How Did It Happen to Me?

I know I'm young. I know I'm young and getting older. The lines around my eyes are increasing and deepening. I can dig it-- I'm looking wizened, like I've done a lot of really great partying. My stomach grows more sensitive, snarling, grinding, and gassing away-- I expected it. My zits have by and large disappeared. As much as I enjoyed looking like I was reaching higher karmic forms with sporadic third eyes and the thrills of popping bloody whiteheads onto the shared mirror in the bathroom, I'm OK with their departure.




But that hair on my back. . This has gone too far.

Really body? Really?

I know it comes with the territory, and by territory I mean Gaza and the West Bank.

Rocks are to tanks what tweezers are to. . .

Why a desert people ever had to develop swarths of hair is beyond me, and conversely how my skin became as white and lustrous a full moon also defies my imagination, because who could believe anyone would ever convert? Jews have a good sense of humor; it's not that good.

And it's not exactly that I have back hair: it's that it;'s shoulder hair, a fine quilty of blond hair that fluffs off my blades like the hair tufting from a babies scalp. So smooth, yet so unattractive. Fucken babies.

Look, I'm no girly man. If the Taliban can wear thick kohl around their eyes, so can I. And if one of the Pet Shop Boys isn't out of the closet, then I can certainly go on loving disco. I am a man's man, but why a monkey man?


I recall the first time I encountered shoulder hair. Mother Dear and I were spending a quality family moment watch 'Keenan and Kel' in the early part of the mid 90s. In the sketch, Kel, a coach modeled after a drill sergeant, screamed at Keenan to lose weight. Mother Dear found particular lulz in the shoulder hair glued on to Keenan's shoulders.

Disco! Eyeliner! Glamour Shots!

Would you laugh now, ma? Would you laugh at your only boy? Your only monkey child?

When I had my mullet, it tickled me so playfully, it blew in the air. I felt like a playful Pekingese running about with my mully kite flying in the wind. Like a majestic chinese dragon.

My shoulder hair does not play. It does not flirt with my neck. Not a caress.

They say the best best about having sex with a sixteen year old in the shower is that she looks like she's twelve. When I come out of the shower, I look like a muskrat. No younger, no older. Just a muskrat.

Soon the hairs will become ingrown, then I'll be popping' em off my shoulders onto our shared mirror. Fuck you roommates! This life is COLD. A man with shoulder hair has no time to wear eyeliner. No time to dance to disco.

Or will I? Will I be like that hairy Iranian in the club? Hirsute and potbellied, my shirt with far too many buttons undone, shaking orientally to euro-house beats? My thick aromas wooing women across the dance floor. Will they tug on my tufts as they hate fuck me, finding I have no money after all? Not a cent? Not a centime of oil wealth? If I'm lucky?

Like a very hair Jake Gylenhaal to me/ Iranians and Armenians look the same to me

No.



All I'll have left is Klingon opera and effete children, horrified by their shaggy sperm donor in a society that praises the svelte, and never men who love disco.

This life is too cruel!

I have examined my friends, given massages to them at the beach, working sun cream into their hard male flesh. As I looked, carefully, only to find that I am alone this life. The indignity!

What fresh humiliations will I have to face in a world that made a handsome man so hairy?

Will I have to pop zits off my ass tomorrow?


How can I face these realities. Will I have to retain a Korean aesthetician who mocks me, calls me a neanderthar as she waxes away? Showing me the clumps of pelage, as she snickers, but inwardly crying wishing she were with men like Asashōryū. Will she shear strands from an otherwise fine specimen, despite the acne scars on my ass, despite the athletes foot, despite the moles that must be photographed and checked for melanoma, despite a Roman nose that looks not quite Roman?

Asashōryū, yokozuna, described as a Sex God by Mother Dear

When we all know I'd be better off getting my ass waxed.

Where The Fuck Do You Get Off?

I'm a nice guy. Maybe I'm too nice. Certainly I've weirded a few people out. Perhaps made a few people think I had less than pure intentions. Perhaps gone over the top. I understand that coming over cooing, clucking, and doing baby talk weirds some people out, but fuck you, and fuck your dog.

