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Category: Psykosity Pstories

Dangly Bits

I am a man. I know this because I’ve looked.

My genitals and I have known each other for years. Oh! The stories we could tell! Grand, glorious songs that should be sung by choirs!

At first, our relationship was based on practicality; I needed the One-Eyed Wonderworm and his Two Magic Bags to perform certain functions necessary to my life and they needed me to carry them around (apparently, they need to travel…). Then, the meat-and-two-vegetables became aggressive and embarrassing; attacking me at inopportune moments like standing at the board trying to solve problems in math class, singing in church, or having to speak at a family funeral.

God, as is His wont, strove for perfection when he made Adam. I think God thought that Adam’s knees and elbows would be bigger, because he used that skin to get that Last-Chicken-In-The-Shop look of the General and Two Colonels. Artistically, He got it right when he made woman.

Men are purely functional: Eat. Sleep. Reproduce. Eat, Sleep, Reproduce (keep the high-heels-on…). Eliminate anyone who messes with The Schedule…

That’s what we think about. All of the time, 24/7.

Everything we do as men, red-blooded. spittin’ scratchin’ silly, pointless, farty, situationally brave and brilliant, the buildings we build and the sweat of our brow, is dedicated to The Schedule, and the biggest part of The Schedule is not ‘Eat’.

Men will gladly do without food for a few more minutes of sleep or the prospect of the fleeting moments wherein we let Russell The Love Muscle and The Nads out for some “Happy Naked Playtime” and…LO! AND BEHOLD! There is a FEMALE in the ROOM! YAY!

Our crippled, hairy hands and our self respect thank you, Ma’am!

My only suggestion, regarding men’s ‘Dangly Bits’?

I wish mine were retractable…

Show me the SADIST who said that BOY’S bikes have to have the middle bar and the girls bikes don’t! What kind of sick, twisted FREAKSHOW would think, deep in the darkest recesses of their diseased minds, that putting a BAR on a bike that young boys can FALL on accidentally in NUMEROUS ways was a good idea.

In a fight, I can take punches anywhere on my body and not give up, but not if you catch “The Boys”, I’m toast…

It is said that, barring extraordinary circumstance, childbirth is the most painful experience a human can go through. Of course, I had no say as to the delegation of duties as they relate to propagation of the species. I’m just trying to do my job, Honey…

All that said, I would like to nominate getting nicked in the knackers as the second most painful human experience.

That, and a tax audit.

And, at closing time, when you see that woman who looks like a princess, but will look like an orc in the morning, how handy would it be if a man could not only retract his dangly bits, but also have something that causes the male to be like a Ken doll until he sobers up!

Nothing there but a logo…

An Old Friend’s Favor And The Physics Of Aging

“You know, Psyk, we’ve known each other a long time now, and…”

Well, slap me in the face with a week-old halibut and call me ‘Richard’: here comes one of THOSE phrases; the first half of a sentence that NEVER ends good when the second part of the sentence comes bounding out of the ‘Old Friend’s” cock holster… “We’ve known each other a long time now” is a phrase second only to “Honey- we need to talk…” in the Great Wheel of Life Changing, Unexpectedly Devastating News… or, it could be that the ‘Old Friend’  is revving up an earnest, poignant, and highly manipulative story designed to bring you to such an emotional crescendo that you would positively JUMP at the HONOR of helping them move house, in which case you break out a baseball bat and use it to erase the name of the “Old Friend” from your Christmas Cards list.

Let’s go down the Rabbit hole on this particular encounter:

The Old Friend who claims that “we’ve known each other a long time now” is wrong; we knew each other a long time ago. It’s been about four decades since we last spoke to each other. After that, life intervened. Marriage, Birth, Death, Sickness, Health, Great Successes and Plagues of Locust…

At the time we knew each other, we were young, beautiful, stupid and invincible. Now, we are a lot closer to the Brick Wall at The End of The Great Road of Life, and some of us have lead feet and poorly maintained brakes.

The fact is that, of late, I have been feeling that life has become a huge FORCE propelling me forward against my will, like a wave that will travel hundreds of thousands of miles, so it can eventually break against the unyielding terra with enough volatile fury to annihilate millions of people.

I’m in no position to help anyone. I can’t even help myself. The list of things I cannot control grows like a tropical skin disease: the political future of the nation, whether the cats will be eating any of the food we bought for them or will they be irritating little balls of fur who have gotten together and decided that it was “Screw With The Humans’ Minds Day”, my son-in-law’s car problems, my daughter trying to change schools to finish her degree, the ever-evolving state of my body hair…

In fact, just what IS happening with this bag of skin I’ve been trapped in???

