Naked in the Dog House

July 26, 2013

Denny sits naked in the dog house after dinner. Everyone does things to clear their head. His wife has her running, the kid has his video games, other people Denny knows shoot guns or swim, and Denny has the dog house. He tries not to think while in the dog house. He doesn’t touch himself or think about his wife or other women he knows in that way; it’s not like that in the dog house. This is a man, Denny, sitting naked in a dog house, in his backyard, for a few hours after dinner.

“Does your husband still sit naked in the dog house?” People ask Denny’s wife this. “Yes,” she says, “but I don’t want to talk about it.” Because what wife with a man who sits naked in the dog house would want to talk about it? She knew before they were married that he enjoyed sitting naked in small spaces. Before they bought the dog, Denny would park his car in the garage after work and sit naked in the driver’s seat for a few hours. She was sure he was you-know-what-ing in there, which disgusted her. She even thought about leaving him. One night after he came in from the garge she screamed at him: “I know what you’re doing in there!” He promised he wasn’t touching himself. “I sit there naked, that’s it. I just sit.” She wanted to know what he was thinking about. “What are you thiiiiiinking about?” she said. Denny assured her he wasn’t doing any deep-thinking. “I’m sitting in my car naked for a few hours after work. That’s it.”

After they bought the dog and the dog house there was now a smaller space available to Denny in which to sit naked. He started sitting naked in the dog house after dinner, only on Sundays. His wife noticed that he was no longer sitting naked in the car after work. She was relieved that this stage in his life, in their life, was over. But soon after dinner one Sunday she walked out back for no reason at all and found Denny cross-legged and naked in the dog house. “The dog house?” she said. Denny didn’t say anything and remained seated for another hour.

His wife tried to hide this from the friends and family members who didn’t already know. In her eyes, the dog house was a worse place for Denny to sit than the car as there was no fence in their backyard and they lived in one of those neighborhoods with semi-communal backyards and kids would play capture the flag and soccer across three backyards, and Denny would sometimes sit before is was fully dark out and, God forbid, his wife thought, if a young neighbor girl saw Denny crawling out of the dog house one night and ran screaming back to her house and told her parents about the naked man in the dog house. She would have to divorce Denny and raise the kid alone.

“Woof woof,” Denny said one night after coming in from the dog house. “I’m a dog now.” He grabbed his genitals and waved them in his wife’s direction. She was doing the dishes and was not amused by this. “Listen,” she said, “I’m having company over for dinner this Sunday. It’s a big deal for me, she’s an old college friend I haven’t seen in many years and she’s bringing her new husband. I need you to promise me that you won’t sit in the dog house.” Denny let go of his genitals. “Do you really not want me to?” he said. “Yes,” she said. “I really do not want you to.”

Next Sunday the friend came over with her new husband, who happened to be a vet, and the foursome discussed their pets and the school system while eating dinner. The dog walked by the dinner table and the vet admired its coat and said it seemed to be a good weight. “Most American dogs are fatsos,” the vet said. Denny said they walk the dog daily and groom it every week. “Sometimes twice a week if he gets dirty. You know how dogs get.” The vet said, “We have a dog too and he tends to get very dirty whenever we let him outside. And that’s just about every day.” Denny did not enjoy the vet’s company but he continued being cordial with him as a favor to his wife because, at the end of the day, if Denny were to tally up the sum of her personality, her appearance, her tolerance of his sitting in the dog house, and her sustained enthusiasm in bed, she is a wonderful life partner whom he wouldn’t want to disappoint.

“I see you have a dog house out back,” the vet said. “I like the look of it.”

“Thank you,” Denny said.

“Where did you get it?”

“Petsmart. It was on sale.”

Now that the vet was interested in talking about the dog house, Denny liked the vet. He asked his wife if he could go outside and show off the dog house and she said yes. She had wanted to catch up privately with her friend so they could talk about their husbands and all the lovely things they do as well as their unsavory habits.

