Ol' Doc Barker

“Doc! Doc!”

“Oh lord! Love a duck! Mr. Thomas! This is my back yard…”

“You gotta help me!”

“…I told them, ‘Make sure it’s ten feet with barbed wire on top’, but did they listen? Nooooo…”

“I woke up this morning and I had an epiphany!”

“…See? B – B –Q…not examination table? Big difference…”

“I’ve got a disease!”

“And I’m wearing Bermuda shorts, not a stethoscope…”

“I’ve been giving a lot of thought about this doc….”

“…Does this even look like a tongue depressor? It’s called a spatula…”

“I’ve noticed that when anyone does anything despicable, they blame it on having a disease instead of themselves…”

“Mr. Thomas, can’t you just phone the clinic on Monday? It’s a lot easier to avoid you there…

(from the kitchen window) “Who are you talking to dear? Oh, it’s him…Don’t let him near the trees! The last time he was here the dogs ran around confused for a week …”

“I obviously have some sort of disease that prevents me from having sex!”

“What prevents you from having sex is in your genes”

“Hey, that’s low; besides it’s not the size… it’s the motion of the ocean…”

“Isn’t there a bar stool you should be sitting on?”

“But if you say that celibacy is a disease, then I could get help for my condition!”

“Your only condition is that you have a foot fetish: the problem is that it’s your own foot that you put in your mouth…”

“Just what are you hinting at?”

“Celibacy is a lifestyle choice…not a disease.”

“So is drinking, gambling, shooting up or going on line, but they’re considered diseases now! I went to the bar last night and (a loud sob) nothing! (Sharp intake of mucus back into nose) I really, really tried, doc, but nothing, nada, zippo!”

“And you’re surprised? I still consider it a medical mystery that you’re not a virgin!”

“I did every smooth move I know…I drank heavily enough to make everything I said utterly brilliant…I called every chick, ‘babe’…I selected an Indigo Girls song for the jupebox…I even ordered a paralyzer and made pornographic bubble sculptures…I even combed my hair!...I…I…(snot and tears so heavy in the throat now)..I drank a wine spritzer…A wine spritzer… But nothing!”

“…Move to a small town, they said, it’s more peaceful relaxing, they said… listen, Mr. Thomas, have you ever considered moving to somewhere…Where women have very low standards? Say, oh, I don’t know, far far far away from me? I hear it’s pretty nice in Antarctica this time of year…”

(Wiping nose on arm, leaving a large shiny line to shine in the sunlight) “Give it to me straight, doc…is it terminal? Am I sentenced for the rest of my life dating the palm sisters?”

“Did you run out of coffee again, Mr. Thomas? Seriously, don’t buy the tins, buy the pallets…”

“I’m serious! I’ve got a disease!”

“Look, diseases are debilitating, what makes you think celibacy could even be considered a disease?”

“Well, at night, if I roll onto my stomach, I get an extreme pain in my groin…”

“Get a softer bed …”

“I can’t look at a woman and think about nailing her”

“That’s called being a guy”

“I wear sweat pants and pray for a good strong wind”

“Again, it’s called being a guy…”

“I stand outside the plastic surgery clinics every day…”

“That’s a little creepy…”

“…in the back by the dumpster in hopes of seeing some skin…I mean nose  job, chin job….you can extrapolate cuz it’s got ‘job’ in it so it’s sorta close to hand job or blow job, right?”

“Ok, that’s a lot creepy, but that doesn’t make you sick…”

“I dreamt that I was in a threesome with Chloe and Kim Kardashian...by choice!  I-I-I moved the wrong way when I was doing Chloe and fell in, doc, Kim and I fell in…we couldn’t find my way out…spent the rest of my life foraging for scrap pieces of banana and egg plant that had made their way up and sleeping on a hammock strung between her fallopian tubes while Kim kept on asking if her hips made her ass look fat...”