As to the things in my life I actually CAN control 

I have a list. It’s a GREAT list, if I do say so myself. I took the time to write the list down, in longhand, with a pen that was given to my Grandfather after he put in 25 years at his place of employment. Yep, the List of Things I CAN Control is a great list…I wrote it on a torn piece of a very small envelope…

And so the question is asked and, fortunately, it is not a life-changing request, but it will STILL require me to put on pants: I am apparently last on his list of people to call if he needs to be picked up at the airport. That’s right. Picked up at the airport.

Keep in mind: this list included HIS WIFE, as well as both of his daughters and his son, I imagine he was down to asking the garbage man, the old spinster down the street, and the guy who occasionally decides to ‘direct traffic’ in front of his house.

Still, I said yes, I would help. I almost always do. Like being caught up by a force you cannot control, I am almost physically incapable of turning down someone who legitimately needs my help, and if I am able to help, I react immediately to do so.

Besides, even though we haven’t seen each other since Reagan was elected President of the United States, we are both caught up in the tide, caught up in a force we cannot control, propelling us forward without even asking our opinion or permission.

We are, however, heading in the same direction.

Might as well help each other paddle.

Don’t Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull

Did you ever wish to could go back in time and talk to your younger self? Tell them what to watch out for, who to befriend/avoid…make life easier than it was for you? I thought about this often while laying in bed, waiting to fall asleep.

I love my life. I love my wife, my family and friends. However, there is much that I could do winning millions of dollars. If I could, I’d give my future self the winning lottery numbers for a life-changing jackpot. As I drifted off to sleep…

It was 1967. I was in the yard, right by the house we lived in then; a ranch house built in the ‘50’s, outside a little town in the Midwest. We were almost to the Moon; Vietnam was a place we heard about from Walter Cronkite every night at dinner, and we would get the number of that day’s dead and wounded in that vicious hell-hole while we ate.

I was struck by the smell…it smelled like 1967. The student protests never happened in our town, nor the race riots; the kids in high School smoked cigarettes in the parking lot, smoked a little pot, and listened to rock music. Largely, the “Summer of Love” happened on the coasts. The town we lived just outside of was really like living in Mayberry, and living outside that town meant living in the middle of endless fields of corn and the sweet smell of newly mowed grass..

Looking at the glass sliders, I pulled up on the handle and quietly snuck in.

The T.V. was on, with just snow on the screen and that awful single-note signal that they play to force you to turn off your T.V.

In my time, my father has been dead for four years, but there he was: sitting on the floor wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and socks, snoring loud enough to hear throughout the house. Dad will sleep there for a while longer, then he will wake up, go take a piss, and then go into the bedroom he shares with Mom.

I wanted to wake him up, give him a hug, tell him how much I love him. The problem with that is: you have to be VERY careful how you wake up my father. Ever since Dad was discharged from the Marine Corps, he wakes up violently. Dad will wake up with a jolt; eyes wide open and scanning around for the first person he lays eyes on, and if you are within reach, he might reach out and grab a hold of you before he realizes that you aren’t “The Enemy”.

No. I have come here to talk to only one member of the family, and it wasn’t my father or mother. I did not come to talk to my brother, who was a major irritant to me during this period of our lives. Fortunately, my brother’s “sleep” is more like a “coma”.

I slip in to my old room, and went over to my bed.

I reached out and gently shook the shoulder of seven-year-old me and woke me up:

Little Me: (Scared…sliding my body across the bed closer to the wall) Wha…who…who are you?

Me: Keep it down!

Little Me: Who ARE you?

Me: SSHHHH! Keep it down! I’m you…from your future…

Little Me: You’re me…

Me: Yes.

Little Me: From the future…

Me: Yes!

Little Me: (Taking air into the lungs, ready to scream until I slap my hand over his mouth)

Me: Shut UP! Look at me! Look at my face!

Little Me looked and his eyes grew wide.

Little Me: H-h-how…

Me:  Don’t ask. Just listen.

Little Me: (moving in to take a closer look at my face) What…HAPPENED to you?

Me. Life. It’ll leave a few scars.

Little Me: How old are you..am I?

Me: I’m 59 years old now. I wanted to give you something to hold onto to make my…our life, and the lives of our wife and child, a lot easier when you get to my age.

Little Me: Wait…we’re married?

Me: (sigh) Yes.

Little Me: To a GIRL?

Me: Of course! She’s pretty hot!

Little Me: YUK! That’s GROSS!

