There's a saying, never judge a man till you walk a mile in his shoes.
This is a little like that, but . . . different.
This is a little like that, but . . . different.
Dick's Last Lament by Scott Bell
 |
 |
Putz, pud, prick. Sticks and stones, right? I have no conscience, so what does it matter,
a few bad names. Like they’re gonna hurt
my feelings? Gimme a break. No, you want to know what chaps my ass? Try taking the blame for every-damn-thing
that goes wrong. Like I have the power,
you know? As if. Pfft.
I’ll give you a for
example. Try this one; you’ll like
this:
Meathead is on the computer,
right, surfin’ the ever-loving webosphere.
(Meathead is my best friend; the guy really loves me. Seriously, it’s kind of disgusting, the
attachment he has.) Anyway, I’m trying
to talk Meathead into hitting up some porn sites, you know, bring a little
excitement into my life, when in comes the Squeeze Box.
—You peed all over the toilet seat, she says. Can’t
you aim that thing any better? (That
thing. Not what she says when she wants to play Down
in the Valley, trust me.)
I go: —Hey, spewing that lemony liquid ain’t like shooting a gun, sister. I mean, the water pressure’s inconsistent,
there’s gunk that clogs the mechanism, there’s all this drip-drip-drip from the
frickin benignly englobulated hyper-prostatic water balloon gland...
Does he say any of that? Does he defend me? Oh no, the guy acts like me and the twins, Hi
and Lo, have shriveled up and disappeared, locked in Mizz Squeeze Box’s purse. He goes all I’m-so-sorry-I’m-such-a-douche-it’ll-never-happen-again. Jeezus McPleezus, what a non-dick he is. It’s disgusting. Meathead and I have been together
forever. What would he do without me? I often wonder. Times like this, I want to stick my head in a
zipper and get it over with. Just call
me Bob.
Oh wait, here’s a better one.
I’m hanging out with the twins
the other night, enjoying the breeze for a change after being cooped up all
day. Hi and Lo, the sensitive little
bastards, are rolling around like puppies in a tow sack, getting a long scratch
from the Meathead. I can tell the jerker
is thinking we may be getting lucky, because he’s giving me Get Ready for
Action signals: a tug here, a tickle there, a tease or two...
—I’m ready, okay, I tell him.
Leave me the hell alone or I’ll be
worn out before it’s time to go in.
The last few years, things
haven’t been as smooth as they once were.
Age and prescription drugs have shorted out some of the connections
between the control center and the, uh, tip of the spear. Used to be, I could swell up and stand proud
from the vibration of the school bus alone, but these days...that school bus
would need to be packed with naked cheerleaders to achieve maximum inflation. The inconsistency has gotten into Meathead’s
tiny brain and started a negative feedback loop. He’s like the little engine that should: I hope
I can, I hope I can, I hope I can...
Anyway, sure enough, Squeeze
Box shows up in her Let’s Do the Deed outfit, which looks a whole lot like the
Sorry, Not Tonight outfit. Meathead knows
which is which, but the distinction is too subtle for me to grasp. I’m pretty much a clothing optional kind of
guy; I don’t really what she wears, as long as it gets shucked sooner rather
than later.
So they start the cuddling and
the kissing and all the bullsquat that I have to sit through to get to the
interesting part of the festivities. Yawn.
I hate waiting. I want to get in
on the action right now, you
know? I mean, damn, what’s the point of
the exercise again? Hello? Message to Meathead: Let’s get the party
started.
Thankfully, Squeezie starts the
ball rolling by coming down to say hello in that cunning way of hers that I
like so much. Mmmm. It’s like a warm bath with a living wash
cloth. Meathead’s brain has shut down at
this point, and I’m glad of it. The guy
should let me do the thinking more often, anyway. This I know like I know Meathead’s palm.
I hate to spoil the climax of
this little tale, but I’ll bypass all the time-wasting foreplay and cut to the
chase: something misfired upstream.
Right before I was once more unto the breach, Meathead became aware of a
shrinkage problem, a leak in the balloon, a certain deescalation in tension, an
abridgement of tumefaction...
Consummation concluded prior to
liftoff.
And who do you think took the
blame?
Yep. Moi.
The dick. The peter, pecker,
phallus, johnson, willy, schlong, woody, shaft, joystick, tool, slippery
serpent, one-eyed wonder worm, and purple purveyor of love.
—What’s wrong, Meathead says to me.
—It’s not
me, it’s you.
—I need
you to get in the game.
—Then
stop thinking about baseball scores or whatever and start thinking about the
yummy stuff waiting down below.
—I want
to, but IT’S NOT WORKING!
—It
worked this morning during practice. Try going to your happy place. The one with Scarlett Johansson and Amy Adams
playing in the shower.
—I
swear I’m going to cut you with a dull razor if you don’t get hard NOW!
—Threats? Now it’s threats? Watch it, buddy, or I’ll dribble some pee in
your pants next time you have to give a presentation. Try and speak with everybody staring at the
damp spot.
—Listen,
I have a plan...
—And in
the words of the king of my kind, the biggest dick of all, if you like your
plan, you can keep it. In the meantime,
start making excuses so you can go to sleep.
At least maybe that way I can have a wet dream.
I never got my wet dream, but
this morning in the shower, Meathead found his happy place. And of course it was my fault I had a bad
reaction to the liquid soap Squeezie bought on sale at Wal-Mart.
You may now call me Chappie.