“…Let’s get a place in town, she said. The kids will be able to walk to school and we won’t have to worry about the weather, she said…”

“I wake in the morning and everything is stuck to me…”

“Nightly emissions are normal…”

“But my cat’s really starting to get pissed about going into the shower every morning..”

“Go into medicine, they said, you’ll love it, they said. I knew I should have become a lion tamer…”

“But I try as hard as I can, but I still can’t stop being celibate…it can’t be my fault! If a person can embezzle fifty thousand dollars for their company and then blame it on a casino, there has to be something I can blame this on, damn it!”

“Listen, you evoke the fear that most women have that if they ever conceived with you, the fetus wouldn’t know up from down and they’d end up as a footnote in a medical text as the first orally presented birth…

”

“So what would be the treatment then?

“Treatment? Caring…sensitivity…cooperating…thoughtfulness…”

(From deep within the house) “You better say foreplay if you know what’s good for you! Or you’ll find celibacy is classified as infectious…”

“…FOREPLAY, you know, parts of your personality that makes you desirable to women…you have to fake sincerity …”

“Does it come in pill form or can I just do a patch thingy?”

“Uh, it’s not something you can buy…”

“What about a surgical solution?”

“Hmmm, removal of your vocal chords may help me quite a bit….no, no, sorry; it’s just the way it is…”

“So there’s no hope then…I’ve just have to put on a brave face and accept my fate…”

“You know, there’s a lot to be said for holistic medicine – maybe you should discuss this with the acupuncturist down the road…”

Nipple Napalm

I have had time to think about this topic for awhile now as I have discovered that with the increasing amount of time I am chained to the desk doing paperwork that contrary to what many of acquaintance may opine that I have finally hit puberty as my pecs have begun increasing in girth and affluence corresponding along with the number of paper cut claims I have filed. The ballooning of my pecs, however, are not within the lines of the early 1970’s Mr. Olympia, but those of woman, after breastfeeding thirteen children, have the shape and tension of a used condom.  They aren’t huge, I think a midsized training bra is not yet required, but it got me thinking that there is a definite sexual discrimination towards the man boob that many human rights groups have overlooked for far too long.

They go by many a name: testosterone titties, gonad giblets, bob’s bazoombas, the boiezes girls, or the ever popular, man boobs. Why is it men will go ga ga over a pair of large breasts on a woman, no matter the frame, while women will tend to gag?  Is it not the oldest arguments from the Women’s Liberation movement of old that breasts are a biological fact and not merely eye candy?  Why is it that a man is sexist if he yells at a woman “take it off! Take it off!” while a woman yelling at a man “put it on! Put it on!” is not?  Why do women think it is an utter travesty of society when a woman decides to spend thousands on increasing her breast size yet applaud if a man decides to spend thousands on gym equipment to decrease the size of his breasts?  Can today’s society with its pushing of formula even use the argument that breasts serve a biological function that is solely provided by a woman?

The worst part of the development of man-boobs is that the next step is nipple napalm.  Once the breast cannot support the weight of the nipple it will begin to point downward as an omen that the rest of the body can now go straight to Hell.  I don’t know how long I have until I will have to start hiking my pants up to my ribcage in order to hamper the dropping of the ball…er…balls to the point where to do nothing would lead to having to walk bow legged so that the scrotum has more swing room thereby reducing the number of bruises caused by whacking against the kneecaps.

Nipple napalm, in fact, when I was thinking about it led me to draw this cartoon…okay, perhaps thinking is too strong of word for how most of the ideas for cartoons come about.  It is probably best to say as I was grossly overindulging on something that at my age I should know better than to, this struck me as funny…

…and oddly familiar.  Not that the situation ever occurred to me, no, I’ve never gotten that drunk to make such a mistake.  I’m merely subjugating that a person could make such a mistake…overtiredness, loud music, dimly lit tables with the occasional blindness caused by errant rays of retina burning lasers of rotating strobe lights….it is totally understandable if a person was to hear “Lauren” instead of “Lorne” and that later, once upon discovering said error having to weigh the amount of coordination it would take to fall forward with your mouth open and tongue out versus the eighteen “Alabama Slammer” muscle coordination required to put the clothes on that almost ended the removal of said clothing on several occasions from multiple head contusions and a definite lack of balance…or so I’ve heard.

