When my disciples write and ask me how I knew to start the 1-900 Club I tell them some spiritual sounding mumbo jumbo. That the goddess was talking to me, and asking me to help, to be there for people in need. Lonely men and women who didn't have everything that I had. Who weren't as beautiful, as talented, and as deserving as me. Sometimes I tell them I saw visions, heard voices, or that it came to me in a dream.

The truth is that's all fucking crap. What really happened was this—I was sitting at home watching TV looking through the catalog from my plastic surgeon and trying to pick out my new boobs, which is harder then it sounds, really.

I didn't want to get the same ones as my supposed best friend Amira, and they are permanent, unless of course you get them taken out. So this religious show comes on TV, with this fat, old man preaching and asking for money.

And people were sending it. Lots of it.

It was unreal. I've had plenty of fat, old men pay me, but I would never even consider giving them a dime.

So I'm watching closely and I'm really interested and I'm like, "I could do that," but by that time I'm late for my call time for Not So Tiny Tim so I have to run.

Now, you probably think that porn stars make a lot of money. And that used to be true, but now everyone and their mother's a fucking porn star and the market is really over saturated. I mean, I get paid well, and I'm really good, but it sucks when you hear about a new gangbang flick and instead of the typical four girls or so wanting the parts, there's like 40 or something. But most of those girls have silicone for brains so I could trick them out of the parts by telling them the lead actor had syphilis or something.

So I'm on the set, watching this fluffer try to get Harry Adams ready for his big scene. He's playing Ebeneezer Screws and it's the scene where he uses that Hatchett guy's paycheck to buy a bunch of whores and, well, you know the story, it's a Dickens piece, and everyone knows his porn classics.

So Harry is, like, yelling at the girl and telling her she can't suck cock for shit, and she's, like, crying and I know that all she needs is a good hit of crank or something, so I tell Harry to back off.

He does, because I'm Terra Firma and I'm the star of this flick.

I grabbed the speed pipe out of Rod Johnson's hand—he's playing Tim—the kid crippled because his dick is so big—and I give it to the poor fluffer. After the film she comes up to me and says thanks and the look of gratitude on her face is so… heartwarming. So I tell her that that was some good crystal and ask her for $20. And the stupid bitch fucking gives it to me.

At that point I put two and two together and figure out that everyone really wants to be loved and told that they can suck cock okay. That basically they want some salvation, and that salvation can be sold.

Which is exactly what Oral Roberts is doing. And if you ask me, he must have been a porn star because that name is too fucking good to be wasted on any other industry like religion. I know guys who would kill for a name like that. But anyway, this friend of mine, Patty Cakes—talk about stupid names—has this TV show where she interviews people in the in

dustry. It's called Beneath the Green Doormat in reference to some ancient skin flick. So I ask her if I can come on for like 10 minutes at the end of each show and sell some soul saving. She thinks I'm trying to steal her thunder, so that bitch has the nerve to say no. I go to the producer, who is also her husband, and after fucking him for like three hours he gives me my own time slot.

Now, and I know this is going to sound a little hokey, but this part actually did come to me in a vision. I was getting my lips injected again and I was on the surgeon's table and that gas was kicking in and suddenly I saw it in big flash-bulb letters—the numbers 1-900. So that part is kind of spiritual, the name. That's how I came up with the 1-900 Club.

For a few weeks I watched all the religious shows I could. It's amazing, some of those guys are fucking geniuses. They totally control the weekend morning programming. And here's another kind of mystical coincidence. In order to watch the weekend morning shit, I sometimes had to stay up all night, so I also happened to watch the late night stuff. And that's all psychic readers, who also make a ton of money.

So I get my friends together to be part of my soul saving crew and I hire that fluffer and her speed freak friends to be the girls on the phones that take your money. Then I get a brand new outfit—it's silver sequined with this tiara that looks kind of like a halo. So we're ready to go but we need an audience so we spread out on Hollywood and Melrose and all over Beverly Hills and get guys to come to our show.

I'm the preacher of course, and I spout out a bunch of shit that I basically copied from Oral and combined with some Miss Cleo. Then I let some guys come up on stage and I looked them in the eyes and sometimes I would wink and tell them how great they are. The phones are ringing off the hook. After the first show we raised almost $8000.

The stupid fluffer tells me it's the best phone sex gig she's ever had and I'm like, "What? This isn't phone sex! We're not getting guys off!" But then all the girls tell me that they think at least three out of four calls were wankers.

Eight thousand dollars is okay for a morning, but I wanted more. As soon as I got a taste I knew that I wanted it all. So I decided that we needed some sort of cause. We had a meeting at my house and thought about what we needed money for. Some of the girls suggested new tits and new clothes, but then Amira, she suggested that we build a church.

Which was a great idea, because then we could have people pay to visit it and at night use it to shoot some really sexy porn films with hardcore religious themes. I was in Naughty Nuns 1 through 4 and they sold really well. So we went to a prop store and bought one of those huge thermometers so we could mark it as the money went up.

The next Sunday the studio was packed. I'm talking standing room only. And we creamed Oral Roberts and that Tammy Faye bitch in the ratings. I made the case for our church, leaving out the porn making part, and asked for donations.

Again, the phones were ringing like crazy. It was still a bunch of guys jacking off but you had to tell them they were going to heaven before most of them could come. Of course there were the group that wanted to go to hell but whatever we raised $23,000 in one morning. Talk about fucking miracles.

After a few weeks we had enough to build two churches but I didn't really want to. And I didn't realize that people actually expected me too. I bought a new house, a car, a boat, lots of clothes and started my own porn production company. I'm being honest when I tell you that when the Feds came looking for the church I was totally surprised.

I tried to buy them off with money and sex but they weren't having it. My friends wouldn't even help me out, one of them, who can rot in hell Amira, even turned me in. They were already on to me, but still.

So now I'm stuck in prison. Which isn't so bad, because I stashed a bunch of cash in Swiss accounts for when I get out, and the guards are totally dykes and totally fucking in love with me. I suggested that we make prison porn films to make some extra cash and they went for it so next month you'll see Guards Gone Wild #1, Cell-block Cuties, and Arresting Asses.

I still have lots of followers who have set up a fund for my legal defense. So far they've raised almost $100,000. It's pretty cool but it kind of sucks because these people still expect me to save them. I really could care if there are thousands of lonely men in the world who can't even get a woman without paying. That's not my problem.

But they think I care and that I'm some sort of saint and as long as they're paying I'll send my pre-printed "You're Blessed and I Love You" postcards. After all, I'll be free someday, and once you've had millions to squander you really can never go back.