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I AM THE
So the other night I'm out with a bunch of comic book self publishers. The assembled parties all got along fairly well, and shared pint after pint of frosty cold beer (hint: don't eat the food at the Melbourne Bar and Bistro unless you're partial to violent, painful diarrhea).
Somehow (and probably by my urging) the conversation had gotten around to the issue of cock punching. See, it has always been a point of conversation amongst my friends and I that some individuals (media types, mostly) are long overdue to receive a solid, well placed punch to the cock. There are women who deserve it too, but some of them are old and were probably quite libidinous in their youth, which makes a cunt punching a logistical nightmare (Lillian Frank, you better run if you ever see me in the Safeway). I will leave it to the intemellectuals to decide whether I'm a latent homosexual who seeks to touch other men's cocks, but justifies it with brute, male violence. All I know is, some individuals have gone a long time without the type of pain and humiliation that only a reality-changing shot to the onions can provide.
The current victim of my ire was Hunter S. Thompson. I'd always thought of Thompson as a brilliant, devil may care symbol of the 60's counter culture, a man's man with a penchant for hard drugs and hard living, though cultured and refined enough to have posed a serious threat to the establishment.
Unfortunately, Mr. Thompson sees himself in no less a flattering context, and upon reading a blurb he wrote of himself that bordered on auto-eroticism, I decided he was deserving of some phallic pugilism. But that didn't seem enough. I suggested to the assemblage that he be punched after getting aroused. And not at an angle, either- a direct, target zero punch to the head of his erect penis, which would push the shaft back into the body, or snap it, or possibly cause it to fold up like an accordion.
Being a curious, industrious fellow, I decided to test the physics of this attack on a common drinking straw. First, I hit it at an angle, and proving my hypothesis, the impact was seriously diminished. It merely wavered slightly at the base. I then tried a direct hit, dead on. The swish of grown men's legs coming together and breath escaping from between clenched teeth was clearly audible, as audible as the satisfying Snap! sound as the straw broke in the middle.
I decided I wanted to further test this phenomenon. I thought about arranging a cucumber in a vice and then taking a baseball bat to it, but I decided in the end to go the way of Alexander Fleming, Henry Jekyll and Johnny Knoxville and try it on myself.
Now, it's harder than you think to punch yourself in the cock. There's the simple engineering problem that a human arm can't reach far enough to turn in and deliver a direct, dead-on hit to anything but the smallest of erect penises, let alone my enormous wang, the very shadow of which weighs a good 4 or 5 pounds. What's more, I noticed that in preliminary testing, your brain will not allow you to cause that much harm to yourself, and the blows will be half hearted or misdirected. Clearly, I needed a proxy.
Having no women in my life who are willing to touch my cock at all, even in an act of violence, and an abundance of males who are just a little too eager to do so, I decided on a non-human proxy. Multiple attempts at getting my cat to head butt my cock failed, and I was forced to go non-animated. I found a Ronald Reagan punching hand puppet and two hours to myself. I was all set.
I stripped down and arranged myself over my bathtub, arranging myself in a prone position and extending my arm forward, Ron's cold, plastic eye weighing the consequences of what I was about to undertake. This was the moment of truth. I pulled the lever and closed my eyes.
What happened next is still kind of fuzzy. Entire strata of realities were open to me. My eyes rolled so far into the back of my head that I could clearly see the part of my brain I had just destroyed. Colors swarmed around me. Entire palettes that cannot exist in a Euclidean universe made themselves known to me, but the overwhelming hues were black, red and purple, the tricolor of the bruise.
I searched amongst the stars for truth and meaning, and I found God, though he looked like a big, plastic Ronald Reagan. I waited for Ron to impart his celestial wisdom upon me, but all he did was invoke Neil Diamond's "Crunchy Granola" and scream "Good Lord!". Then he laughed at me, his teeth filed into razor sharp points, and Oompa Loompas sang "Oompa Loompa doompity dock, it is not wise to abuse your own cock" before the whole thing collapsed before me, and I passed out.
I woke up 3 hours later, my hair caked in vomit, the Ronald Reagan puppet as uncaring as ever, my cock slowly returning to it's regular color. I quickly realized that I had created the most awesome punishment known to mankind, and ran through the house, naked as Archimedes, crying "Eureka! Eureka!", though my brother says I was screaming "Elbfaha! Mamahankamanka "
I wrote down my findings immediately. Looking over my notes, I realize I must have been in a pretty unbalanced state, because it looks like Linear B. What's more, the pages are stiff with drool.
Bear in mind, this was from a blow no harder than a few pounds per square inch. Imagine the damage were one to put some shoulder into it! That being said, I'm ready to apply this punishment to Hunter the next time I see him. Getting him aroused first might be an issue, so I'm stocking up now on "Soldier of Fortune" magazines.
Word to the wise, Ted Nugent: You're next.