Out back near the dog house Denny ran his hand along the shingles of the roof of the dog house and said, “These are real roof shingles. The kind of shingles you see on a real house’s roof. They are probably not too different than the shingles on my roof, or your roof.” The vet rested his hand on the shingles and confirmed that they were the same shingles one could find on a real roof. The vet bent over and looked inside the dog house. He appreciated how large it was. “You could fit three dogs the size of your dog in this dog house,” the vet said. Denny said you could fit four even, and they agreed on that, four dogs.

“Do you ever wonder if your dog lives better than you do?”the vet said.

Denny had thought about this often and had already concluded for certain that, yes, his dog lives better than he does. Denny’s favorite thing to do was sitting naked in the dog house, but he only did once a week out of respect for his wife and out of fear of being caught by a neighbor, whereas the dog sat naked in the dog house every day for many hours at a time. The great pleasure Denny got from sitting in the dog house must have been felt by the dog much more often than it was felt by Denny, Denny thought.

“My dog lives better than me,” Denny said.

“My dog lives better than me, too,” the vet said.

Denny was starting to feel more acquainted with the vet. At first he didn’t like the things the vet said, or his shirt, but now he liked both. Denny thought there was a chance they could even become friends, and he figured that if their wives’ conversation went well and they picked up their old college friendship, then he would need to become friends with the vet anyway, or at least see him in social situations and be cordial.

“Most pet dogs in America live better than much of the country’s human population, all things considered,” the vet said.

“Definitely,” Denny said.

Denny wanted to tell the vet that he sits naked in the dog house. He wanted the vet to know that after dinner on Sundays he walks outside and gets naked and crawls inside the dog house and sits for a few hours. Like his dog, Denny sits there and doesn’t think, or at least he tries not to, and he doesn’t touch himself. He doesn’t feel a strong happiness, and he doesn’t brood or sink into a sadness or become anxious about anything he’s done or failed to do—and Denny has failed to do much. When he sits in the dog house he sits in the dog house, nothing else, and he wanted to tell the vet about this and how sometimes after sitting in the dog house he would feel like a dog, but out of respect for his wife he didn’t.

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Never Fucked Before

November 29, 2012

Josie lives alone, except for a dove.

She shows the dove a teet.

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

“Here’s a teet!”

“Pweet pweet!”

“Here’s a teet!”

“Pweet pweet!”

Teet, pweet, teet, pweet.

Now the Schwan’s man comes with ice cream.

Josie says, ”I’ma fuck today ha ha!”

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, “I’m so hungry for ice cream I could scream!”

The Schwan’s man says, ”Please do not scream! You will excite the dove and it will go pweet pweet! How irritating!”

Josie says, “I would also be irritated by the dove going pweet pweet! We would be irritated together! Both of us together!”

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, ”I never fucked before!”

“Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, “Have you fucked!”

The Schwan’s man says, “Yes! I have fucked two gals!”

Josie says, “Who were the gals you fucked!”

“I paid to fuck a bedouin whore in Iraq! I was hopped up on army pills! Sue me if you want!”

“You were brave to be a soldier! Who was the other gal!”

“Cheryl Holstein. She lives here in our town. We fucked in her laundry room and then we ate a gallon of Schwan’s chocolate ice cream. That ice cream was for someone else! I was almost fired ha ha!”

“I love Schwan’s ice cream!”

“Cheryl Holstein will not leave her husband for me!”

“What is it like to fuck!”

“So good!”

“I never fucked before!”

“I know ha ha!”

“I would like ice cream right now!”

“I miss Cheryl Holstein so much!”

Josie shows a teet. The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Teet, pweet, teet, pweet.

“Pweet! Pweet! Pweet! Pweet!”

