Monday, October 20, 2008

Beatles records and Banana hammocks


I often gaze upon mon aimé Monsieur Moose and reel, pitch, revolve, stagger, stumble, sway, swim, swing, swirl, teeter, titubate, totter, turn, twirl, waver, weave, wheel and whirl upon the true artistry that is the forme humaine divine.....
Many of us witnessed our first glimpse of the nude human form upon seeing our parents in the shower or humorously dashing from the bathroom to the pantry for replacement toilet paper.

After showering with my Dad one day at the grand old age of five I realized that although we did resemble each other as males of the species, there was a certain big difference that I took as a possible birth defect on my part, so to speak.

I started sobbing and bleating like a Mexican soap opera actress and could not be consoled for hours. When I finally fessed up to my Parents that my malaise was due to the fact that in seeing Dad in the shower, I felt baby Jesus had "short changed" me in the penis department.
My Parents merely laughed long and hardily- my Mom actually l'eau faite-ed a little in her Lili St. Cyr "Scanti-Panties"
But alea jacta est, the die was cast.
From that point forward, as a prepubescent child, of 6, I had a penis obsession that rivaled that of any teenage boy, gay man or any Catholic priest I've ever met.

At that age, I never actually played with my G.I. Joe, instead, I stripped him naked and stared intently and apprehensively at his smooth crotch area, sometimes I would consult The Hierophant, AKA Barbie for any wisdom regarding G.I.'s missing pénis en plastique, but neither she or Midge- whom I referred to as "Fridge" for her lack of interest in either sex- could shed any light on his missing manhood, so alas, no dice.

My mini Nancy Drew-ish-ness led me to scan the worlds of men's peni- those of the immediate pricks that surrounded me as well as the peen in the media, so the first piece of evidence I scrutinized was the TV.

At the time my favorite TV shows were the Saturday wrestling shows because I always wondered what the "Hulking Menace" or whom ever the wrestler du jour was, was packing under the spandex, always hoping to catch a glimpse of peen between half nelsons... but- sigh, to no avail.

But my personal penis epiphany happened one afternoon in a grownup post baseball game locker room; I hung around staring at the men in jockstraps like a drugged concubine marveling the fact that it seemed not only did all men posses the same marvel in their trousers, but there was also special underwear to safe-house their treasure!

At that point more than anything, I wanted a grown up penis of my own and perhaps that magical penis container made of fabric and elastic that big boys wore to aid in- apparently- trying not to knock down each other or otherwise cause injury to home and hearth with their majestic dongs.
I theorized I would look absolutely stunning with one. To prove my point, balls, bananas and balloons alike were carefully jammed underneath my pants in an attempt to create the appearance of crotch cleavage. Many hours were spent pinching and prodding my junk as if frequent handling would encourage growth. I drank plenty of milk and even choked down some spinach, but it was all to no avail.
My penis remained a Vienna sausage as I dreamed of Kielbasa.
Thoroughly frustrated, I went to my Dad for advice.
Actually I snapped. Suddenly barging into the bathroom, pulling open the shower curtain not unlike Norman Bates and tentatively pointing to his penis, I asked, “When will I get one of those?”
After recovering from shock my Dad stated in his thick, deep, heavily accented voice, “You’re only 6,” he mused, “You’ve still got a long way to go.”
I moped around the house, demoralized, for a spell until I came up with the most scathingly brilliant plan I’ve ever had: I was going to ask Santa to bring me a man sized penis for Christmas.
As far as I was concerned, the plan was foolproof. I had been a good boy all year long.
My teachers loved me, (save Sister "stink eye" Rugburn who even thought "that shady Virgin Mary" was a dubious "single mother" at best, thus entitled to her particular brand of tisk-tisking) and I always shared, I was a good host to my friends and I rarely got in trouble with my parents. (Except for the time I tried- unsuccessfully- to drive a railroad spike into the head of my sleeping brother...) I had earned my adult penis by God. There wasn’t a 6 year old boy in the world more deserving of a large swinging boom than me.
To really drive my point home, I handed my weekly allowance over to my Father, sitting on his lap, crossing my legs and batting my eyes I asked him to give it to some starving children on my behalf.
“Just make sure Santa knows it was from me,” I whispered as I gave him a wink while licking my lips and spuriously dangling my Buster Brown shoe from my big toe.

