You know damn well Not for children
Hey no seriously you probably shouldn’t really be reading this.
Well, suit yourself.
SOMEWHERE IN APRIL 
And now, it’s time to talk about my dick.
If I am to maintain any sincerity throughout the course of this literary tirade, then no frank and honest portrait of my present condition would be complete without some elaboration about the events surrounding that which is commonly referred to as “my dick”. First, let’s establish a few points:
1. “My dick”, as it pertains to this digression, will serve to reference an amalgamation of my sexual and urinary organ systems, which include, but are not limited to: my penis, urethra, testes, scrotum, epididymis, ureter, bladder, prostate, vas deferens, and, in rare and unusual cases, kidneys. For lack of a better term, I will refer to this honorary conglomeration as “my dick”, which, in addition to its anatomical function, will serve to encapsulate the collective spirit of the male existential condition.
2. In addition to the literal, historical, and factual bases for this assembly of anecdotes, “my dick” bears a metaphorical, symbolic, and even transcendental significance, representing various aspects of our collective consciousness. The chronicles of my dick will likely inspire numerous analyses and interpretations, to which I defer all speculation to the best judgment of my beloved and trusted Readers.
And now, without further ado, here is the story of my dick:
More than once, my dick got sick. Long ago, something started to happen to my dick. It hurt, it swelled, it suffered. But, for reasons I can’t comprehend today, I chose to ignore my dick. My dick got worse. Soon, I couldn’t walk or sit because of my dick. I went to the doctor and told him about my dick. He examined my dick and said, “There’s something wrong with your dick. Here’s some medicine. Go home and rest your dick.”
I was hurt, angry, scared, and alone. But soon after, things were once again fine with my dick.
Then some years passed, and then things weren’t so fine again. Something strange was happening to my dick. This time, I did not neglect my dick. I went back to my doctor, who examined my dick, and said, “Something is wrong with your dick. Here’s some medicine. Go home and rest your dick.”
“But I’m traveling tomorrow,” I said.
“While you’re gone,” he said, “take the medicine and rest your dick.”
I returned from my travels troubled and terrified. What was wrong with my dick? What was happening to my dick? And why was it continuing to happen to my dick?
It was time to study my dick. Doctors combed my urine and blood for pathogens that could infect my dick. They took pictures and ran wavelengths through my dick. But they found no sign of any trouble with my dick. Nevertheless, they offered to cut, split, trim, coil, tie, tug, twirl, clip, or otherwise obliterate my dick. “We’d be happy to lop off some of your dick,” they said. “Would you like us to cut your dick?”
No. Don’t cut my dick. Instead, I went home and did something worse. I did what is perhaps the stupidest thing you could do when it comes to matters relating to the dick: I Googled my dick.
Folks? NEVER. Google. Your dick. Horrible things could happen to your dick: lesions and bumps and sores and boils and worms and bugs and dragons and DEATH! Death of the Dick! Death by Dick Disease! Lord Protector Of All That Is Good And Holy! Deliver Me From Death By The Dick! I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep! The Texas Dicksaw Massacre! Nightmare on Dick Street! Friday the Dickteenth! Anything but that. Anything but THAT! I’ll take anything, anything! Anything! but my dick.
Last summer, my buddy John and I were planning a camping trip to upper Michigan when, just before our departure, wouldn’t you FUCKING know it, something seemed odd about my dick. My heart tumbled within my chest and sweat spilled from every pore on my body. Again. Again! It’s happening to my dick!
I called Adam, my guiding spirit, and said, “I think something’s wrong with my dick.” And doing what great friends are supposed to do, he told me not what I wanted to hear, but what I needed to hear, which was something to the effect of: “Yeah, sometimes stuff happens to dicks. I guess something’s wrong with your dick. Come to think of it, maybe there’s something wrong with my dick.” He might’ve added “Maybe you shouldn’t masturbate so much.” He probably said that, or I’m inventing it in my own memory. But he would, though. He would say that shit.
I called another doctor, a lady doctor. Maybe a lady doctor could fix my dick. But she couldn’t see me before my trip, so I had to schedule my appointment for afterwards, which meant that John and I were going up to camp while something terrible was happening to my dick!
We drove up, parked, and hiked two miles into the woods to reach our campsite. John took the lead and although I was marching right behind him with a big stupid smile on my face, I was terribly hurting from my dick. I prayed to God, the All-Hilarious, but in His infinite wisdom, He withheld my salvation that day. So instead, I tried to count my blessings and to think of all the terrible things that could be happening to me that were worse than a fucked-up dick. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t think of anything! Tooth pain? Not worse than my dick. Cancer? Not even close. Trauma? Abuse? Torture by electrocution? The Rack, the Iron Maiden, The Breaking Wheel? Kid stuff. So, to get my mind off of my dick, I started to sing and chant, offering a تسبيحة , a supplication, of gratitude for all the tortures of camping that, at least, were not my dick:
♪ It’s warm, it’s sticky, my socks are wet
This bag’s too heavy, I’m soaked in sweat
Oh quit your complaining, you mustn’t forgettttt:
At least it’s not your dick! ♪
♪ The sun is burning, the bugs are out
Mosquitoes and spiders are all about
But what in the fuck are you bitching abouttttt:
At least it’s not your dick! ♪
♪ We need more wood and this tent won’t pitch
My arms are red from this terrible itch
This camping thing is a son of a bitchhhhh!
