Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

  “Finocchio! I hope your new Jew-dick falls off.”

  “And I pray to my lord and savior that you shit out your lower intestines.”

  “Hey Truman, I’m a gonna come over there and’a bare ass’a your pillow.”

  Cabot cracked up laughing. “I love this guy.”

  “Truman, who’s the woman?”

  “Her name’s Carmella and she stole my heart.”

  “Jesus, not another clone of mom.”

  “And what if she is? I miss your mother. God took her from me too soon.”

  “How long have you two been seeing one another?”

  “We haven’t dated yet. I had to get circumcised first.”

  “Truman, you are not marrying this woman. I forbid it.”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “I’ll do one better—as CEO of Cabot Enterprises I’ll cut off your money before I allow you to will it to this gold-digger.”

  “Ah, horseshit. As long as I’m alive I still own fifty-one percent of the corporation.”

  “Unless I have a doctor declare you incompetent. Getting circumcised at your age without telling anyone sure qualifies.”

  “She’s a Jew. They liked the fat trimmed!”

  Luigi let loose with another bowel movement. “Hey, Truman, that one was’a for your Jew goomah.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Truman Cabot leaped out of bed, yanking out his I.V. line as he pushed his way through the curtained partition and attacked his roommate, knocking him off the port-o-potty.

  * * * * *

  NANCY EXITED THE hospital elevator. Seeing Cabot’s physician speaking to a police officer, she joined him at the third floor nurses station. “Dr. Maharaj, how’s Mr. Cabot doing?”

  The Indian surgeon turned. “He’s gone.”

  “What?” Nancy’s heart skipped a beat. “When? How?”

  “About two hours ago. I tried to reach you.”

  “I was in the middle of a live radio show. You told me the procedure was safe!”

  “It is.”

  “Then how did he die? Did you hit a vein?”

  “No, no—he’s not dead. I meant he already left the hospital.”

  “Oh God, thank you. Wait . . . who drove him home?”

  “His step-daughter.”

  The tension headache announced itself behind Nancy’s right eyeball. “Was she in a good mood when she left?”

  “Actually, she was quite furious. She left without signing the discharge forms.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “How did I know what?”

  “That her dress was covered in diarrhea.”

  “Why was she covered in diarrhea?”

  “Mr. Cabot got into a fight with another patient. The nurse said it reminded her of two angry monkeys at the zoo tossing feces at one another. Here, you need to give this to your friend.” He handed her several pages of papers.

  “What’s this?”

  “A prescription for pain, along with his post-surgical instructions. It’s important he wait at least a week before taking any more Viagra or he’ll tear loose his stitches. Ms. Beach, where are you going?”

  Nancy ignored the Indian physician, rushing to catch the elevator.

  * * * * *

  IT WAS FOUR o’clock by the time Truman Cabot stepped out of his apartment. Freshly-showered, he was dressed in loose-fitting creme-colored dress pants and a black golf shirt.

  The bandage around his penis had been removed, his trimmed “unit” feeling airy and only a touch sore. It didn’t matter; this evening was just a tease—to let his goddess know that he had transformed himself for her . . . that he had staked his claim in her future.

  He pressed the button to summon the elevator, checking his watch. Having taken the Viagra fifteen minutes earlier, he calculated the arrival time of his anticipated four hour “woody,” wondering if his lack of foreskin would increase its perceived length.

  * * * * *

  CARMELLA COPE WAS enjoying the cool late afternoon 73-degree temperatures outside with her “entourage.” The four women were dressed in their standard recreational attire (tennis skirts, sweaters, hats, and sunglasses), competing in a heated game of two-on-two horseshoes.

  Sylvia Krawitz underhand-tossed her horseshoe to the opposite pit, knocking loose Carmella Cope’s leaner, rendering it dead. “Take that, C.C.”

  “Kiss my ass, you old bitch.”

  Sylvia tempered her laugh as she spotted Truman Cabot crossing the putting green, making a bee-line for them. “Don’t look now, but here comes Richie Rich. Did you hear why he checked into the hospital?”

  “I heard.”

  “He looks like he means business.”