If your dog does not so much as return a bit of my attention, you have made a sorry mistake in raising him. Really. A golden retriever who will not so much as turn his head to me and smile after I follow you two with my eyes for a quarter block grinning, beckoning, calling him over with my eyes, to say hello so I can give his haunches a good, solid petting, is fucked. That's like a retard who isn't interested in public masturbation. It's unnatural. It's ungodly.

I get it if your schnauzer has his head too far up his own fucking ass, so high on grass induced rosy turds to give me the time of day, the satisfaction of running my abnormally large hands against his firm yet curly pelage, to give me the RESPECT I DESERVE, but a golden retriever, no sir–– that animal needs to be taken away from you.

And you act like you don't see me laying eagerly in wait for you and yours. I fucking love a Pekingese. I'll love that bitch to death, and for your dog, the Emperor's own! to treat me like I'm some Chinese rice farming peasant who should be averting his eyes as you and Mindy pass by me on the sidewalk after I have been standing there warbling 'Oooooh, I love him! I love hiiiiim! I looooooooove hiiiiiim!' for thirty seconds and to not even get a sidelong glance my direction, let alone the petting time I deserve, leaves me sorely insulted.

I will not abide.

You wanna go Chinese feudal state on me? you reactionary dog rearing fuck, won't give the commoner the time of day to shake Mindy around, loving on her long floppy ears, playing games with her flat face, fawning over her, I feel like I should go straight up, balls to the wall, Mao Zedong doggy cultural reeducation on your ass. Oh yeah. I'm gonna give a fucker so many Milkbones Biscuits it's gonna be shitting Cheesebone Biscuits until I have operationally conditioned glee at the very sight of my ass. I mean, not my ass, but generally. I mean I don't want your dog looking at my ass. I've had tapeworms. I needn't be reminded of what dogs can do to the old system, but,

And don't you pull your lead away from me when I'm playing with your Cocker Spaniel! No stranger has loved your dog like I have for the last 15 seconds. Not one. None. Not ever. Your dog loves me back. I am the fucking Mike Tyson of getting dogs to love me back. I am. I swear it. We're speaking to each other in Wookie. We are conversing. Hulloooo, we're talking here!

Tonight. . . you. . .

Sure I've done some things to pooches I'm not proud of. Yes, I've tried to kidnap two dogs in my day. Understand, the first one, that was a case of ransom and revenge. The second, that was the coolest fucking dog I'd ever seen! So smart! So smart it wouldn't get in the trunk. Little smug smart ass. And there was that accident that one time with the not swerving or braking, but c'mon, my passengers know: I took my foot of the gas. I also made sure it was dead. And it was old! I could tell. If you don't want your dog getting runned over, don't let her out of the house!

And that time my family's Jack Russell fell off my bunk bed. If it hadn't voluntarily gone up there in the first place, it never would have jumped down like that. You can't blame me. Those are animal instincts!

Is Max Spaghetti funnier than Rampage? Call me Spaghetti!

Despite these less then shining moments, never doubt for one second that I did not have a sincere and deep appreciation for little darlings. I love all the time I spend with them. I love animals so much, I don't even eat them! I won't even own them. That's imperialism. Matter a fact, you leave me alone with 'em, I might even free a few of them. You're trying to tell me your pug doesn't want to wander around Brooklyn? Haven't you seen Milo & Otis? Dogs love to adventure. And freedom is the very heart of adventure. Sure is.

So the next time you think you and your gorgeous white German shepherd, looking so much like Alf, can just waltz right on by me after I've told you to stop, slow down mister, blocking your way on the sidewalk, without so much as letting me shake his hand, smell his breath, and rub him down like some big fat Chinese Buddha, both of you are going to the country for some serious reeducating.

Gow raow.

To Pee Or Not To Pee: That's Not The Only Question

The old adage says a boy's should be like his father's. With homogeneity questions about difference should be less frequent.

Daddy, why does mine have a little turtle neck and yours doesn't?

Because your mother is a godless bitch who's hung up on her first goy boyfriend, that's why!

No one wants to have that discussion. Rather, I want to have that conversation, but maybe some people don't. Perhaps some should.

In high school one of my friend's didn't know if he'd been cut, saying yes, his tentacle had been chopped off. Another brave friend to stepped forward to inform the questioner that he was indeed circumcised. This was actually common knowledge, as So-and-so was well-endowed and had a proclivity for popping out of his fly while we were hanging out in our knickers.



Which leads to today's topic of conversation.

