“That don’t belong to me, Chip! I can’t just take Mr Wilkens balls and staple it to my crotch stump”
“And why the fuck not? We’ll be up on that stage a good thirty feet from the audience. We just have to make a fake sack, pretend it’s Mr Wilkens’ and you can pocket his originals. Who the hell will be able to tell from that distance, Allen?”
Allen was still on the ground, letting Chip’s words penetrate and absorb. He really does have a point, he thought as he fingered his crotch pus, wishing he had his junk back.
“So, what do you think?” asked Chip, somewhat impatiently.
“I think you may have a point. Why waste a perfectly good scrotum?” responded Allen eventually.
Chip clapped his hands together, breaking both palms and snapping a button. “Good O!” he yelled, “So, now we just have to get ourselves a proxy for the demonstration.”
“Do you think we could perhaps staple those balls onto me first?” Allen asked.
“We’ll do it later, Allen, I promise. I think I just fucked up my hands.”
* * * * *
Hedging Littlepop paced his lounge room in a rage, the permission form clutched tightly in his hand as he read it over and over. With each reading his anger intensified until it was a white hot ball in the pit of his stomach.
“Can you believe this malarkey, Tina?”
Tina Littlepop was Hedging’s wife and business partner. Together they ran a testicular advocacy group with the overall aim of abolishing discrimination toward the scrotum.
“We’ve been fighting too damn long for some stuffy nosed academic cunt to fill our children with this shit!” continued Hedging.
“Well, we simply won’t allow Alex to attend dear,” said Tina, trying to calm her infuriated husband.
“You bet your arse Alex won’t be attending but that’s not nearly enough! No child should be indoctrinated into mindless testicular discrimination.”
“But that’s not for us to decide, dear. That’s the individual responsibility of the parent.”
“You can be really naïve, Tina, you know that? In a perfect world every parent would do what was right for their child but this ain’t no perfect world, Tina! Parents don’t give a shit. Sure, let their child grow up hating themselves for a God given appendage. Who cares right? Well I fucking care, Tina!”
Hedging unzipped his jeans and removed his scrotum proudly.
“Alex, come here!”
Moments later, the pitter-patter of feet could be heard running down the hallway. When Alex arrived to face his parents, he flashed a giant grin and picked his arse.
“What’s this, Alex?” asked Hedging as he pointed toward his exposed scrotum.
“That’s yer junk, dad,” answered Alex proudly.
“Yes, son, it is my junk. And what do you think about junk?”
“It’s important.”
“Yes, and WHY is it important?” enquired Hedging, with a giant grin.
“It’s important because it’s part of who I am. It’s important because without it, I would never have been made.”
Hedging picked up his son in loving arms and held him tight. “Yes, good boy. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Run along now.”
Alex hopped down from his fathers embrace and scuttled off to play with his collection of germs, one of which was pregnant.
“You see, Tina? This is what we’re fighting for: the sanctity of biology and the awakening of acceptance. I’ll stop this demonic presentation if it’s the last thing I do.”
As Hedging spoke, his scrotum flopped about in flamboyant animation, reacting to every word. Tina smiled sharply, nicking her soft cheek with a shard of lip. The blood drizzled down her chin, dripping off in gory worms.
“If it means anything to you, hun, I find your junk remarkably appealing.”
She lunged forward and with a claw-like grip, clutched her husband’s proud balls.
* * * * *
“Sit still you shit tube sucking whore!” screamed Chip as he tried in vain to position the stapler above Allen’s writhing crotch. “The more you squirm about, the more attempts I’m going to have to make.”
Allen whimpered in anticipation of the pain he was about to experience.
“Don’t we at least have a balm we can put on it?” he pleaded.
“I’ve already told you, NO FUCKING BALM!!! Just sit still and I’ll be finished before you know it. It’s just like tearing off a sandwich only in this case we’re stapling foreign junk to your crotch stump.”