Me. SSSHHH! You are a lying sack of shit! I remember that a few days ago, you were in a group of kids climbing up the stairs at school and you looked and saw up Mindy Sherman’s dress. It’s all you have been thinking about since then. You like girls. That’s OK. You are going to have some of the best times and some of the most heartbreaking times of your life. But listen: everything is going to work out

Little Me: Yeah…sure.
I looked at me, the seven-year-old me; I peered into my own eyes.

Second Grade loomed before me. It was the beginning of a hellish yearly shit-show called a school year that lasted until the end of my Sophomore year… Things were going to get darkly bizarre; fights, attempts to humiliate me…Money wasn’t going to solve that. Money wouldn’t really help me at any point in my life; I always had enough to eat, I always had a place to sleep, and I always had clothes on my back. Everything I ever went through in my life brought me to where I am, and I like who I am.

I had the little piece of paper with the Lottery Numbers on it in my pocket. I don’t want to change MY life. This piece of paper would do nothing for him.
Little Me: What?

Me: I wanted to give you something that was going to help us…later in our life…but…

Little Me: What is it?

I let go of the piece of paper in my pocket and put my hand on his/ my arm.

Me: Look, just remember this: “Never Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull”.

Little Me: What the hell does that mean?

Me: Watch your mouth. Stay away from Jeff Bennet and Randy Paden. They are idiots who are teaching you a bunch of crap. They aren’t your friends. You don’t have a lot of friends, and the friends you have aren’t really your friends. You are going to have a great time with people you will be with for a while, and afterwards you will never see them again. You’re an outsider. There is a great power in that. You can see people for who they are. You can look at a situation or a group of people with a different perspective that will help you make better decisions. It’s OK to be who you are. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Don’t let them get to you. Fight them if they start shit, but otherwise, use the power of the outsider; see what they don’t see and hear what they don’t hear.
I heard some rustling coming from the living room; Dad was either getting up off the floor and getting on the couch, or he was going to take a piss and go to bed.

Me: Shit!

Little Me: What are you going to do now?

Me: Look: just remember: “Never Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull”. Just remember that. It will get you through a lot of shit! Oh, and in a couple of years Dad is going to ask you why you aren’t getting the grades you should be. Whatever you do, DON’T answer: “I don’t know Dad. Maybe it’s because I’m just lazy…”

Little Me: Why? What’s going to happen?

I started moving towards the door. I could hear Dad snoring again.

Me: Just don’t do it! Remember the two things I said; never let the weasels gnaw on your skull, and don’t tell Dad that you’re lazy!

Me: Oh…One more thing…in the future, when you’re in high school, there will be a girl named Lisa who is going to ask you to go to her house after a football game.

Little Me: So?

Me: Say yes.

I slipped out of the room and out into the hall, and crept down through the kitchen and into the living room. Dad was stretched out on the couch. I looked at him for a minute, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but then I heard his voice in my mind: “Men don’t cry, son. Unless you are burying someone you love, and even then, you do it alone. Otherwise, men don’t cry.

I went to slip out the sliding glass door when Dad stirred. His eyes closed, half in and half out of consciousness, he must have sensed I was standing there.

“Hey!” mumbled my father.

“Hey,” I said.

“What are you doing up?”

“Can’t sleep,” I answered.

“You OK?” he asked, still half asleep. His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”

My father yawned, stretched, and adjusted his body on the couch.

“Well,” he mumbled, “Don’t let them see you sweat, son. Everything’s gonna be alright. Everything is…gonna, (yawn)…be alright…”

My father was snoring like a chainsaw. I went over to him, bent over, and kissed his head. He was a young man at this point in time, raising three young children with his high school sweetheart. He was working at a factory, going to night school studying business. He and my mother were paying their first mortgage. An entire flood of life, good times and bad times, was going to be flowing under the bridge between us between 1967 and my life 52 years later.

“Good Night, Dad”. I said.

I moved across the room to the sliding glass door when something caught my eye. I turned, and there was my mother.

We stood, looking at each other, and then she slowly walked across the room.

Time seemed to stand still as my mother reached up to touch my cheek. She looked at my face, and there were tears in her eyes. Mom hugged me. We stood in the middle of the room, saying nothing, hanging onto each other.

She looked up at me with a smile on her face. I marveled at how young she looked. Mom playfully pulled my long beard: “Lose the beard!” Then, Mom turned and walked out of the room, back to bed.

I took one last look at this part of my past and slipped out the sliding glass door.

I woke up in my big, overstuffed recliner and took stock of the situation: nothing much had changed yet somehow, I felt better. the colors are a little brighter, the sounds clearer, the smells sweeter.

Also, I have a vague memory of a dream I had, when I was very young, in which I talked to myself and, I have a wonderful memory of the time this girl asked me over to her house after a football game.