An office conversation

So our controller walks into my office. “Hey, have you seen my stapler...uh, what are you doing?  Where are your pants?”

“Oh, see, I’m working out the pragmatics of this scene that has two guys, a chick and a double headed dildo.”

“Okay...”

“See, if the one guy is on his knees like so that means that the dildo has to be at this angle, right?”

“I...guess...”

“Which means the woman has to be in this position to take it up her, see?”

“Uh...”

“But the issue is that she has to hold the dildo like this and have her head turned like this in order to do the other guy with her mouth because he can’t be in front of her because the dildo and her fingers could potentially cause friction burn on his balls because he has to pretty much straddle the other guy which could also potentially cause cramping of his legs.  However, if he is standing beside the woman then the chick runs the risk of getting neck strain because of the degree of turn she has to have her mouth.”

“How does this apply to work?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Oh.”

“But now, if the one guy is on his back then the angle of the dildo has to be like this, see, and the woman would have to be like this...”

“You can keep the stapler, I’ll just order another one.”

“The issue with this position is what would work better, her legs on the inside of his or his legs on the inside of hers?  I’m thinking that either way, someone’s going to get a Charlie horse.”

“And you felt that this was more important than your inventory details?”

“Well, I have to figure it out somehow.”

“And this is the best way you could think of?  Isn’t there a better way?”

“What are you and the missus doing after work?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I prefer it when you’re working on how to murder someone...”

If I posted a personal ad

  I got to thinking about how many people put personal ads up, which while they give me hours of enjoyment reading some of them( a sad statement of me if I do say so myself) I thought about how I would write one if I had the notion:

Ladies, do you enjoy throwing a ball down a steep hill and then telling a half blind three legged dog to fetch?

Do you have an urge to dig up dead celebrities to see how much plastic surgery they really had?

Do you like to run your fingers through thick wavy hair…even if it’s not necessarily on the top of a guy’s head?

 Is your idea of haute cuisine using smokies in your beanie weenies? Would you pay half for dinner but let the guy keep the toy?

Would you get mad if you were told that bikini waxes are too expensive when they can be done by me for free, thereby ruining your two piece for summer but having a kicking ass sled in the winter?

Do you long to run your fingers through thick wavy hair without minding that it’s not necessarily on the top of the head?

Have you ever run down the street wearing nothing but a strap-on screaming at the naked guy ahead of you, “I’ll be damned if you’re going to do that to me without me doing it to you first”?  Are you a pessimist and expect to be thoroughly disappointed?

Have you lowered your standards because it’s become too expensive to run to the Dollar Store every two days for replacement batteries?

Do you think a centimeter is bigger than an inch?

Well, you are in luck, my 12 centimeters of luv was made for you!  Me, I’m 46 which means that when you aren’t sucking on my balls they can be used to play a half decent game of hackey sack.  I have a Coke bottle-like body...well, okay, a two liter bottle of Coke body…uh, if you put a Menthos into the Coke and then quickly put the lid back on before all the gas escapes type of body. I have a job…okay, a hand job…fine, I’m masturbating...happy? 

I’m not, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing a god damn ad, now would I?

 I’m a fantastic lover because with the lack of looks and personality, I have to be good at something, right? right? 

For the love of all that’s holy please say right…Do you like sitting quietly during moonlit nights?  I forgot to pay my electric bill this month…Or long walks? 

The nearest liquor store is like six blocks away and I really want a case of beer…Do you like mourning sex aka “I can’t believe I did that with you”?

 If you want something deep and meaningful I do have the unabridged version of the Oxford Dictionary for your reading pleasure.

 No freaks, please.