America is sick - and I’m playing doctor for a day. No, that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull America’s pants down and try to sniff its butt crack; nor will I inspect it superficially for fifteen minutes, and then bill it for $950. It means I am going to fix things.

America’s main problem? An abiding love of compartmentalization. For example, we envision our Mr. Obama as principally a speech-maker and a hand-shaker. But the truth of the matter is that he is likely equal parts fart-maker and delicious-masturbation-taker.

Compartmentalization is a kind of hypocrisy. It is a kind of untruth. Most of all, compartmentalization is a denial of the diverse and often contradictory nature of humankind. For this reason, I prescribe more mixing.

Indeed: mixing. Let me elaborate. We’re all riveted by the NBA Western Conference Finals, right? It’s Carmelo vs. Kobe, a battle for the ages; and only inches away, courtside, you get the Laker Girls spinning dextrously on glimmering haunches designed by God and gift-wrapped in shimmering purple latex. Yet we get about seventeen televised seconds - max - of Laker Girls per playoff game. Even a seasoned wank specialist like myself can barely pull off an explosive, satisfying orgasm at that rate.

My suggestion? Upon completion of a crowd-pleasing alpha-play (such as a thunderous dunk or a murderous blocked shot, wherein the roundball is expelled from the court into the stands with a rousing, abusive smack, to be followed by a victorious testicular bellow and a clenched-fist-forearmed-stiff-twitch-of-the-pectorals) - it’s blowjob time. Lamar Odom + Latina Laker Girl + slobbering deepthroat action = ratings through the roof, not to mention a David Stern with a sufficiently more lubricated anus.

While we’re at it, let’s morph David Stern and Howard Stern, thus paving the way for a June draft that would take place on Howard’s morning show. Oklahoma star Blake Griffin can lend New York stripper “Bubbles” his Clippers hat, and both of them can begin to endorse Snapple. Now, I really think this makes sense. Everybody complains how boring golf/baseball/fucking your own wife is - why not take the best of both worlds, mash them up into a fine paste, and reap the benefits of a brand-new product that’s abundantly more suited to the complex character of realistic human nature? Because for my money, not only could sports use a little porn, but porn could use a little sports.

I can’t stand how there’s no competition in porn. In fact, really, there’s no kind of organization at all. I used to pore over the sports page as a little kid, and I’d love to do that same kind of breakfast-table statistical analysis for porn, but there are no standings in porn. There are no teams in porn. Sure, you have the occasional contract-girl, who works exclusively for Wicked, Sin City, etc, but all that really promises is that she’s no longer a gonzo girl, and hence will now be mailing in her scenes from this point forward. (Compare Jenna Haze’s disgustingly tame scenes from her Jill Kelly Productions-contract star period to what she’s done solo. Thank you. Case closed.)

But imagine a Sports-Porn world, in which paid nerds like myself might compile elaborate and thoroughly useful porn-statistics. (VDSPS: Viagra Dry-Swallowed Per Shoot. CSD: Cum Shots Dodged. CPS: Cocks Per Scene. Diana Diamond’s impressive June 2.9 CPS had some onlookers clamoring for an All-Star Game nomination, but her 1.1 CSD left directors infuriated and an othewised slavish teen fan base alienated and grumbling.) Imagine a typical mid-level fuck scene suddenly televised live. (Why doesn’t anyone televise live porno? A two-camera shoot could be mixed on the fly, with commentators and musical accompaniment, and end up twice as riveting as half of the after-midnight skits on this season’s Saturday Night Live.) Sideline commentary would be the norm, halftime would be a great idea (the final 35% of most porn scenes involve a dead-eyed actress who’s long since left her body and whose genitals have already taken far too much abuse and, to put it rather baldly, way too much giant Viagra penis; let’s give ‘em halftime), commercial minutes could be bought by hipster shitheads, and so on.

The move to sports-porn would both create a host of new jobs (over-the-hill performers could now successfully transition into tobacco-chewing, thoughtful-looking “managers,” in the mold of Willie Randolph, Lou Pinella, Dusty Baker, etc.) and would allow for entertaining drug-induced psychotic tirades on SportsCenter (or a SportsCenter equivalent.) There’s a lot of household drama in the porn-world. Lots. And the fact that it’s not being captured on camera simply means that somewhere, there’s a major network who’s passing up a giant source of potential revenue. In a world that finally acknowledges and shamelessly caters to middle-America’s silent majority and their increasingly trashy appetite for mindless sexual coverage, Scotty Schwartz and Dustin Diamond will finally crawl out of their holes and begin to make a killing as “cross-over” experts. With network sitcoms next in line to include anal gangbangs within their programming, we’ll have just about licked the platter clean.

I should quit while I’m ahead, but hey, I won’t. How about music videos? Am I an idiot, or is this a market just waiting to bear fruit? For some reason, I can’t (and won’t) stop thinking about Kid ‘n’ Play, Cherry Poppens, a huge-titted ’90’s power-porker like Lisa Lipps, and a bad BET film crew joining forces to create a fade-happy three-minute R&B music video that might have (in a better world) aired on basic cable in my teens, hence saving me the onerous task of trying to harvest enough bikini-falling-off moments from a Gilbert Gottfried/Rhonda!-hosted “USA Up All Night” B-movie extravaganza (the true exploitation cinema of our times) to wank myself successfully to sleep.

Yes, the doctor has spoken. And I could go on and on with this. But instead, I’ll limit myself to just one more suggestion: war coverage. Right, I know: exactly! We saw a serious improvement in the Cinema of War in 2003 when this Iraq bullshit got started; there was a collective moment of back-patting and blissful self-congratulation when it became apparent once and for all that the footage they were going to be televising would make the ‘91 Scud campaign in the Gulf look like a greenscreen Atari mission. And they were right to brag, but I say war coverage as it stands right now would do well to study the unflinchingly callous sensibility of your average San Fernando porn production company.

Take JM Productions’ “American Bukkake” series, for instance. Every time out, they’re filming fifty-to-sixty VD-style, chunky-yellow amateur cumshots, and they don’t even look away. Don’t even blink. Can we pass this mindset over to the War industry, please? I mean, I don’t necessarily have to watch every Tuesday-morning-Pelosi-acknowledged Gitmo waterboarding, but I might like to be a fly on the wall when a few of our Blackwater mercenaries are pillaging, murdering, etc. From what I hear, more explicit footage was regularly shown during the Vietnam War, but then network television’s balls were snipped, and ever since, we’ve been forced to watch the most boring and misleading war coverage ever, where if we get a body count we’re lucky, and if we’re not, we get Anderson Cooper, Wolf Blitzer, or Christine Fucking Amanpour up in our faces for forty-five unrelenting minutes. Which is more than enough to soften the erection of any man alive.