  “Follow my lead, Sil. Let’s screw with the horny old fart’s mind.”

  “Afternoon, ladies.”

  Carmella offered a Cheshire cat smile. “Well, if it isn’t little Lord Fauntleroy. I hear you were in the hospital getting castrated.”

  “Yes . . . wait, no. The balls are still there. I was circumcised. I did it for you, Carmella.”

  “How thoughtful. Wasn’t that thoughtful, Sylvia?”

  “Very thoughtful. Naturally, you had it done by a mohel.”

  “Of course. Wait, what’s a mohel?”

  “A mohel is a Jewish man specifically trained to remove the male foreskin.”

  “I, uh . . . am sure, he was Jewish. Absolutely.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Mah . . . stein. Abraham Mahstein. That Jew enough for you?”

  “Sylvia, your late husband was a mohel. Isn’t a mohel required to suck on the wound until it stops bleeding?”

  “According to Talmudic law.”

  “No man sucked on my wound!”

  “How do you know?” Carmella asked. “Didn’t they put you to sleep?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a religious procedure. The surgeon stitched the wound.”

  Carmella shrugged. “If you didn’t get snipped by a mohel, it doesn’t count, does it Sylvia?”

  “Not in our book. Of course, it’s not too late. If you could find a Jewish man willing to perform the ceremony . . .”

  Cabot looked pale. “But the wound’s almost healed.”

  Carmella shook her head. “According to Jewish law, it’s not officially healed until the stitches are removed. Thank God it’s not too late, eh Sil?”

  “Thank God,” Sylvia said, turning her head while biting her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Just what are you ladies suggesting? That I allow a man to . . . to suck on my Johnson?”

  “Of course not,” Carmella said. “It has to be a Jewish man. Sil, who could we get to suck Truman’s Johnson?”

  “What about Sol?”

  “Wouldn’t work. Truman’s Catholic. Sol keeps Kosher.”

  “Is Bruce Jewish?”

  “Why, yes he is. And he’s experienced.”

  “The fag from New York?” Cabot felt ill. “No . . . no way, I couldn’t—”

  Sylvia winked at him. “Not even for a hot date with C. C. Rider?”

  Carmella shot her friend a look to kill.

  Cabot’s eyes widened. “Friday night on my yacht. It’s my birthday.”

  Sylvia nudged her friend. “Come on, C.C., one date for Truman’s circumcision cleansing.”

  “How will we know if he actually went through with it?”

  “Truman can take a video.”

  “Oh, no. No videos!”

  “All right. How about Carm and I watch the ceremony?”

  “Two of you, huh? Been a while since I did a . . . uhhh!” Truman Cabot doubled over in pain as a burning, stabbing sensation lanced at his enlarging penis.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Ahhh! Ahh!”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Hurts . . . bad!”

  Sylvia pointed. “Look, Carm. He’s pitching tent.”

  Carmella inspected the kneeling man’s crotch
closer. “Is that blood? Hey Truman, I think your dick’s bleeding.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “This is what happens when you don’t use a mohel.”

  The ladies’ two teammates approached from the opposite horseshoe pit, the fallen senior attracting a small crowd.

  “Jesus God, my dick’s on fire!”

  “What did he say?” squawked Esther Rabinowitz.

  “He said his schmeckle’s on fire.” her husband, Sol yelled back.

  “He’s on fire? Quickly, everyone—get him into the pool!”

  Seven senior citizens (two with walkers) grabbed Truman Cabot by his arms and legs, half-carrying, half-dragging the screaming millionaire across two shuffleboard courts before tossing him into the shallow end of the pool.

  SHOCKING THURSDAY

  Nancy Beach stood at the podium, looking out at a multitude of women, the small auditorium filled to capacity.

  “Good afternoon ladies . . . and gentleman,” she nodded to Pete Soderblom, who was seated next to Olivia Cabot in the third row, “and welcome to this special afternoon edition of W.O.M.B.—Women Overcoming Male Bondage. Before we begin, let’s stand in unity and recite our pledge.”

