Now I know.
As I write these words, my dick is the happy color of a newborn chick. I could have used the washable kind of Magic Marker, but I decided if I was going to go for it, I really had to go for it. So I used a permanent highlighter. My dick is going to be this color for a long, long time.
Now that the task is accomplished, I would like to report that it feels fine. I detect no deleterious effects, nothing to suggest I have been harmed in any way. There was some discomfort upon application, as the wetness from the marker provided a distinct chill upon my penis. Within moments, though, the varnish had dried to the touch and I went about my day.
Some questions I wanted answered:
What is this going to do to my underwear? The answer: stain it yellow. Particularly after a sweaty session of badminton at the local badminton court. Interestingly, my dick is now almost the exact color as the badminton shuttlecock.
If I place my penis on top of the banana pile at the local mart, will anybody mistake it for a banana? No. Nobody will. They will know exactly what they are looking at, and they will respond accordingly.
Will my dick be able to light my way down a dark corridor? Yes. It’s also helpful while spelunking. And when I attended the circus recently, I opted not to buy my usual glo-stick on a string, but twirled my dick instead. Nobody was the wiser, and I saved myself seven dollars.
Does it register on a Geiger counter? No. It was explained to me that even though my dick looks radioactive it doesn’t mean it is radioactive. Good to know.
If I ask five random tattoo artists, how many would be willing to reproduce the effect of the Magic Marker by tattooing my genitalia the same exact color? Five. How many of those artists will inform me that particular shade of yellow is a “specialty color” and will have to be ordered? Two.
Will it be fun to use my yellow Magic Marker–colored dick as a light saber? Yes. Very fun. Unfortunately, for it to be effective it needs to be erect, which requires a lot of time and energy. Time and energy that would be better spent battling the Dark Side. A partner is also preferable, both for battling and for fluffing.
What will this do to the inside of my wife’s vagina? Up until this point, nothing. But it’s too early to tell whether or not this answer is definitive because I have yet to insert my effervescent glo-wand into her pussy. We’re scheduled to do that in a few months, so this question will have to wait to be answered. It really stained her ass, though.
Most important, how will this change affect my self-esteem? Honestly, I feel better about myself than I have in years. Scientists have determined that yellow is, in fact, a cheerful color, even when it’s on your wiener (the italics are mine). Even when I cannot see it, I know it’s there, and I know it’s not only the color of lemons, but thanks to some judicious application of Lysol, it’s also lemon-scented. A bright yellow, lemon-scented dick really makes me feel confident.
The warnings and admonitions I received throughout my life were all for naught. At some point, I knew I was going to do this. Why? To paraphrase JFK, not because it was easy, but because it was hard. (It was actually very easy.)
I’ll never know why I waited so very long to do this. Unfortunately, I cannot get back all those wasted years, but hopefully somebody out there will read these words and take what I’ve learned to heart; we are who we are. We must follow our own path, wherever it may lead. For some, that means doing great things. For me, it does not.
Is this the best thing I’ve ever done? Hard to say. I can, however, say this: in a lifetime filled with “best things I’ve ever done,” using a Day-Glo Magic Marker to color my dick yellow is certainly way, way up there.
Announcing the Imminent Arrival of the Handlebar Mustache Certain People Said I’d Never Be Able to Grow
TO all of you doubters who said I would never be able to grow a handlebar mustache—guess what? You’re about to eat your words. Because as of about ten days from now, I am going to prove you dead wrong. That’s right, I am 94 percent of the way toward having a gorgeous, full-blown, chestnut brown Fu Manchu. Photographs are forthcoming, and you will be hearing from my attorney shortly.
Those of you whose addresses are not in my possession, be assured that I am in contact with the high school reunion committee, and they have promised me their full cooperation in re-establishing contact.
