The Book of Leon

by Leon Black

  FLU DICK

  When it comes to illnesses, there are lots of medicines and treatments to deal with them, but, see, I’m more about prevention. So with that being said, I want to take a moment and talk to you about a preventable affliction that many men walk around with every damn day.

  I’m talking about Flu Dick. Fortunately it is preventable, and I am here to bring awareness to this highly transmittable virus.

  Dudes. You walk around all day touching random shit: doorknobs, subway poles, money. Worse yet, you touch nastier shit—other muthafuckas! You walk around high-fiving, fist bumping, and handshaking muthafuckas, thus allowing for the potential of contracting the virus. I myself avoid casual physical contact with other muthafuckas, but if you’re in a situation where you absolutely must touch someone to greet them—I’m talking like a prince or a governor, a former president, or like a maharishi or some shit—I suggest giving a pound or a fist bump. Contrary to popular belief, you are much less likely to contract a virus with a pound or a fist bump versus a handshake or a high five. You might notice that I have distinguished between the fist bump and the pound. Pounds are for the average person, they are easy to pull off; when someone sees you getting ready to give their ass a pound, they are in turn ready to give one back.

  But a fist bump is not always as easy to read, and what can happen is you could be going in for a fist bump while that other muthafucka is going in for a handshake and wind up punching that courteous damn man on the hand and breaking his fingertips. That being said, both a fist bump and a pound limit the amount of time you are making contact with that filthy fucking maharishi, and that’s important because it’s during that crucial moment when you are on the path to either contracting or transmitting Flu Dick. Not to mention muthafuckas who like to give high fives are usually too excited, and that shit gets annoying. This has nothing to do with Flu Dick, I’m just pointing that out.

  Now you got the flu on your fucking hands but you don’t know it. It’s not as though your hands turn blue like when you’re robbing a bank and that hatin’ ass teller sneaks one of those exploding ink packs in the money bag. That shit’s fucked up. It would almost be a good thing if the virus turned your hand blue, that way you’d know who not to fuck with. I said almost, ’cause trust me, that shit is hard to get off. Like I said, you have the virus on your hands, now here’s how your dick gets it.

  You go to the bathroom. Proper procedure, if you’re not a completely filthy muthafucka, is that you wash your hands before leaving the bathroom, but if you want to prevent Flu Dick, you are going to have to be more vigilant than that. You have two choices: either wash your hands before and after, or, better and more effective, wash your hands after and then wash your damn Johnson. Now, I understand some of you might feel uncomfortable washing your Johnson in the sink in front of strangers, but remember you are woke and they’re not, so enlighten them. So if you’re there drying your Johnson with one of them rough ass paper towels or that hot air blower and somebody says some shit to you, just look his ass in the eye and say, “I’m preventing Flu Dick, muthafucka,” and handle your business.

  Unfortunately, though, most men don’t know the proper cleaning procedure that I mentioned, so back to what I was saying. You go into the bathroom and just take your dick out with your dirty ass flu hands, relieve yourself, and then put your Johnson back in your pants, and boom! You just got flu dick. You go home, you walk into the house, you make love to your wife with your flu dick, and now her pussy, formerly known as healthy, has got the flu. That’s fucked up and you know it. The solution is so obvious it pisses me off: wash your hands before you pull your dick out. And wash them again when you’re done.

  Together we can make Flu Dick a thing of the past.