Then, it was time to go in for the kill. I sat down to write my Christmas list. It looked something like this:
1. PENUS size extra-large
I chewed thoughtfully on my eraser for a minute before I added:
2. Soccer Ball
3. Hot Wheels
4. Beatles records
5. Lederhosen
Considering that a grown up penis like Dad's was a tall order to fill and I didn’t want to appear greedy, I decided to end my list there. I finished my letter off with a few declarations of love for Santa, actually I think my words were "Undying devotion" and even went so far as to call him my Hero, "More than Batman and Robin and Batgirl combined!" I figured a little sucking up couldn’t hurt my cause.
Later that evening, I handed my perfumed ( Fidji by Guy Laroche) Christmas wish list over to my Father and asked him to mail it to Santa for me. He promised he would and I went to sleep that night with visions of a pendulous penis with matching fleshy orbs dancing in my head.
Counting down the days until Christmas is torturous for any kid, but it was particularly hard for me. The days seemed to drag on forever and remaining on my Best Behavior was getting tedious. But finally, finally, Christmas Eve arrived. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. I just knew I would wake up in the morning with a brand new penis.
Therefore, you can imagine my utter dismay when I woke up that brisk December morning and peaked down my pajama pants only to find I was as small as the day before. Santa, that fat bastard, had screwed me over. It was travesty! How could he do this to me after I had saved him the very best of the Christmas cookies?
Just then, my brother peaked into the room. “I’m gonna wake them up so we can open the presents!” he announced.
I nodded vaguely and followed him into my parent’s bedroom. They mumbled, smacked their lips, and rubbed the sleep from their eyes as my brother hopped around like a rabid squirrel. Finally in motion, my parents shrugged into robes, Dad scratched his left ass cheek with his right hand in a charming crab like manor and Mom twisted on some "Tangerine Tango" lipstick and a spritz of perfume (Arpege) and followed us into the mod yet plushly appointed 1960's living room to open our presents.
I casually took down my stocking from the mantle, tossing aside the apple and the orange, tossed back my head with indifference, put on my candy necklace as if it were from Harry Winston and opened a box of candy cigarettes.
Without missing a beat, my brother dove into the pile. With a maniacal glint in his eyes and a braces filled mouth gleaming in the unfortunate December morning light, he tore into present after present without even pausing long enough to see what each gift was, all the while drool dripping from the corner of his cruel little mouth.
I, on the other hand, merely sat serenely in my Father’s lap, head resting listlessly on his shoulder like a Korean refugee child. Normally, I would have feigned being entirely too old to sit in his lap like little a baby. But having your heart broken by Santa has a funny way of driving you back into your parent’s arms so I dropped the ruse and cuddled up.
After my brother finally finished demolishing his presents, he looked at me, chest heaving with exertion.
“Can I open yours, too?” he wheezed.
“I guess,” I shrugged, puffing on my candy cigarette.
This concerned my parents, so as my brother ripped and slashed, they picked up each of my presents and presented them to me for inspection.
“Look who got a Drum set!” my Mother asked. “Do you want me to open it up so you can do a drum roll while we open your other prezzies?”
“Maybe later,” I mumbled flicking the candy ashes.
“Look at this, Cornichon!” my Father insisted, “A soccer ball! You really wanted a soccer ball, didn’t you?”
“It’s OK, I guess, and you know, they call it football in the UK..” I pouted as I examined my shell pink fingernails.
They exchanged troubled looks for a minute. My Father raised his mono brow. My Mother bit her lip getting a little Tangerine Tango on her tooth. Finally, inspiration struck and my Mother reached for a small, square package that had been previously ignored by my little brother.
“How about you open this one, Cornichon?” she encouraged.
“I don’t want to,” I answered as I tipped my head in my brother’s direction, “Let Godzilla there open it.”
“No, I think you should open this one,” my Father pressed, “I really think you’ll like it.”
Groaning as if they had asked me to mop the kitchen floor on my hands and knees as opposed to open a shiny red present with a bright green bow, I reluctantly started peeling back the wrapping paper all the time thinking red and green wrapping for Christmas presents had been done to death...
“Underwear,” I scoffed, “I don’t even need underwear. I’ve got my ‘Batman’ undies.”
“These are Banana Splits, though,” my Father prodded, “You love …”
“I like my ‘Batman’ better.”
“Are you sure about that, Cornichon?” my Mother asked slyly, “Did you happen to see what else is in the box?”
Somewhat curious, I pulled out a pair of boy panties. Neatly folded underneath was my very, first jock strap.
Squealing with Christmas glee, I hopped to my feet and begged to try on my new lingerie. With a relieved nod, my parents gave me permission to change.
I gathered up my treasures and ran into my bedroom. Trembling with excitement, I peeled off my pajamas and my oh so inferior ‘Batman’ undies. Donning my new Jock ensemble, I felt like a new person. Perhaps it was the over active imagination of a 6 year old kid, or perhaps the Ghost of Christmas future had cast a little spell over the entire room, but standing before my bedroom mirror, I could almost swear I saw what looked like a roll of lifesavers beneath the fabric of my new jock.
Oh yesh. It was a teensy boner. It was official. I was definitely a man now.
I sashayed into my living room as if I were paying the mortgage. I posed for my parents like a drunken sailor as they ooh’d and ah’d appreciatively. I vowed to never wear my ‘Batman’ underwear ever again. They were so babyish. How could I have ever thought they were cool? In my mind’s eye, I pictured myself at my friend Joey’s sleepover party. “Sure, I’ll change into my PJs,” I heard myself saying, “Just let me take off my jock strap first.”
If only every experience a little boy has growing up is as delicious as this. Unfortunately, by the time I had my very first pubic hair, I was officially jaded. After all, that’s the dirty little secret of puberty. It’s more fun to imagine growing up than it is to actually grow up.
I’d give anything to wear my ‘Batman’ undies again.
*sigh*

Here's a drink that will take you back to your youth, or at least put you in a fetal position. eventually.

Candy Cigarette Cocktail!

12 oz Dr. Pepper soda
1 1/4 oz Bacardi 151 rum
3/4 oz amaretto almond liqueur
Fill a tall glass with ice. Pour the 151 proof rum, Dr. Pepper and amaretto, stir, and serve.

It is amazing how this drink tastes just like candy cigarettes, highly addictive too, I'm up to a pack a day!

4 comments:

bcnesp said...

Does the naughtiness NEVER end ?

rockola said...

Bloody brilliant every time!!!

Anonymous said...

I miss the pink background...

Anonymous said...

The pink is back. Never mind!

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zeitgeist, particular friend, perky libertine, animated trickster, iconoclast, rabble-rouser, object of worship, provocateur, capricious damp enchantress, idiosyncratic beloved reptile, whimsical saucy booze hound, bellwether, luminary, stoic, pensive illicit paramour, aloof, engaged, intuitive, curious, perplexing deranged mastermind, passionate, lasciviously adored offspring, amorous, sultry flamboyant charioteer, scholar, scribe, exalted thespian, voracious, considerable chieftain, impaired, cynical colleague, dreamer, procrastinator, loathsome glutton, artist, oppressed peasant, dainty heathen, narcissist, self-loathing...renaissance man