There was something reassuring about these words as they draped over Allen’s trembling body. They calmed him inexplicably. The burning wet pain abated and his eyes opened bravely. He thrust his crotch out and averted his eyes. I really don’t need to see this, he thought. Chip steadied himself, stapler in one hand and Mr Wilkens’ scrotum in the other. It’s all a matter of angles, he told himself as he lined up the scrotum with Allen’s bloody crotch. The scrotum was placed roughly in the position one would expect to find a scrotum. He slammed the stapler down with purpose, securing the junk loosely into place. Allen emitted a horrific howl which caused electrical interference in the surrounding ten block area.
“You sack of tits!” cried Allen. “This feels particularly unpleasant.”
“Stop your bitching. I got it on didn’t I?”
It hung blackened, lifeless and slightly off centre, but Chip was right; Allen had a scrotum once more.
* * * * *
“We’ve received some rather illuminating reports about a demonstration you have planned for your grade four students next week, Mr Wilkens.”
Mr Wilkens entered defensive mode and summoned up all the rants and speeches he had within. Internally he was composing the most appropriate line of response.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr Wilkens?”
The board of tangential education sat before him, overbearing in height and number. Why must they insist on such implausibly tall chairs, he thought, their intense scrutiny still directed toward his diminutive frame.
“First let me explain my motives, ladyfellows and gentlehaps of the tangential board. Who among you can honestly proclaim to remain unaffected by the dismal affront to anatomy that is the scrotum? Have you not caught glimpse of this putrid appendage and retched in disgust? Have you not questioned nature’s agenda and asked yourself why we haven’t been afforded the dignity that would accompany the internal concealment of the scrotum? Well let me tell you something, I have! Not a minute goes by where I don’t question this pernicious infliction wrought by an unjust biology.
“My argument isn’t just a question of dignity. This dilemma extends into the realm of aesthetics and the search for and preservation of beauty. How can such beauty be preserved and celebrated when it is wrought impotent by the very nature of the putrid scrotum? I don’t assume that a meagre demonstration can eradicate this disease but if I can instil within these children a necessary level of revulsion, then I have made an important step toward a scrotum-free future for all of us.”
Mr Wilkens finished his rant, inhaled some much needed oxygen and coughed up a few hopelessly flapping moths, much to the surprise of the tangential board. Silence permeated the room, which caused Mr Wilkens some considerable anxiety. When the silence eventually broke, it was due to laughter wafting over from members of the board. Mr Wilkens took a defensive step backward and prepared the muscle contortions required for an effective scowl. The man situated on the highest chair finally spoke up.
“Mr Wilkens, I can see you’re very passionate about this particular issue and rightly so if you ask me! The scrotum is putrid, as you suggest, and I can think of nothing better than instilling this reality into the minds of babes. We called you here, Mr Wilkens, not because we want to forbid the demonstration, but because we would like an invitation ourselves. We feel somewhat miffed that you never thought to ask.”
A smile replaced the impending scowl as Mr Wilkens said, “Come one, come all!”
Joviality filled the room and a half hearted version of the rumba spilled onto the floor. Mr Wilkens’ mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Bernice. Come on back to the office, Mr W so I can give that arsehole of yours a good lickin’.
* * * * *
It didn’t even look slightly real. Chip had packed a pink stocking with grapes and cookie dough. It was hanging comically from his fly, slapping against his knees.
“Fuck me with a pickle stick, Chip. That doesn’t look too good,” said Allen in disbelief.
Chip sighed deeply and stroked his chin. “It’s not so much what it looks like, its how you use it. If we believe that this thing,” he thrust his hips, “is a dirty ol’ sack, we can make others believe it too.”
“You think?” replied Allen, his doubt apparent.
“Well what the fuck else are we gonna do, huh? I don’t see you offering any solutions. This way you get to keep Mr Wilkens’ sack and he still gets his demonstration.”
“Yeah, well I wouldn’t have to keep his ballbag if you hadn’t popped mine!”