  PUSSY TEA

  If it hasn’t been clear to you by now, I love me some pussy! Don’t get me wrong, I respect it—but trust me, I will beat it up at the same time!!! I love the look of pussy, the smell of pussy, but especially the taste of pussy. That being said, I don’t eat pussy, and if you wanna get technical with it, no one eats pussy. You might lick it, lap it, slurp it, and tap it—but you damn sure don’t eat pussy. Really, the thought of literally eating pussy is a horrible image. Which kind of makes me wonder where the term came from. Shit, more than that, who was the first person to do it! I bet you the answer to one of those questions is the answer to the other. I’m guessing the first brave soul that decided to get on Route 95 and head south was the muthafucka who coined the phrase. His shocked and excited ass lady probably looked down at him and asked what the fuck he was doing, and in the moment he said, “Eating your damn pussy,” and that shit just stuck. I mean, why wouldn’t it? You think in the middle of all of that pleasure she was gonna contradict him? Hell no! So “eating pussy” became the name for it! To be honest, he could have looked up and said anything and it would’ve stuck: “I’m at an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord!” “I’m chewing some pussy gum!” “I’m doing a lap around the pond!” Whatever that brave explorer would have said, it would have stuck.

  Now, as much as I love the taste of it, I must admit that I don’t like all the shit that goes along with getting it. I mean, we all like going to the carnival: The rides are fun, the food is sweet, and we wind up screaming a bit. That’s a lot like a good pussy-tasting experience. But sometimes on the way to the carnival there’s traffic, the road is bumpy, and bad smells start coming through your vent. And once you get to the carnival, you find that the rides are old, sticky, smelly, and some are even broken. That’s a bad pussy experience.

  On top of it, most good pussy comes with some sort of commitment. Think not? Whether written or verbal, trust me, it’s there. Now, sometimes you are ready for that commitment. I mean, you found the right one, or you’ve reached the right moment in your life, or in a few extreme cases someone named you in a will but said you need to be married by a certain age. If any of these scenarios apply to you, congratulations: You are committed to some pussy. For most people, though, that sort of commitment for just a taste is too much! And that’s why I’ve come up with an amazing invention: Pussy Tea!

  Go bag some pussy essence and start marketing it as tea, and you will make a fortune. You could sell it in places like 7-Eleven as Pussy Tea, or class it up a bit and sell it in high-end specialty markets as Vagina Tea. Look, at the end of the day, most people don’t want sex, they just want the taste of pussy. Or they can’t get sex and they still want the taste of pussy. Even women: Most are bi-curious but too afraid to admit it. This way they can dabble without going all in or hurting anybody’s feelings or alienating their parents.

  I can see the commercial now: some cool ass man sitting at a tea house, stirring his pussy tea with his finger, when all of a sudden a friend comes by and is like, “What’s that?” And the dude gently pulls his finger from that cup and says, “Pussy tea. Here, smell my finger!” And then the slogan pops up onscreen: “Pussy Tea: All of the Taste . . . None of the Commitment.” If there’s anyone out there in marketing who wants to get in on this, lemme know—we could be rich!

  DRUG YOUSE

  I’m not gonna sit here and advocate drugs, but I’m also not gonna sit here and say I don’t understand why some people do them. If you’re gonna do drugs, don’t be doing some hard core bullshit like coke or meth, or especially heroin. Heroin is a drug where you’ve got to get on another drug to get off of it! That’s like having your foot on the gas and the brakes all at one time.

  Nah, stick to peaceful shit, the shit that gives you something like an out-of-body experience. Like a pot brownie. “Out of body” means your soul separates from your physical body like the egg and the yolk when the chef cracks that shit over the bowl. Your egg white separates from the yolk and your ass is standing there looking at yourself, sitting on the sofa. You wave to yourself and yourself waves back, you’re both feeling it. Shit, the way I see it, while you’re outside your body you might as well do stuff your physical self wouldn’t do.

  Might as well enjoy
life a bit more: go hit on that honey you’ve had your eye on for a while, go tell your boss how you really fucking feel about him or her. You can do all kinds of shit. Take advantage of being outside. Don’t forget that your inner self is invisible now, so go sneak into a heavy metal concert, and while you’re at the concert walk into the ladies’ room. Why not? They can’t see you. Live a little!