  Five hundred and seventeen women stood. “Knowledge is power. With power I enlighten my soul. With knowledge I begin my rebirth, emancipating myself from my male bondage.” Palms over their faces, the women slowly pushed their noses through their separating hands, their heads birthed from their imaginary vaginas.

  “And we are reborn in unity, leaning forward out of society’s womb . . . excellent. Ladies, today’s agenda is packed with excitement, including the debut of a new line of Y-training apparel from Wanda Jackson, owner of the Sex Emporium. But before we begin, I’d like to discuss a hormone responsible for every conflict since Cain slew his brother Abel . . . a hormone that has led to our near-financial collapse, drug wars, political corruption, gang violence, the poisoning of the environment, the energy crises . . . a hormone called testosterone. It’s testosterone that fuels the male ego; it’s what caused Neanderthals to club their mates and the sole reason the Catholic Church and Congress are nothing but old boys’ clubs reeking in scandal.

  “Ladies, it’s not enough that our gender ‘Lean In’ when it comes to opportunities at the workplace, in order to truly change society we must become masters of testosterone . . . not by being more aggressive but by reconditioning the male ego by redirecting testosterone the way a judo wrestler uses his opponent’s force against him. This afternoon, I’m going to provide you with a few tools to become judo masters, but before I do, I’d like to introduce you to someone who is very important to the success of my radio show, our station’s programming director, Mr. Peter Soderblom.”

  The crowd applauded politely. Pete waved from his seat.

  “Pete, can you join me at the dais for a moment? I have a small gift of appreciation I’d like to present to you.”

  Pete glanced at Olivia, who shrugged. With a hop in his step, he joined Nancy at her podium. “Morning, ladies. By the way, I never clubbed my wife. Slipped her a roofie – just kidding.”

  Pete snorted a laugh, and then stopped when he saw the women’s expressions of disgust.

  “Peter, for being such an inspiring Y in my life, I’d like to give you this specially-handcrafted dive watch, with my gratitude.” She handed her programming director the watch.

  “Thanks. I don’t really dive, but—”

  “Go on, put it on.”

  Pete adjusted the watch to fit his left wrist. “It’s nice. Got some weight to it.” He waved to the crowd, and then headed back to his seat.

  “Pete, before you go, I need a volunteer to play the role of my significant Y in a quick W.O.M.B. exercise. Since you’re the only male present—”

  “What about Juan Carlos?” Lynnie yelled out from the first row, pointing to the slight five foot, four inch Mexican. “And here’s some good news, ladies, this baby-making machine is still on the market. Check out the size of his fingers.”

  Nancy ground her teeth. “Thanks, Lynnie, but for this exercise I really wanted Pete.”

  “Ah, go on; let the little guy handle it.” Pete headed back to his seat.

  “Stay!”

  As if struck by an invisible bolt of lightning, Peter Soderblom flailed wildly in the aisle, his blonde hair standing on end.

  The female audience gasped, confused yet engrossed.

  “What . . . the . . . hell?”

  Nancy feigned innocence, the palm control concealed in her left hand. “My goodness, are you alright?”

  “Felt like I stepped on a live wire.”

  “Well, thank you for agreeing to help us out. Ladies, can we give our volunteer a warm round of applause?”

  The audience clapped. Pete waved, unsure.

  Nancy pointed to Trish, who was supervising the set-up of a small round table, checkered table cloth, and chairs. Two chairs, side by side, had already been placed to the left of the podium. “Ladies, in this first exercise, Peter will play my husband, the two of us en route to a local restaurant for dinner. First we’ll pretend to be in the car,” she pointed to the two chairs facing the audience, “then we’ll enter the restaurant—the outside door represented by those two orange cones, at which time we’ll seat ourselves at the table. Ready, Pete?”

  “Seems kind of stupid, but whatever.”

  Nancy led him to the two side-by-side chairs. “Here’s our family car. Pete, you’re driving so you sit in this seat on the left . . . go on, sit down. Now I’ll sit next to you, and you pretend to drive.”

  The program director rolled his eyes, his hands maneuvering an invisible steering wheel. “Do I need to make engine noises? Rrrm . . .rrrm.”