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The Toads’ Policy

August 10, 2011

Before Aunt Suze made him go to law school Uncle Rick was in Wapakoneta’s second fiercest biker gang. The Toads were the second fiercest because they treated women well. The Sturgeon did not treat not women well, and if you want to know more about that, ask Aunt Suze to tell you about the Sturgeon she rode with who sanded down her nose with her own nail file who is now a district court judge, no joke. The Toads had a policy: each spring they’d go on a trim hunt in Columbus. They’d plop ladies on the back of their hogs and ride to Toledo for Meat Fest. If a lady stayed on the hog all the way to Toledo, and didn’t let another Toad get up on her in the motel’s pool– and yes, they’d try, to test the ladies — AND she seemed to enjoy Meat Fest enough, then she was officially that Toad’s ladyfriend and none of the other Toads could try to get up on her anymore. Then the Toads would ride down to Trotwood where they knew a guy who lived in an old schoolhouse and they’d party there until the ladies got restless. If a lady stayed on the hog all the way to Trotwood then she was officially her Toad’s old lady. Old ladies were temporarily honorary Toads. Toadettes. Nobody called them Toadettes, though, and they didn’t get a Toad jacket or Zippo, but if they had the time and wherewithal they were permitted to make their own Toad swag. A Toad couldn’t get up on his old lady’s friends, but he could get up on his ladyfriend’s friends as long as a) he was very drunk and other people saw that he was drunk, and b) the ladyfriend’s friend whom he was getting up on wasn’t another Toad’s ladyfriend or old lady. If a Toad had an old lady he had to be stealth: he could only get up on other ladies who were in no way affiliated with his old lady or the Toads, and he couldn’t be seen with the other lady by a Sturgeon because those dudes were meddlesome and they’d tell the Toad’s old lady to stir up shit.

If an old lady stayed on the back of a Toad’s hog all the way back to Toad HQ in Wapakoneta, then the Toad had to make a choice: he could say a) “I’m a rolling stone. Toads don’t mate for life” and take her back to Columbus; b) “First you were a stranger, then you were my ladyfriend, and now you’re my old lady, lady. It’s time to meet my momma” or his aunt or sister if his momma had passed, and he’d make it a real Christian thing with her; or c) “It’s been great, but I need to demote you to ladyfriend status. Toads don’t mate for life, and while I couldn’t imagine not having you in my life right now, I need other ladyfriends to live a full life.” C) was the most common choice. One Toad used c) so often he had it tattooed on the bottom of his foot. Instead of saying it to an old lady he wanted to demote, he would show her his foot, which was much easier. If an old lady said she was fine with being demoted to ladyfriend status then she became a permanent honorary Toad. No matter what happened between her and the Toad, she was a Toadette for life, you could say, not that a Toad would ever say that. Aunt Suze agreed to option c) and put up with Rick being a Toad for five years. She calls those years her chlamydia years. Uncle Rick was the first Toad to get married, and soon after he enrolled in law school the other Toads married their old ladies, too. Some Toads skipped a step and promoted their pregnant ladyfriends to wife status. Eventually every Toad sold his hog to pay for diapers and other wife shit, except for the Toad with the foot tattoo, who joined the Sturgeon.

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Beach Folk

July 1, 2011

Caesar Creek in Waynesville is a good place to hang if you like hanging with what a politician would call folks. You could call its beach a beach, but it’s as much of a beach as Caesar Creek is a creek. Don’t call Caesar Creek a creek unless you want the folks on the beach to think you’re not folk. Caesar Creek is a lake with an unlimited horsepower designation and four launch ramps; call it a fun time if you’re going to call it anything.

A family friend whose name I won’t say because who wants to be written about? killed two people at Caesar Creek last July. He says it wasn’t his fault, and last week when we were tubing at Caesar Creek he made his case:

-If Dina hadn’t been dancing with that dude she met at driving school and touching his dick in front of God and all creation then I wouldn’t have been drinking so hard that night. And when I start drinking like that on Thursday I usually don’t stop until Sunday night, especially in the summer, and double especially when Dina’s been sleeping at her sister’s. And when I saw Dina and that dude go to the bathroom together I drank some more and later in the parking lot I saw him lay her out on the hood of his Jetta and tickle her pussy like I like to. I’m sure she loves that Jetta. She loves things that are fancy but not good. That’s why I call her Pottery Barn when I’m mad at her.