  Most important to remember, though: Don’t fuck with another brownie while you’re out of your body. Remember, there are a lot of aspects to a person’s personality. Fuck around and eat a tray of brownies, and there will be a whole lot of different versions of you floating around—angry you, happy you, single you, married you, out-of-the-closet you . . . a lot of yous. So as the original you is floating around, you will wind up seeing a whole bunch of other yous engaged in a variety of shit. For instance, you might see a cop slam another you on the hood of a patrol car while a third you is standing there posting that shit to Facebook, talking about “Leave him alone, he didn’t do anything! All he did was eat a damn brownie!” All off a sudden a crowd of yous pops up out of nowhere chanting “Yous Lives Matter!” And they have Yous Lives Matter t-shirts, only some of them have it as “Y-o-u-s-e” and some have it with “Y-o-u-s.” So they all start arguing as to which is correct—yup, all the yous, crazy shit. Meanwhile the original you is trying to point out that both of them are improper grammar, but as that you is being all condescending and shit with it, one of the angry yous gets offended and pops the original you in the head with a brick.

  See what I’m talking about? That’s why I don’t do drugs. Shit can get out of hand quickly! Besides, social movements are too important to fuck around with, you need clarity for that shit.

  THE FIVE DEADLY STEPS

  I’m not a drinker, I’m one who likes to be in control at all times. I’ve faked being drunk before, though, just like for those of you guys out there who have sadly had to experience a woman fake an orgasm. I mean, I can’t imagine what that shit must be like, because it could never happen to me. See, when I make love to a lady I make sure to keep a can of silly string between my box spring and my mattress, and if I even sense a fake orgasm coming on, like her heart isn’t into it or she’s distracted thinking of some food burning on the stove, the goddamn smoke alarm going off, the bathwater overflowing, the fire department chopping a hole in the door (they love chopping shit), or her husband, I counter her fake ass moaning with some louder fake ass moaning, like I’m about to explode. And while she’s being razzle-dazzled by my supposed come countdown, I slide my hand between that damn box spring and mattress and discreetly spray that silly string all over the goddamn room, the walls, the ceiling, her, her damn cat. When you turn the lights on in that room, it should look like they had a damn silly string party in that muthafucka. I call that faking da fuck! See, I gets mine, Larry, even when I’m not getting mine.

  Now if I can fake some male ejackalit, you know I can fake the fuck out of being drunk. Which is ironic, because drunk people are the most honest people in the world, and they really understand me like nobody else. But if you’re going to get fucked up, you have to plan ahead. Start by figuring out what kind of drinker you are:

  Nice (aka social drinker): 85 percent of people at a party are this one: nice, charming people willing to approach strangers and engage in annoying small talk. For these drinkers, the booze brings out a better you. More confident. Engaging. The kind I can tolerate. Lady social drinkers make men feel better because they laugh at 60 percent of their stupid jokes that don’t deserve even a chuckle. Male social drinkers make women feel better because they’re able to pretend they actually care about what comes out of their mouth while they are imagining the ejackalit party at their house later.

  Tipsy: These fools trip more and spill shit. They are totally capable of getting home on their own but call for an Uber limo by accident and then blurt out that they “deserve it.” Tipsy people tend to wish they were Fucked Up—they are amateurs who think being Fucked Up is a badge of honor. Tipsy people want people to think they have a drinking problem. They will talk about their weekends at work and tell people how Fucked Up they were, but are always reminded that they were only Tipsy. It has to be pointed out to them that if they were really Fucked Up, they wouldn’t remember shit.

  Lit: These fools get nasty, and they bark at other people about how fake they are. These cats order an Uber just to have people to argue with. Lit drinkers are coherent enough to actually say “I’m fucking Lit” and then be able take their ass to the bathroom before they piss on themselves. Lit people also tend to ask you, “Do I look fucked up?” Being Fucked Up is of great concern to them. To reassure someone who is Lit, ask them if they’ve thrown up in their mouth yet. If they say no, let them know they are not Fucked Up, they are just Lit.

  Belligerent: I don’t waste time trying to understand these muthafuckas. They usually wake up the next day missing a fucking shoe.