And lest any of you try to weasel out of the deal, know that I still have the terms of our original wager in writing. The ink is a little faded, of course, but it is still clearly legible, and my lawyer assures me that just because it was written on a cafeteria napkin does not mean the document is not legally binding. In other words, Vick Logan, Dan Wilovich, and Pete Furmick: you’re screwed!
“You’ll never be able to grow a handlebar mustache”? NEVER??? Unless I’m mistaken (and I know I’m not because I have it in writing), those were your exact words. The year 2008 probably seemed like “never” when you guys uttered those words in study hall on April 28, 1984, didn’t it? Well, guess what? Never is about to arrive, in the form of my delectable love rug.
That was always the problem with you turkeys. You never had any faith in me. You thought I was a loser just because I couldn’t even get any peach fuzz on my lip, while you guys paraded around school with your thick mustaches, beards, and mutton chop sideburns. You thought you were so great, didn’t you? Well, I’m going to tell you guys something now that I’ve been waiting more than twenty years to say: just because you looked like Credence Clearwater Revival doesn’t mean you WERE Credence Clearwater Revival.
Not even close.
Now who’s having the last laugh? Three people: me, myself, and my mustache. Maybe you guys don’t even remember our bet. Maybe you guys don’t even remember ME! If so, you’re about to get a very rude reminder, because I remember and now it’s time to pay the devil his due.
So: Vick, I’ll be happy to take delivery of one (1) large cheese pizza from Nino’s Pizzeria. When you order it, please tell them I prefer it extra well done. Just like you, my friend, burned to a crisp.
Dan, it will be a great pleasure to drive your 1981 sky blue Ford Escort for the agreed upon duration of two (2) weeks. I hope the tape player still works, because I’ve been saving a certain Van Halen cassette for this occasion. The album 1984 commemorates the year of our wager, and it features two songs that I think are especially appropriate: “I’ll Wait,” which is exactly what I did to get to this moment, and “House of Pain,” which is where you are living right now, my friend.
If, for some reason, you no longer have the car, that would be terrible. Fortunately, I had the foresight to recognize this was a distinct possibility, considering how long “never” generally extends. As such, if you remember, there was a penalty built into the deal. If, for some reason, you no longer have possession of the 1981 sky blue Ford Escort, you are obligated under the terms of our deal to find and purchase one in the exact model as your orginal car, which I will then drive for the agreed upon period of two (2) weeks.
And finally Pete. Sweet Pete, who was the biggest joker of them all. Pete with the huge John Fogerty chops. Pete, who began dating Michelle Tomlinson after I informed him that I thought she was (and I remember the word exactly) “smoking.” Pete Furmick, who couldn’t stop giggling at the very mention of my proposed handlebar mustache. Pete Furmick, who was once such a stud and who is now, I happen to know, bald.
Well, Pete, you owe me some money. The exact amount, I believe, is one billion ($1,000,000,000) dollars. I don’t know how you’re going to come up with that kind of money. Not on what they pay you at Kinko’s. But you better think of something because your note is coming due. I’m not a hard-hearted guy, Pete. I know you have child support and alimony to pay, so if you’d like, I would be willing to consider spreading the payments out over the course of a year (plus interest).
So pals, I guess that’s pretty much it. Maybe the next time you make fun of somebody for being unable to grow facial hair, you’ll choose your words a little more care
fully.
Erotic Fiction: The Beach
THE beach was cloudy that day. Too cold to tan, she thought, shivering. Too cold to do anything but mourn….
They met the year before. Paul was a “townie” who combed the beaches each morning with his lucky metal detector. Sarah was eighteen, a city girl spending the summer at the shore.
Later, much later, she reflected on the morning they met. If he hadn’t been combing that morning, if she hadn’t decided to wear her suit of armor to the beach…. It was her armor that led her to him, sending shrill, whistling noises into the headphones of Paul’s metal detector. They were meant to find each other, she knew. She smiled as she stood on the very spot where he first spoke to her.
“Hey!” he called, tapping on her helmet.