My father goes over the fence, as a result for more than twenty years, más o ménos, I went over the fence too. I don't recall when he showed me how to urinate standing up without exposing myself to the neighbor, your mother, the school janitor, that dude in the bathroom who wants to talk to you, a peg legged pirate and his puritanical parrot, like some men in airports do, and only in airports, but I'm sure he did, because it's easier for my peace of mind to imagine that my father demonstrated and my mother did not, Dearest Darling Mother that she is.

OK, now spread your legs, You're doing great!

Conjecturedly, this decision may stem from the universal childhood experience of wearing tighty whities, a garment designed for containment, not easy access, and for revealing speed stains. In this confining clothing, going over the fence is easier than unpacking through the fly.

I got a ton of the other kind if you'd rather.

By the time male adolescents have transitioned to boxer's it may be too late to have this conversation with pops.

Boy, I wanna tell you. It's time to pee outta yer fly. And we need to put Yeller down.

Yeller, is he playing with it or shaking? Yeller? Yeller, NOOOOOO!

A certain bipolarity arises though. Cut or uncut? Republican or Democrat? Over the fence or through the gate? Chunky or smooth?

If you eat chunky, you're an idiot. It's called peanut BUTTER. You wanna eat chunky milk butter? NO! It'll kill you! It'll kill you anyway! You're lactose intolerant! Don't eat chunky peanut butter!

Excuse me, and this ritual practice takes on other dimensions.

I'd watch my friends make use of their flies at the pissoir and would think 'How gay!' Not as in lighthearted and carefree, but more literally Gay.

The act of going over the fence seems to connote domination. An item is hefted over a barrier. Bulk must be felt, it's a masculine weight. It drops down, as if to say 'Here, I am." It's brutal, evident, never coy.

And conversely going through the gate marks a sly act. It does not call any attention to itself. Only a bit of the apparatus is exposed, compared to going over the gate, an act that openly demonstrate the masculinity in its entirety. This abashed male act takes on a resulting feminine or emasculating qualities, as the nature of the penis as a protrusion is not subtle, and nuanced, unlike it's female counterpart, the armpit. Thus the fly is like a widdle penis hijab, mostly concealing it away. The condom, a chadoor, that belongs to your roommate that you've poked a hole through, for the lulz.

Isn't Islam easy?

That's what I used to think of the little girly men going through the boxers.

But as I've discussed before, the machinery of my body has slowed. I used to be able to just rely on the power of my prostate to expel the urine and a shakey shakey to do the job.

Another proverb says if you shake it more than twice you're playing with it.

Clearly, someone's girlfriend made that bullshit up. Twice? Twice? C'mon two strokes, you're hardly even getting to know the prick. 53r10u51y! You're only playing with it if it's tumescent or that's the intent; otherwise, you may be fiddling, adjusting, tinkering, examining, or comforting yourself. There, there, my sweet meats, I feel your pain too. You're certainly not playing with it because you can't play when you're crying.

However, there comes a point when you can only shake it so many times before people interpret such thrash/thrash/thrash as having more than a utilitarian in function. I could try to rationalize such thrashing, but after 15 times, I no longer felt comfortable using public bathrooms.

In lieu of the violent panning of the river of its old gold, I allowed physics and experimentation to open new opportunities for me.

I've created some handy though crude diagrams (no double entendre intended) to illustrate my point.



As shown here, the boxers are holding the ol' menitalia up against gravity. (the boxers are not rendered in this diagram: just use your imagination.) Truly, what could be more manly than going against gravity? Conversely, what could be less manly then peeing in your dress slacks at your sister's bat miztvah in a borrowed suit because you were thinking about your hair and not meticulousness? Hmm? Childbirth? Menstruation? Poor control of emotion? C-section scars?

Perhaps.

It's called a trouser snake for a reason. Probably for several reasons, including for letting it slip out of the old snake hole. The latter diagram using the fly allows for a more natural albeit furtive maneuver, that allows for greater efficacy and less spillage.



Until I was tall enough to see over the urinal divider, I didn't think the fly was for peeing at all but instead strictly for better access to play with the old pocket tiger, leaving me without an alibi when Mummy Dear asked me why I had cut a slit into my pajamas, and all I could say was that it hadn't been the one to make it, but my babysitter.

I liked that baby sitter.

Until the next,


M. Rampage.