August 21, 2014
Crazy Old Muttering White Dude
Aw, geez, don't let me turn into this guy...
Some time ago, I wrote a lengthy paean to my cock, which, I’m pleased to confirm, is also lengthy. At least, above average
by the standards of Caucasoids of my geological epoch—despite having lost
a centimeter or two to the ravages of time. I intend to leave a hell of
a fossil. But enough about my cock and its ravages.
In that epic post, I confessed that, when alone in my apartment or private
office, I am apt to catch myself suddenly repeating the phrase “My cock”
aloud, in a normal, conversational tone. Or, as more often rendered: “My
I write this on a solo trip to Malaysia. Solo traveling puts an extra layer of varnish on run-of-the-mill aloneness, and I find that being in this situation makes me even more likely to spout out some of the increasingly disturbing things that I tend to spout out when alone. I can barely shut the door to my hotel room before letting loose. That would be disturbing enough in and of itself; what vaults this tendency into blog-post-worthiness is the increasing inanity of the utterances that come, unbidden and unfiltered, from some especially moldy corner of my psyche. Here are my recent Top Five involuntary verbalizations.
1. My coooooooooock is so haaaaaaaaard.
At some point when I wasn’t paying attention, that old stand-by “My coooooooooooooooock” was retired to the Oldies station. Oh, it still gets trotted out often enough by the ol’ subconscious in its fits of nostalgia, but of late “My coooooooooooooooock” is apt to find itself shouldered aside by “My coooooooooock is so haaaaaaaaard.” At least, sometimes it comes out all elastic and gooey like that. Other
times, it’s just an offhand “My cock is so hard,” with the all the passion
of a Yankees radio broadcaster segueing into a drop-in ad for Aamco.
And in case you were wondering (Oh, I do hope you were wondering), an erection is no prerequisite for stalking around the kitchen informing the appliances that “My coooooooooock is so haaaaaaaaard.” This pronouncement is just as apt to emerge during moments of stupefying flaccidity.*
2. Cock, cock, cock.
In an effort to attain either greater shock value or maximum concision,
my internal editor sometimes can’t be bothered with superfluous syllables
like my and hard, and yearns to cut right to the chase. The enunciation of this mantra
has a strangely soothing effect on me. I find my speech organs lingering
lovingly over every hard k, so that it does not come out kakakak as you might suspect, but more along the lines of:
...And so forth and so on.
3. Fuck you, you fucker!
This one is most likely to occur in my office, soon after an unpleasant
meeting with colleagues (unpleasant here being nearly redundant) or a class that did not go well.
It is directed, I believe, not at any particular colleague or student, but rather at the intrusive memory itself. Some voice nags away at me along the lines of “the chairperson just humiliated you in front of all your colleagues, and you just sat there and took it, and not for the first—” until I cut it off with the above brusque epithet.
Sometimes, the nag refers not to any incident of that same day, but to
some haunting failure or blunder that may have occurred decades earlier,
which makes it all the more annoying. “That dental hygienist was giving
you all the signs that she wanted to swap fluids with you, but did you pick up on it? No! No, you just sat there and—”
That nagging voice has it coming, no question. It is just asking for a
stern rebuke. But I wonder if I would ever be able to make that fact understood
to my immediate neighbors, who must suffer such outbursts through our notoriously
porous office walls... Good thing I don't work in a cubicle.
4. You goddam N-word! (or) N-word, N-word, N-word!
“What th—” the reader croaks, and I totally understand. There you were,
reading through a list of Uncle Josh’s humorously oddball quirks when WHAM!, just about the unfunniest and most forbidden expressions imaginable wallop
you on the ears.
I feel the same way whenever I catch myself in mid-utterance of either
of these. Where did that come from? For the record, there is no black person in the history of
my personal acquaintance, nor any in the public eye, to whom I would want
to direct such invective.
I just now googled “Tourette’s AND N-word,” and the results were instructive. When the diseased mind seeks out the English word most likely to induce shock and discomfort, the N-word is what it often lands upon. This revelation hardly makes me feel better about myself, though.
5. I want your nipples!
In contrast to Item 4 above, I feel only bemused and amused when I catch myself in this one, and will not even bother to interrupt myself, but let the expression play out till the end.
Left unstated by this puzzler are (1) just exactly whose nipples it is
that I want, and (2) what on earth I would do with those nipples were they
provided. The only nipples clearly excluded by the context are my own;
otherwise, it’s a free-for-all, given that the utterance comes upon me
with no accompanying mental image. It could be Florence Henderson’s nipples
that I crave, or Yogi Berra’s.
The default assumption is that I require these nipples for fondling and sucking, but that’s by no means a given. Maybe I’m thinking that they might come in handy to plug holes in a dyke. As Woody Allen famously said, “The heart wants what it wants, and we must not let the lowlands flood again.”
So that’s my list. While these eruptions have thus far only emerged from
my lips when I am alone, I find a disturbing tendency of late to catch
myself embarking on one or the other when I am alone but for a companion
with whom I feel comfortable, such as Mrs. Muggins or one of my seminar
lackeys. I wonder if it is only a matter of time before I start barking
these things out in Starbucks or just any old place.
And what if I that happens? What if, in my dotage, I’m being cared for by some kindly, minimum-wage-earning women of color, and start ranting my standard N-word tunes? Or the nipples business, for that matter?
What do you suppose is wrong with me, anyway? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
|* I’m fifty-eight years old, for heaven’s sake. Who’s going to call my bluff?