She lifted the protective face covering and beheld him for the first time. He was tall and dark from hours spent on the beach. His hair, what was left of it, was stark white and clumpy. Deep creases lined his face. His nose was red and bulbous. He was probably eighty-five years old. She wanted him.
“I can’t find any damn money with you wearin’ that thing,” he said. “It fouls up my whozewhatzit.”
Oh God. He was angry. Why had she worn her suit of armor to the beach on this hot day? It was a poor choice. Not only was it incredibly hot, but the salty air was oxidizing the ancient metal, causing it to rust in the most uncomfortable places.
“Will you help me take it off?” Sarah asked, seductively.
“I got arthritis in my elbows,” he said, but he consented. Slowly, they struggled to remove the heavy metal suit encasing Sarah’s lithe body. Piece by piece, until a radiant young woman emerged, like a butterfly leaving its chrysalis.
“Kiss me,” she said, panting, sweat glistening on her body.
“I just ate a fish taco,” said Paul, “and I think it’s repeating on me.”
And so began their torrid affair. The summer became a blur of beachcombing, napping, watching The Price Is Right, more naps, and the early bird special at Perkins. As she cut up his food each night throughout that glorious summer, she thought, I’ve never been so happy.
Paul was a tender lover, and a garrulous talker. Often, as they lay in bed after almost having sex, he would tell her fascinating stories from his life. The time he saw a goat. The time he found a button that looked like a nose. The time he ate a bad peach. She listened for hours, enraptured, until his gooselike snoring told her he was asleep. Some days they didn’t leave his mobile home at all.
It was perfect.
Soon, though, the winds began to blow from the north, and she knew the summer was ending. She knew she would be returning to her medieval studies classes at the community college. She knew she must leave Paul behind.
When Labor Day came, she packed as quietly as she could, but he stirred from his midafternoon nap.
“Where you goin’?” he asked, reaching for the remote and his teeth.
“Home, darling. I have to go home.”
He was silent as he took in this devastating information. “Who are you again?” he asked.
“Oh, Paul!” Sobbing, she fled his trailer, her suit of armor clanging as she ran.
Throughout the long winter, she thought of him. She tried calling, but his phone was disconnected, and he couldn’t really hear anyway. She counted the days until the warm weather came again, until she could return to her lover.
Finally, it was June. She took the bus to the shore, knocked on his door. A middle-aged man explained that Paul was dead, but did she want to party with him?
No, she didn’t want to party with anybody. Not now. Not ever again. The next morning, she woke up early and went down to the beach. The beach was cloudy that day. Too cold to tan, she thought, shivering. Too cold to do anything but mourn. From the water, she thought she heard the distinctive “beep beep” of a metal detector. Could it be? She felt her heart skip. “Beep beep.” It was! It was him! She climbed into her suit of armor. The sound grew stronger and she walked toward it, into the surf. The seawater filled the suit, weighing her down, but still she struggled toward the sound, the music she recognized from that magical summer. Turns out she was just hearing things and she drowned. Oh well.
When I Finally Get Around to Building My Robot, This Is What It Will Be Like
FOR a variety of reasons, it’s going to be a while before I get around to building my own robot. Chief among them is the fact that I have no robot-building skills, which is to say I have no skills in the areas of robotics, computer programming, soldering, mathematics, artificial intelligence, languages, metallurgy, electronics, optics, or biometrics. The skills that I do have—unicycle riding, writing radical feminist poetry, and cloud watching—do not readily apply themselves to robot making. As a result, I will be the first person to admit it’s going to be a good long while before I sit down and build myself a robot. When I do, though, I know exactly what it will be like.
First of all, any robot I build is going to look the way a robot is supposed to look. That means it’s going to have a head, two arms, two legs, and lots of flashing lights on its robot tummy. In other words, it’s going to look like a robot, and not like one of those creepy tentacled things that puts cars together on automotive assembly plants in South Korea. Those aren’t robots; they’re remote-control octopuses. Remote-control octopuses are also excellent, but they are not proper robots. A proper robot looks like a metal man.