So Friday morning she texts: don’t be mad. And I text: I don’t get mad at whores. She doesn’t reply. Hours later like a chump I text: I’m sorry, you’re not a whore. She doesn’t reply to that either. I text: are we still getting married? She doesn’t reply. So a few hours later I text: don’t reply to this text if we are still getting married. She doesn’t reply. I guess we’re still getting married.

I drink all day Friday and that night we’re out again and, no joke, she’s with that dude from the driving school again. She’s bent over and he’s dry-fucking her on the dance floor with his fingers in her mouth in front of God and all creation. Even Tom, who never says shit about other people, says that’s fucked up.

-Why didn’t you leave?

-I stuck around till two in case she actually wanted to go home with her fiancée and was just sucking that dude from the driving school’s fingers in front of everyone to make me jealous. Saturday morning I’m on bloody marys and then a few beers, and Tom and I hop in my car and drive to Caesar Creek thinking a day of boating and beaching, if you can call it a beach, would calm my nerves. We find some real estate on the sand and get to drinking, and Tom’s going off about how I can’t marry her now because everyone has seen what a whore she is, dancing with that dude from the driving school like a black girl and sucking his finger. Tom’s always been more racist than we like but that’s just his way, and he had a point: at least seven people we know saw that, seven people who are going to our wedding.

-I thought the wedding was off for now?

-Still up in the air. We’re waiting for the lawyers to put stuff together. So, of course, Dina and the dude from the driving school spread out a bed sheet right next to us. Tom, even Tom, is like, this shit is cruel. A minute later she’s putting lotion on his back and he’s putting lotion on her back and her tits.

-She was topless?

-No, but you know how she has those fake tits like volleyballs that push up against her neck? If you don’t lotion up the top half they’ll burn real bad like they did at Put-in-Bay two years ago. But she could have done that part herself. So they sit down and she looks over at me and says, Oh hey, I didn’t know you were going to the beach today. Oh yes she knew. And I don’t say a word. I look at the dude from the driving school. He’s so much fatter than me and there’s a little boner tenting his Umbros just from lotioning her tits. Now, I’m an easy boner too, but that’s pathetic. At this point I’ve seen this guy put is fingers in my fiancee’s mouth, I’ve seen him hump my fiancee on his Jetta and tickle her pussy, and now I’ve seen his boner. I was fed up. Tom and I are going boating, I said. We picked up the cooler and the bottle of Bulleit and walked over to the dock and Dina says all sweet, I’ve always loved your boat. Can we come?

-How did you crash?

-I barely remember. By that time I was sick-drunk.

-Why were you driving then?

-BECAUSE IT’S MY BOAT. If I am on my boat then I am driving my boat. Even if I’m getting sick over the side, no one else is driving my boat, especially not that boner from driving school, God rest his soul. He was like, Dude, you are so drunk right now, let me drive. And even Tom, rest his soul, was saying boner should drive. But it’s my boat, and the more I think about it, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot this past year, it’s all Dina’s fault. I would have drank less if she hadn’t been on the boat, enough less to swerve around that boat without hitting the other boat.

-You might be right about that.

-I’m going to cheat on her every chance I get.

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Shoe Butt

January 10, 2011

Aunt Frida says she’ll never love again. She blames Charlie Sheen.