  “And we’ve arrived. My husband parks the car . . . he shuts off the engine—shut it off, and we exit the vehicle to walk to the entrance of the restaurant.”

  Pete stood. He pretended to close the car door, then walked over to the orange cones, leaving Nancy seated in the vehicle.

  ZAP!

  Pete’s limbs flailed wildly as he fell backwards on his buttocks.

  The women whooped and hollered.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Honey, you forgot to open my car door for me. Can you do that now, please?”

  “Huh?”

  “The car door.” She nodded to her invisible passenger door.

  Still a bit woozy, Peter pretended to open the door for Nancy while his eyes searched the floor by the podium for a loose wire.

  “Thank you, honey. Shall we go inside and eat?” Nancy led him to the orange-cones, waiting for him to open the invisible door.

  Feeling ridiculous, Pete feigned opening the door, the audience applauding.

  The program director nodded, a stupid half-grin creasing his face.

  “Oh look, honey, there’s an open table.” Nancy walked ahead of him to the table, and then waited by her chair.

  Pete pulled his own chair out and sat.

  ZAP!

  He went down again, moaning on the floor in pain.

  “What did my husband forget to do, ladies?”

  “PULL OUT YOUR WIFE’S CHAIR!”

  Pete looked up, bewildered.

  Nancy removed his dive watch and held it up to the audience. “Introducing the Y-training device—a combination electrical dog collar and men’s dive watch. As you can see, the controls are easily concealed in the palm of my hand, and the electrical charge can’t be traced back to the watch. I had the intensity set on high, but there are two lower settings. I’m also hoping to have a reward setting that reverberates the Y’s genitalia.”

  The women stood and applauded, many yelling out, “Where can I buy one?”

  “Sorry, ladies, this is just a prototype. I have to speak with someone about mass-producing them.”

  * * * * *

  WANDA JACKSON TOOK over the lecture twenty minutes later, her five college-age female employees modeling a sexy line of lingerie, corsets, and bustier
s. No longer in pain, Peter Soderblom watched from the third row, thoroughly enjoying the show.

  Olivia Cabot joined Nancy in the corridor outside the lecture hall. “Very impressive, Dr. Beach. You’re original, creative, and your audience loves you. I’m renewing your show for two years, with a thirty percent bump in salary. We’ll include a syndication clause—I think we can open markets in New York, Philly, and L.A.”

  “Oh my God.” Nancy teared up.

  “I also want to talk to you about setting up a partnership to manufacture those watches, along with an exclusive line of Y-training items.”

  “That would be amazing.”

  “The dive watch . . . may I?”

  “Huh? Oh yes, of course.” She handed Olivia the dive watch and its palm control.

  “Simple, yet effective. We’ll have to refine the design of course, make the watches more fashionable.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m hosting a party tomorrow night on our yacht; why don’t you join me as my guest.”

  “That would be amazing.”

  “Be at the Bridge Hotel dock in Boca at eight o’clock. It’s black-tie.”

  “I’ll be there, thank you so much.”

  “Oh, would you mind if I borrowed the watch for the weekend?” Olivia winked. “I have a new young stud that needs to be corralled.”

  Nancy smiled. “Keep it, it’s yours. Give the young stud a jolt from me.”

  * * * * *

  HELEN COPE ENTERED her husband’s workplace—disturbed to find a pair of Miami Dolphin cheerleaders occupying the waiting room. Long-legged and well-endowed, bare-midriffs and skirts—a peroxide-blonde and an auburn-haired black girl.

  Two twits twittering away on their iPhones.

  Nurse Kim opened the door separating the waiting area from the exam rooms. “Tina Owens?”

  The black cheerleader stood. “That’s me. Only I’m just here for my Vanilla Swirl.”

  “Before you get your Gynnie Gusher Dr. Cope needs to examine you. Wait in Exam Room 3.” The nurse held the door open for the patient, and then spotted Helen. “Hi, Mrs. C. Are you here socially or for an exam?”

  “Exams I get at home. I brought the Muffin King his dinner, tonight’s his late night.” She held up the deli take-out bag.