I would like to emphasize that my robot is going to be a “man.” Gender is important here because everybody knows that female robots are sex robots. While I have nothing against sex robots per se, I am not going to build one because if I were to have sex with something I built, that would be a little like incest, and for the most part, I am against incest. If I do decide to obtain a sex robot one day, I will wait to purchase it until they are both widely available and the stigma of owning one has worn off. Then I will purchase two.
My robot will speak in a crisp British accent just like C3PO in the Star Wars movies. The British accent has always struck me as the most servile of accents, and my robot will be nothing if not servile. He will say traditional robot phrases like, “Right away, sir,” and “As you wish, sir.” But he will also say funny robot things like, “Ain’t nothing but a robot thang, sir.” My robot will always address me as “sir,” unless we are alone. Then he will call me “father.”
He will be excellent at table tennis, but his skills will be adjustable so I can dial it up when I want a challenging workout and dial it down when I want to humiliate him. Best thing about a Ping-Pong playing robot? I will make him get the ball every single time. Sometimes I might even purposely hit the ball behind the boiler just to watch him struggle to retrieve it. I have always found struggling robots funny.
Then there’s the matter of whether or not to make his mouth move. Robots obviously have no real need for mouths. They don’t eat or breathe, so the only reason to have a mouth is because people have mouths and as I’ve said, I prefer peoply robots. Mouthless robots are creepy, so mine will definitely have one, but should his mouth move when he speaks or just light up? At the moment I’m leaning toward a light-up mouth. This is both more economical and more cheerful than a moving mouth. Plus, I don’t want him to look like one of those singing bears they have at Chuck E. Cheese’s.
Certain robot features are de rigueur. Clock radio alarm clock, for example. MP3 and DVD player. Built-in coffee/espresso maker. My custom van has a fudge drawer, and I might also include one of those. There are going to be times, many times, when I am away from my van and need a piece of maple-walnut fudge. My general rule of thumb regarding fudge is this: keep it handy. What could be more handy than a robot with a built-in fudge drawer?
Realistic birdcalls? I think so. Let’s put it this way: there’s no downside to giving my robot the ability to create highly realistic birdcalls. In fact, it might even be educational. Over time, I imagine I would learn to distinguish between the white-throated sparrow and the gold-naped finch pur
ely by sound, whereas now I have to rely on my field guide. Also, wouldn’t it be great to surround yourself with realistic birdsong wherever you might happen to be? The only thing is, the birdcalls are making me rethink my decision regarding the light-up mouth. Watching my robot “whistle” would be pretty funny, and might be worth the expense associated with making his mouth move. Something to think about.
One feature I have been grappling with lately is “jet feet.” Yes, I would like flames to shoot out from his feet, giving him the ability to fly. On the other hand, I am concerned that he might accidentally activate his jet feet in the house. This would obviously wreak havoc on the floors. It could also destroy the ceiling. My other concern is that jet feet would probably require jet fuel, and I’m not entirely comfortable housing jet fuel in my robot, especially with all the jiggling required to play table tennis. The associated dangers indicate that jet feet are a bad idea, except for the simple fact that they would be awesome. For the moment I’m going to move any final decisions about jet feet into the “something to think about” category.
I’m also starting to think I’d like my robot to wear underpants. Obviously, a robot has no need for underpants, but it might make me more comfortable. Technically, a robot can’t be “naked” in the traditional sense, but I have specified that my robot is a man and even though he won’t have any male genitalia, I don’t like the idea of a “man” running around my house without any underpants on. Should the underpants also be made from metal or should I just go to Target and buy a three-pack of tighty whities? Metal is more expensive, but I wonder if it wouldn’t pay for itself over time versus having to run out and buy cotton ones every few months. I will run a cost analysis to determine the answer. I have no idea how to run a cost analysis, which is just one more item to add to my list of “robot-building skills” I do not possess.
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