Christmas Eve, 1990. Charlie Sheen was in Dayton visiting family. Everyone knows that when Charlie Sheen’s in town he goes out and chases tail and that year Aunt Frida’s tail was one of the tails he chased and caught and did things to in his room at the Holiday Inn. Aunt Frida says he did sick things to it but she was cool with it because it was Charlie Sheen after all and he really was a very sweet guy. The next morning they ate eggs together and exchanged phone numbers. Charlie Sheen said he was going back to LA that afternoon but in May he would be back in town and they should meet up. Aunt Frida said she would like that. May came and went and there was no call from Charlie Sheen. Frida says that she knew he wasn’t going to call but we don’t believe her because back then she was a nervous wreck. She had lost ten pounds in preparation to meet and have sex with Charlie sheen again. She even started flossing. In June she called him but he didn’t answer. She didn’t leave a message because she thought he would just laugh at it and play it for his actor friends. She thought he would say something like, This sliz I threw it to in Dayton thinks I’m going to call her back.

Fourth of July, 1991. We’re eating dinner downtown and Aunt Frida is weepy-drunk. She asks the waiter if that wedding ring ever comes off. You know, for special occasions. He says it doesn’t. But do you know what I mean by special occasions? Isn’t today, the anniversary of our NATION, a special occasion? She says nation like nation is a man she wants to murder. The waiter says it never comes off.

We walk to Frida’s apartment to drink more and set off bottle rockets. We’re in the kitchen opening a bottle of something and someone says there’s a message on the answering machine. Frida has one of those phones that plays voice mail out of its speakers so when she plays the message we can all hear it: Hello. This is Charlie. Charlie Sheen. Frida says, Oh my God! I hope you remember me. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. You know how my schedule is. Anyway, I’m in town for a few days. I’m at the Holiday Inn and I was wondering if you’d like to come over tonight, and he gives her the number to his room. Frida screams, Oh my God, oh my God! She runs upstairs and changes into jeans and a tiny t-shirt and takes a shot of something and calls him back. They make plans. We’re happy for her, for sure – it’s Charlie Sheen after all – but we know that she’ll regret it later and we’ll have to hear about it and nobody will be allowed to mention Charlie Sheen for a month unless she brings him up first. Before she heads out the door she says, I know what you’re thinking, so don’t even say it. And I know I’ll never be with him but it will make for a good story to tell my kids someday.

She never had kids. Sometimes when she’s hungover she’ll talk about adopting a kid but none of us encourage her enough for her to do it. When she’s really down she’ll say she misses Charlie Sheen, and it’s the saddest thing any of us have witnessed. When Charlie Sheen is in the news for being a drunk buffoon she’ll say, That’s my boy. Or: He’s angry because he misses me but he knows he can’t come crawling back now because it’s too late and this is his way of acting out.

She said Charlie Sheen called her his mud hen. We were like, What’s a mud hen and why did he call you that? She said it’s because when he made the movie Major League he got into minor league baseball and there’s a team in Toledo called the Mud Hens and one time they were messing around outside of a bar and she got mud on her knees and shoes and although she tried to clean it off in the bar’s bathroom she still tracked it back to the hotel room and the next morning Charlie Sheen saw all this mud on the bed and said, Did I fuck a mud hen last night? And I said, No, you fucked me last night. Well it sure looks like I fucked a mud hen in here. And I guess it’s because I’m in Ohio and the Toledo Mud Hens are in Ohio so he associated me with the team and for the rest of the morning he called me his mud hen. He said I was his sweet little mud hen. Two times. So it’s kind of an inside joke. We have a few inside jokes and pet names, but the other ones are too personal to tell you. Soon after that we got her drunk so she would tell us the other inside jokes. Here’s one: She called Charlie Sheen Shoe Butt because he’d make her wear high heels during sex so she could plug his butt with a heel.

