Here's the deal: Horny as hell, testosterone-swelled up jocks try to find some release by holding what amounts to a group circle jerk around a couple of women from way, way, way, outside their self-perceived social class.

Not one of these fine, upstanding, clean-cut fraternity "men" would be caught dead walking down the street holding hands with a woman like those they hired. So what is it that gets their nuts off?

Is it because they get a thrill from degrading women whom they feel superior to? Is it because the only way they can get off is in a group? Maybe when they are separated from their wolf pack they feel vulnerable and inadequate and maybe they aren't sure they will measure up, so to speak.

For these immature boys whose development seems to have stopped at around age 14, the thought of one-on-one consentual sex terrifies them. So they have group rituals where they display to each other what they mistakenly believe to be mature male behavior. I wonder about their role models.

You'd be missing the point if you thought that these stripper parties are about ogling naked women. That's just what you see from the outside.

These guys are actually performing for each other. The group ritual is intended to expose any weakness, possible "gay" lack of enthusiasm for the dry rape ritual they are performing.

Sometimes dry rapes turn into real rapes. Regardless of how that plays out, there's something really hypocritical and scummy about these guys and no matter what the outcome in court, they may be not guilty but they sure as hell aren't innocent.

Finally, I've just got to give it one more try and ask: If the women's lacrosse team at Duke hold these retarded adolescents in such high regard, then why aren't they the ones doing the hootchy dances at these jerk-off parties? It seems to me that the women's lacrosse players should be stepping up to the plate here. Why have your darling frat boys degrading themselves in front of a couple of skanks, when they could be degrading themselves in front of you? You all could have a party and degrade each other.

Keep it all in the family.

Journalism is the world's second oldest profession. That's what my J-school prof taught me in the history of journalism 101. From the time of the cave painters, to ancient Egyptians and the Greeks there have been reporters. The notion that scribbling the details of daily events as a profession is only a very recent conceit, and a ludicrous one at that.

Journalism, unlike real professions, doesn't require any test of competentcy, any oath to abide by ethics, any rules whatsoever. Anybody can call himself a journalist. Hell, even a kindergarten teacher has to have some bonifides.

What's a reporter? A guy who rushes from one free lunch to the next, letting special interests blow smoke up his ass.

In some countries, Latin America for example, the life span of a reporter who tells the truth is measured in days or hours. Those people are real reporters. They publish AND perish quite frequently.

These pampered, celebrated ninnies here in the U.S. are trying to pull on seven league boots when they start believing they are professional something or others. And if they work for a corporation, they've gone from the world's second oldest profession to the world's oldest. They worry about job security and pensions and annual reviews.

Gah!

But I'll give you a credit card number if you'll talk dirty to me on the telephone.

Harry, here are some fundamentals of pugilism, aka "the sweet science."

1. You've got to change your style. You're dealing with brawlers here. You've been throwing dainty little jabs, trying to win on points, when these fat bastards only know how to throw the round-house and the hay-maker. They're knockin' your brains out.

2. If you've got Joe Lieberman in your corner, he's likely to tie your shoelaces together.

3. Queensberry Rules are for pussies. This is politics man. There is no sympathy for losers. Sucker punch, kick 'em in the nads, spit in their eye, trip 'em, and if they fall, pound 'em without mercy, never let them get up.

4. Go rent all the Rocky movies and keep "Eye of the Tiger" on your iPod. Tell Nancy Pelosi to stay home, she's no Talia Shire. You need a real bitch at ringside. Call Randi Rhodes.