Both Chip and Allen had entered into a defensive mode, their body language and intonation infused with distrust and caution. The bricolage scrotum hung limp and impassive, accentuating the unease between them. They were both aware of the effect the impending demonstration was having on them. They were brothers. They were the closest of friends. Now a popped nut sack threatened their bond. A bond that had previously withstood everything life had thrown at it. Allen felt an intensity of anger previously unimaginable. Chip was overcome by a powerful, unflappable guilt.
“I’m sorry, Allen.”
Tears began to form in Chip’s guilt-ridden eyes as the meagre apology dribbled off his lips. For Chip, there was no weight lifted. The act of apology only reinforced his self-loathing. Chip’s tears had a nauseating influence on Allen, who also began to feel guilt. It became apparent to Allen that he too was complicit in the death of his scrotum. Sure, Chip had acted with inappropriate haste and had popped the first thing he saw but it was Allen who had ensured there was something to pop in the first place. If anything, they were both at fault.
Allen’s introspection was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Chip, who was now hunched over in what appeared to be agony. He lunged toward his brother with compassion and worry.
“Chip! Are you alright? What’s happened?”
He draped his arm over Chip’s shoulder, trying to deduce the cause of the scream.
“Allen,” wheezed Chip, “I want you to have this.”
Allen directed his gaze toward Chip’s extended, bloody hand. It was Chip’s scrotum. It seemed to breathe in his hand and leaked a substance similar to molasses.
* * * * *
In his position as testicular advocate, Hedging Littlepop was often approached by like minds: people who were fed up with scrotal discrimination. He decided to gather a group of scrotal enthusiasts and labelled them, the Scroats.
Hedging had enlisted the help of his wife and son in order to convert their garage into a makeshift meeting hall. A podium, constructed of hardened wine, stood proudly in the centre of the converted garage. Alex had created a banner that bore the likeness of a jar stuffed to the brim with scrotums, which hung dramatically behind the podium. Loudspeakers filled the room with dismal vox pops, recorded on cylinders, covering a wide variety of scrotally slanted subject matter. The air in the garage carried a scent of pine.
As a Scroat, there were only two rules. The first was to ensure the sanctity of the scrotum was tirelessly upheld and the second: during a meeting, the scrotum must always be on display, preferably without interference from the penile shaft. So there stood a group of twelve ideological men, each with their scrotums hanging from their jeans, each with a glint in their eye. Standing before the men with an air of distinct purpose was Hedging. He held the permission form sent home from Yandish Muff aloft.
“Men, today is one of tremendous import. The sickening spectacle of scrotal discrimination reached a grisly low earlier this week, when my precious Alex handed me this permission form.”
Hedging waved the form about hypnotically, eliciting a quiet awe from the group.
“Upon reading this form, what do you think I saw?”
The men shook their heads, wondering what the form could possibly contain.
“It was a blatant case of anti-scrotal advocacy, of course! It would appear that the principal of Yandish Muff feels it appropriate to subject his grade four students to an especially nasty demonstration, fuelled solely by his own prejudice and hate. That’s right, fellow Scroats, later this week, the students at Yandish Muff will be forced to witness the live popping of a human scrotum!”
The gasps of shock spiralled from the men in the room. One went as far as to tuck his scrotum back into his pants, presumedly as a misguided defensive measure. He was asked to leave the Scroats immediately, which he did without question.
When the unexpected ousting had finished and everyone’s nerves were a little calmer, Hedging continued.
“And so, what do we do about it? Do we sit here with our nads dangling while our children are turned into mindless haters by agenda-driven fundamentalists? Or do we pump our chests, storm the fort and proclaim the scrotum a prejudice-free zone?”
The men cheered, deeply swayed by Hedging’s strong, passionate words. They formed a tight circle and rubbed their scrotums together gently. This was conducted in a way that avoided homosexual overtones of any sort. It was a potentially sexual act devoid of sexuality, like a Moyle biting off a foreskin, like fellatio from your cousin, like an enema from your family doctor.
