"Grimace," that big purple pyramid-shaped being who hawks fast food along with his freakish, capering companions (some of whom have probably already appeared in XXX-rated films), is at a supreme disadvantage, should it ever desire to enter the world of adult films. I say "it" because although there does exist a market for hermaphrodites and she-males in pornography, Grimace's gender, to say nothing of its sexual tendencies, is a mystery. Not even the most furtive, panting, shuttered-window observer is likely to get anything but an inexplicable craving for chocolate shakes from seeing Grimace atop a writhing mass of coeds. Also, not having arms, only flipperlike hands, prevents Grimace from performing the complex gyrations required in adult films.

The Banana Splits, though all apparently normal giant male anthropomorphic mammals, with the added bonus of a suggestive name, would not make adequate porn stars. Due to their general musical cheerfulness and tendency to ride around in yellow spaceships, I believe that they lack the focus and single-mindedness necessary to successfully fake ecstasy between the heaving EE silicone implants of a female co-star.

The Muppets (and their cousins of Sesame Street fame), having no lower bodies to speak of, and no discernible orifices other than extremely dry, shallow mouths, would definitely make less than satisfactory adult film actors, with the possible exception of Mr. Snufflupagus, and obviously, Ernie and Bert, whose marketability is limited to a niche.

Superfriends would make fair-to-excellent porn stars. Wonder Woman's classic mistress accoutrements (go-go boots, metal wristbands, lasso) and Aquaman's tight fish-scale outfit may well inspire the next Tom of Finland. However, care must be taken to avoid bringing kryptonite near any set where Superman is performing. There is most likely no fluffer in the business capable of overcoming that particular drawback. Collectively, however, the Super-friends would make ill X-rated thespians. Gaily colored Spandex is not, at last check, a popular fetish material.

Mr. Rogers, however, is a different story. Beneath that milquetoast demeanor and irritating habit of putting on Ozzie Nelson sweaters, it seems likely that there beats the heart of a sexual powerhouse. The signs are all there: the coy, blinking stop/don't stop of his traffic light, his glittering, bladelike glance as he sings "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" and the subliminal effects of his magic trolley constantly entering and emerging from dark holes in his walls -- all of these suggest a prowess in the darker arts of sadism and masochism, and probably a bestial delight in ravaging women with French manicures who never take off their high-heeled shoes. Yes, it is the conclusion of this writer that Mr. Rogers has missed his true calling, and that the world of XXX adult films is a less neighborly place for it.