You can’t handle the Clam!

Dupes, we live in a world that has CLAMS. And those CLAMS have to be photographed by men with cameras.

Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Lt. PhizzEd?

I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for cameltoe and you curse the gasman.

You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that cameltoe, while pornographic, probably saves lives.

And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives…You don’t want the CLAM. Because deep down, in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that CLAM. You need me on that CLAM.

We use words like poontang, gash, bearded clam, vasheena, taint…we use these words as the backbone to a life spent photographing women’s naughty bits.

You use ‘em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man whose erection rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very CLAM I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it!

I’d rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up your credit card and order some pornography that comes with a monthly fee.

Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you’re entitled to!

Did I order the CLAM?

You’re goddamn right I did!!