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The Policy At Polk’s

November 3, 2010

Don’t pass out at Polk’s in Athens. Mr. Polk will take a Sharpie to your forehead. A guy I met there said one night he passed out at the bar and woke up with the words EGG YOLK on his forehead. He had told his wife that he was working late that night. When he came home with EGG YOLK on his forehead his wife said, What the hell? He said he had lost a bet at work. A week later he was at Polk’s again and he had again told his wife that he was working late. And once again, he passed out at the bar. This time Mr. Polk wrote LIAR on his forehead. When he came home his wife asked him why he had LIAR on his forehead and he told her that he lost yet another bet at work. The guy told me that she believed him. I don’t know why she did. Maybe she’s gullible, or maybe she didn’t want to face the fact that her husband is indeed a liar and a drunk. He also told me that after he explained why he had LIAR on his forehead she went down on him. She’s the kind of wife who goes down on you, he said, even after she knows you’ve lied to her. The third time the guy passed out at Polk’s Mr. Polk wrote DIVORCE ME on his forehead. When the guy woke up he tried extra-hard to wash it off in the bathroom because DIVORCE ME is much worse than EGG YOLK and LIAR. But Mr. Polk always presses hard when he writes on drunks’ foreheads and the message didn’t wash off. So the guy went home with DIVORCE ME written on his forehead. His wife asked if he had lost another bet at work and the guy said that he had. His wife asked him if he wanted her to divorce him. The guy said he would die if she divorced him. You’re all I have, he said. You can’t divorce me. She said, I won’t divorce you, but only if you never come him with Sharpie on your forehead again. All these weird messages are weirding me out.

I was at Polk’s last night and the guy was passed out at the bar next to me. Mr. Polk said he was sick of this guy. It’s bad for business to have folks asleep at the bar. He handed me the Sharpie and said, Think of something to write on his forehead. Hey, I said, the guy said that if he goes home with Sharpie on his forehead again his wife will divorce him. I don’t want to ruin his life. That may be true, Mr. Polk said, but I have a policy: If you pass out at Polk’s, you get written on. Now, I’m not willing to go against policy just to save this guy’s marriage. This is the fourth time he’s passed out here. Either you do it or I do it. If I do it, I’m writing I WAS AT POLK’S, so if you want to help him out then you should do it. So I thought about it. What could I write on his forehead that wouldn’t get him divorced? I LOVE YOU? I’M SORRY? FORGIVE ME? But it didn’t matter what I wrote. She said if he ever came home again with Sharpie on his forehead, she would divorce him. I asked Mr. Polk if I had to write on his forehead. He said, I don’t care where you write on him as long as you do it quickly, he could wake up any minute. I undid his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Above his mound of pubes I wrote I NEED HELP. Mr. Polk said, What good is that going to do? I said that there was a chance he wouldn’t notice it tonight. And later on when his wife’s going down on him she’ll see it and realize he needs help. And then they’ll talk about stuff. Sometimes after two people talk about stuff things are alright.  It’s the right thing to do, I said. This guy needs help.

The guy woke up and said, Aw man, not again. What did you write on me this time? Nothing, Mr. Polk said. You’re off the hook tonight. But next time you pass out here I’m writing NAZI FAGGOT, I swear to God. The guy went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to make sure, and then he went home.

I didn’t see the guy at Polk’s for a month. I thought that maybe he quit drinking, or maybe now he drank at home where his wife could look after him. Either way, what I wrote above his pubes had made a difference, I was sure.

On Christmas Eve it was me and Mr. Polk at the bar eating turkey sandwiches and drinking wine. Around ten or eleven the guy walked in. He was fatter, and he was as drunk as we’d ever seen him. The bar stool wobbled and almost fell over when he sat on it. He ordered a scotch. Long time, no see, how’s things? I said. He said things are bad. Real bad. My wife, she left me. You guys said you didn’t write anything that night, but you did write something. You wrote I NEED HELP above my dick and when she was going down on me that morning she saw it and she got all sorts of mad about it. She said there’s no way anyone at work would write that on me. It doesn’t make sense. They would never tell me I needed help. So I had to come clean. I had to tell her I was coming here to drink the whole time. She said she couldn’t live with someone who was such a liar and she moved in with her sister. But there’s a chance she’ll come back. Mr. Polk said there’s always a chance and he gave the guy a turkey sandwich and a glass of wine. I said that she’ll be back, she misses you. Naw, she’s gone for good, the guy said. She got hysterical when I told her I threw it to her cousin who lives in Chauncey.