  Fucked Up: These individuals tend to experience unwanted pregnancies. They call a friend to get home and then insist on running errands that they remember from some other time in their life, like returning a prom tux or getting a wisdom tooth removed. Unlike Lit drunks, Fucked Up drunks are not able to make it to the bathroom, nor do they even try to, and thus they are also known as Pissy drunks. And while Lit drunks wish to be Fucked Up, Fucked Up drunks don’t actually give a fuck. As a result they quite often wake up next to strangers ranging from hookers to hobos and are usually in possession of a Belligerent’s other shoe.

  DR. DOCTOR, PHD

  Don’t waste your money on fucking psychiatrists. All they do is repeat the shit you’re saying, except they add a question mark at the end. And don’t think for a second that they don’t go home and tell their spouse all your damn business. That’s what all couples do when they get home: They share the ridiculous shit that happened during their day, and you told that psychiatrist all your damn secrets. You, my friend, are that ridiculous shit. That damn psychiatrist lies in his bed watching Dr. Phil and giggling his ass off!

  All psychiatrists watch Dr. Phil, they love him! They want to be him! And why the fuck not?! He does what they do, except he’s rich. Also, while they have the same damn patients coming in each week boring them with the same damn crazy problems, he only has to listen to a patient once. He has a guest on, makes fun of the guest a bit, and then gets rid of that muthafucka! And to top it off, he gets to end every show by walking out of the studio with his little ass wife. Every . . . damn . . . show! I’m telling you, I’ve never seen him walk off without her. Have you? He loves that lady, or maybe he’s co-dependent on her. You don’t know, do you? See, that’s what a good psychiatrist does: He gets you trying to analyze him.

  Look, you wanna save some money—let me analyze your ass! I promise you I would get to the bottom of your problems.

  Think I don’t know how? Whatchu think I do with the man whose house I live in? I listen to his bullshit, stare him dead in his blurry ass eyes, and set him straight. I just don’t charge him. Trust me, though, I’ve been keeping a mental tally and I know how much he owes me. If he ever asks me for rent, I will present his ass with an invoice for mental services rendered. Nothing better to shut a muthafucka up then to present him with an invoice he wasn’t expecting for some shit. And I wouldn’t just hand it to him, I would put that shit in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and mail it from his house to his house. Then when the mail came and he got that letter from me with the same mail to and return address and came to me to ask what it was, I would be like, “An invoice, muthafucka, now what?! You think this shit free?”

  Let me tell you something, if I was a therapist, I wouldn’t have a damn office, I would have you meet me at one of those filthy hourly rate hotels, you know the ones? They’re for lovers who don’t want to get caught making love. And see, those places are, what, like twenty-five, thirty dollars an hour, so already I’m saving you money. So I would get you in there, lay you down on that damn bedbug-riddled mattress, and tell you t
o relax and ask you for two dollars. Then I would go down the hall to the vending machines and get a bag of Cheese Nips and a can of Mountain Dew and then head back to the room to get to the bottom of your shit. And as you lie there in that scary room, sounds from the dangerous ass neighborhood will come leaking in through the single-pane windows: sirens, car alarms, screams, broken glass. All of a sudden everybody in that damn hotel would start fear fucking! It’s like Fear Factor but it’s Fear Fucking. Which, speaking as a therapist, is the best way to confront fear. Then you hear the sound of someone getting fucked in the room to the left and someone getting fucked up in the room to the right, which, by the way, if both are being done properly, you shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. See, that’s some deep psychiatrist right there. Anyway, the whole situation will be so damn horrible and you’ll want to get out of there so fast that you’ll realize your problems aren’t so bad after all. Problem fucking solved.

  See, you don’t need to waste money on a damn psychiatrist, or no specialist for that matter. Wanna know why health care costs so much? Too many goddamn specialists. Doctors should be required to have at least two specialties. Take a psychiatrist and a dentist: One works inside your head and one works outside, but really, they should both be able to get in there. Combine them in one medical professional. And if I had to pick, I’d rather be leaning back in a dentist’s chair with him asking me questions about my childhood while he tries to get in my mouth.