Hedging signalled for his wife and son to enter the garage. They were holding musical instruments. Tina held a banjo in one hand and a 12-string acoustic guitar in the other. Alex struggled with a double bass, double his size. The Scroats looked on in confusion.
“Gentlemen, my family and I would like to perform a song for you all, infused with an intoxicating blend of folk and country elements. I think you’ll find the harmonies rather delicate. For the sake of branding, we are known as Hedging Littlepop and the Family Littlepops.”
The Scroats cheered and danced as the Family Littlepops began to play.
* * * * *
Mr Wilkens sat in silence, guilt assailing him in violent waves. He had focused so intently on the principles surrounding the decision to remove his scrotum that it hadn’t occurred to him to tell his wife. It had become painfully obvious that she was concerned. It was written all over her face. Several years ago Tina Wilkens had adopted the habit of writing her current emotional situation on her face with an easily removable array of organic inks. It wasn’t unusual for the emotional scrawl to be updated over 30 times in one day. For the past week however, the words gravely concerned had remained. A quick glance at Tina’s chin revealed the cause of her concern: no sexual activity. Mr Wilkens regretted the lack of sexual tomfoolery but he didn’t know how Tina would respond to his de-balling. He had come so close to dropping his strides on several occasions, but just as the belt was loosening, he would quickly tighten it back up. It couldn’t remain unspoken for much longer and Mr Wilkens knew it. If he could just buy a little more time, perhaps after the demonstration, then it would all be okay.
But he wasn’t afforded this time. Tina had to speak up, “What’s going on, Spence? You’ve been so distant lately. I feel as if we’re drifting apart.”
Tina’s eyes welled with tears that slowly snaked down her cheeks, smudging the facial scrawl. Mr Wilkens bit his lower lip, attempting to find the right words. Tina lunged toward him, placing her hands firmly on either shoulder and began to shake her sorry husband. A monopoly board fell from his shirt, along with a large book devoted to monopoly strategy.
“Speak to me! Why won’t you fucking speak to me?” implored Tina as her quiet tears evolved into violent sobbing.
Mr Wilkens shrugged out of Tina’s grip and fell onto the bed in a ball of waste. He too began t
o cry in a piercing shriek that cracked all but four of Tina’s teeth. Tina began to intensify her wail, as if in competition with Mr Wilkens. The warbled, shrieks shattered mirrors and sternums as their tear ducts ran dry before pumping thick, black blood.
Before communication could commence, they were involuntarily thrust into a whirling vortex of despair. Duct blood coagulated into jellied stones on the bedspread. The crying had achieved a level of abstraction, divorced totally from the situation.
They were both at the mercy of momentum, which wouldn’t end until its course had been run. This took fifteen hours.
Slumped back upon the soiled bedspread, Tina and Mr Wilkens began the process of recovery. Their eyes stung with the ferocity of their tears and their stomachs had been heaved into a state of emptiness. Tina rolled into Mr Wilkens and draped her arm across him, accidentally poking him in the eye. They remained in solemn silence for an indeterminate time. Mr Wilkens utilized the silence to ponder the absence of his testicles; to ponder the right words; to ponder how dangerous ice hockey was as a sport. It was time for Tina to finally hear the truth… for better or worse.
“Tina, there is something that I must tell you.”
Finally, she thought and scrawled it upon her brow.
* * * * *
Allen covered his shock pocked face with shaking hands. He couldn’t physically bring himself to accept Chip’s grisly offering, which looked for all intents and purposes, like a melting slab of disastrously unsound, meat ice cream.
“Chip, what have you done?”
“This whole fucking situation is my fault, Allen. I acted without thought. My eyes were on the prize most certainly but I never stopped to make sure it was the right prize. Here, take it… please.”
Chip forced his scrotum into Allen’s rigidly cupped hand before falling backward on a conveniently placed pile of soft.
A Million Versions of Right Page 3