At least it’s not your dick! ♪
♪ I stubbed my toe, I got dirt in my eye
If we don’t go home soon, I think I will die
But you shouldn’t care and I’m telling you whyyyyy:
At least it’s not your dick! ♪
Dick! dee-de-da-Dee-de dick-Dick! ♪
Aside from the horror of being terrified of my own dick, we had a wonderful trip. I got back and rushed to the lady doctor and told her about my dick. She investigated my dick, and then she said, “Sir, there’s nothing wrong with your dick.”
“What!” I fumed! “My dick, my dick! There’s something horrible happening to my dick! It hurts here, and there, and everywhere! Snap out of it, you stupid fucking cunt! Tell me, what’s the matter with my dick?!”
But she insisted that there was no sign of anything wrong with my dick. She suggested that I go home and soon I would be fine and I would forget all about my dick.
I foamed, I raved, I swore! Why, you miserable, mouse-minded bitch! Couldn’t she see? Almighty God, no! She saw! She suspected! She knew! She was making a mockery of my horror! Oh, anything is better than this agony! Anything is more tolerable than this derision! I couldn’t bear that sinister smile any longer! Out, damned strumpet! Out, I say!
I went home and took a nap. The next day, things were better with my dick. A few days later, nothing was wrong with my dick.
In January, something was wrong with my dick. I ignored my dick. My dick got worse. I went to a new doctor—an Army vet, Dr. Thumper—and told him about my dick. He examined my dick and said, “There’s something wrong with your dick. Here’s some medicine. Go home and rest your dick.”
In February, Adam and I took a trip down to New Orleans during my school district’s mid-winter break only to realize just days before our departure that we were going to be there during Mardi Gras weekend. We had a wild time, and when I got back, I noticed that I was feeling quite unwell, with symptoms ranging from fatigue and headaches to a cough and pressure in my chest. I dismissed it all as post-travel exhaustion and attributed my chest pain to a cigar that we had smoked on the trip. But looking back, and in light of a cluster of facts and statistics, I’ve wondered since if what I had that week was something else.
But hey. At least it’s not my dick.
On the morning of Saturday, March 21, 2020, I woke up and noticed that something was definitely wrong with my dick. But Saturday morning is an illness island. I called Dr. Thumper.
“Dr. Thumper won’t be in until Monday afternoon,” said the lady on the phone. “Is this a medical emergency?”
“Yes!” I bellowed. “Yes, you ignorant fucking twat! Yes, it’s a medical emergency!”
“Well, sir, we are trying to limit in-person appointments due to the coronavirus—”
Coronavirus! CoRONAvirus?! I’ll take ten coronaviruses and a lung cancer up the ass right now to not have to worry one more micro-second about my fucking dick!
I went to an urgent care center down the street. I stood next to a kid with red eyes and a woman who couldn’t breathe. The doctor examined my dick. He asked a lot of questions. And then, he said, “I don’t see why you’re worried about your dick. Maybe you shouldn’t masturbate so much. Here’s some medicine. Go home and rest your stupid fucking dick.”
Every day, I checked my dick. What’s that there? That’s new for my dick! What about this? New from yesterday’s dick! New from an hour, new from a minute! I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep! The ExorDick! The BabaDick! FrankenDick and DracuDick! Rosemary’s Dick! The Blair Dick Project! Creature from the Black LaDick! All Dick And No Dick Makes Dick A Dull Dick!!!
And then, one day, I woke up and went to the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I combed my hair, looked into the eyes in the mirror, and said: I’m tired of my dick.
Fear gets old. Fear gets boring. Fear is weak. Fear is foolish. Fear is what’s wrong with my dick.
Sometimes, stuff happens to dicks. I guess, today, something’s wrong with my dick. Come to think of it, maybe there’s something wrong with all dicks. And maybe I shouldn’t masturbate so much.
It’s OK to talk about your dick. Or your cunt or your clit. Or your scar, or your bruise, or that thing from last fall. Or that thing you enjoy too much. Or the fact that you might have a problem. Or the kid you don’t want, or the touch that won’t stop when you ask it to. Talk about your dick. There’s no shame in pain.
It hurt, it swelled, it suffered Veni vidi vici: “I came; I saw; I conquered.” Attributed to Julius Caesar (100-44 BCE). Lord…The Dick! “Life is Worth Losing” by George Carlin, 2006. The Texas Dicksaw Massacre “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, 1974. Nightmare on Dick Street “A Nightmare on Elm Street”, 1984. Friday the Dickteenth “Friday the 13th”, 1980. I foamed…any longer! “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe. Out, damned…I say! “Macbeth” 5.1. The ExorDick “The Exorcist”, 1973. The BabaDick “The Babadook”, 2014. FrankenDick “Frankenstein”, 1931. DracuDick “Dracula”, 1931. Rosemary’s Dick “Rosemary’s Baby”, 1968. The Blair Dick Project “The Blair Witch Project”, 1999. Creature…LaDick “Creature from the Black Lagoon”, 1954. All Dick…Dull Dick “The Shining”, 1980.