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Dick’s Condition

October 27, 2010

A family friend from Mansfield has an odd condition which he said I could write about as long as I didn’t use his real name so I’ll call him Dick. I’m calling him Dick because the condition affects his dick. The size of Dick’s dick varies greatly depending on his mood and the weather. If he is happy and it’s sunny then his dick will be fully erect and it will measure nine to eleven inches in length and three inches in width. If he is melancholic and it’s raining or snowing then his dick will be limp and it will measure anywhere from one to three inches in length and one inch in width. On days when Dick is happy but the weather is crummy his dick will be five to seven inches long and two inches in width, and it will remain moderately engorged, never erect and never limp. The same goes for when he is unhappy and the weather is agreeable. During tornadoes the size of his dick is unpredictable.

Dick’s fiftieth birthday party in June was a blast. It was hot out but not too hot and we were all drunk. Dick hung out near the bar all night and he would ask anyone who walked by the bar to do a shot of tequila with him. He was wearing the red suspenders and red pants he wears at parties. Around midnight someone turned off the music and gave Dick a microphone and told him to give a speech. He refused. We started a chant: Speech, speech, speech. He said fine and started giving a speech. Thank you all for all coming, he said. It’s an honor to have so many friends here. He thanked his wife Rachel (fake name) for throwing the party. It was a boring speech, and we were bored. But then he dropped the microphone and said, Aaahhh. He keeled over. His hands were on his knees and he was shaking. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke? A woman gasped. Someone said, Are you alright? Dick stood up straight and said that he was fine. He thanked us for coming again and went upstairs. A few minutes later he was back at the bar drinking tequila. He was wearing jeans. Later on we heard that Dick was so happy during his speech that he had ejaculated.

Mansfield winters are long and miserable and Dick tends to be limp-dicked and miserable from late November through early March. Rachel is also miserable in the winter because she enjoys having sex with Dick but he can rarely have sex – the usual way, at least – until mid March. In the spring, summer and fall Dick is a sex maniac. He and Rachel will have sex in the morning and at night and on his lunch break, if he’s feeling well. But in the winter he spends his nights watching television and drinking scotch. He’s stopped trying to mess with his limp dick in the winter. Rachel doesn’t enjoy watching television or watching Dick drink scotch on the couch. So in the winter she goes on dates with men she meets on the internet. If things go well on the date she will have sex with the man. If the man asks about her wedding ring she’ll say, Yes, I am married. But my husband doesn’t care what I do with other men in the winter as long as I dump them in March. So I’m going to have to dump you in March.

In February a doctor proposed that Dick undergo treatment. If the treatment works, he said, the size of your dick would no longer depend on your mood or the weather. It would be like most other dicks. But there was a catch: the doctor said it wouldn’t grow past six inches long and two inches wide and it would no longer be as hard as it is now when Dick is happy and the weather is nice. It would be easier to control but never as powerful as it is on those warm summer nights when Dick is happy about everything and Rachel is waiting for him in bed. Dick thought about it. He would like his dick to be erect when he’s sad and it’s crummy outside. But he would miss that super-long, super-hard dick of his. He would miss how mighty it makes him feel. He loves that dick. So does Rachel. Life wouldn’t be the same without it. So he said, Thanks but no thanks. I’ll stick with my dick. The doctor was surprised. Who would want such an erratic dick? he thought. The doctor has called three times to ask Dick to reconsider but each time Dick has been too busy drinking scotch and watching television to answer the phone. And Rachel has been out with a man she met on the internet.

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Published Work

Page 1: The Fox in the Garage

How I Started a Family

Do We Need Cynar?

Gary 1 and Gary 2

I Work at a Fashionable Hotel Called the Hudson

C.O.D.Y. the Robot Who Hangs Out

Ann and Her Birdhouses

Luke and His Bobber

The Fox in the Garage in 3-D

105 Stories About Ohio

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The Slugman of Herbert Street

Harold and the Purple Women

Video

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