of dog shit, that gets delivered with
newspaper each morning. So much power to the dogs who can shit
wherever they want, just as the American newspapers where the editors
and journalists can write whatever bullshit they want, and that much
weakness to me who can't stand the sight of them, let alone the smell
or the soft feeling under the shoes (one out of the two experiences
during darkness only unless I am watching the babe `driving' the dog
or the bitch).  I wonder why the stuck-between-the-ohio-and-kentucky
citizens of Cincinnati didn't take this issue along side their
protests of pornographic art. Don't they consider landscaping--without
dog shit for display--as art? But, who am I to doubt the intelligence
of Cincinnati citizens, made up of so many Indians in the Universities
and suburbs.

When I opened the August, '92 issue of the premium Indian pornographic
magazine, Debonair, my first feeling was its paper isn't exactly soft
for erotica. The newsprint is pale and hardly projected the healthy
glow. The resolution of pictures around important areas, it seems, was
camouflaged by the pulp fibers in that non-water-marked paper,
possibly to fool the master-baiting censor-board members reviewing the
magazine before it hit the news stands. The grossest of all things,
that is to contrast with the fact that even prostitutes are honest and
only prostitutes are honest, the magazine contained pictures `pirated'
from its polar-opposites, and yet vividly portrayed at the resolution
of Hubble telescope (if it were up and working), printed in the west.

You should know my psyche when I held Debonair in my hands. I was
starving to see nakedness, of any gender, preferably feminine, from
India. I would ogle at that magazine even if Prime Minister were to be
shown half-naked, by chance, when his dhoti slipped off while
delivering Independence day speech from the red fort. I will curl up
with the magazine if Sri Devi or Madhuri Dixit dared to prove that
their curves are natural and not stuffed. Guess, what I found in the
center fold? You don't want to know. Yes, it is more frightening than
the up-right mama grizzly bear pounding on her breasts. It is more
nauseating than watching the yeti making faces at the frozen bodies of
the Himalayan misadventurists. The fire spitting dragons in Japanese
movies were more cuddly-warm-comfy in comparison. An early cataract of
eyes would be preferable. I would rather see a law enacted to cut off
the peeves of anyone who pees in Mississippi or Ganges. 

The center fold model was hardly a cheerful person. She was sitting in
a water-fall, she obviously didn't want to, otherwise she would be
butt-naked taking a bath. Her breasts were like half-mast Indian
flags, as though the entire land had to mourn because females are
exploited this way in the land of Sita and Savitri. I bet her
girl-friend took this picture. Why not hire Mr. Chang of Playboy to
train Debonair photographers, just as the soccer players and sprinters
are trained in spite of their abysmal performance in Barcelona? 

I flip its pages to discover more horrors. The poetry was hardly
arousing, and why would it when drugs are at issue? The letters to the
editor were incredible. A letter from Patna reads as:
``I am a patient of nocturnal emissions. I am also a second year
medical student. Can you suggest me a cure?'' The editor rambled
instead of saying: work on the corpses at night to overcome your
fears. And what the hell are these nocturnal emissions? Is this what
the medical training in India is all about--to substitute meaningful
words like shooting-sperm-on-bed or wetting-the-bed-with-sperm with 
techy-gizmo polluting words? We have enough problems dealing with
environmental emissions, as engineers and scientists, without having
to handle the nocturnal emissions of moronic dick heads.  Then there
was another letter by a dude preparing for JEE that goes as:

``I see many of friends preparing for JEE masturbating. I think it is
a distraction from their goals. What do you think?''

I think people in IIT aren't so geeky that they can't even masturbate.
I agree, as an ex-IIT-ian that we can't date or make love. That's not
part of the B.Tech curriculum. But, masturbation? Ha, it is the bread
and butter. How can any IITian survive just by eating the food in the
mess? The Superman's strength was a manifestation of that secret
crystal in the secret planet. And IITians strength was because of that
open secret. Not to say a closed rebuke, as in that letter containing 
subliminal hint of lack of prowess by IITians, is welcome. Only
Debonair could get away with such readership. 

I demand that my readers be more intelligent and sensitive to the
pornographic needs of humankind.


Murthy





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