Last Sunday Nero the Pict and this hobo went to Erique’s to spar with stick, knife and fist. His charming wife and precocious daughter were in attendance. I had been sparring my way across the nation and these young fellows were out of tune. So I was kind enough to tune them up.
As they sat sweating between rounds and bemoaning the degradation of combat from working six days a week to the point that a geriatric care poster child ran a clinic on them, Erique’s darling daughter brought out bottles of water. His wife said, “James, I had her wear that shirt for you.”
It had a flowered box and above and below it read:
TRAMPLE The
PATRIARCHY
I grinned and said, “Thanks for the idea, Incognegro wants shirt ideas. He has bought these Japanese embroidery machines and has his kids running a sweat shop.”
The darling tyke was standing before me as Nero and Erique guzzled water, pointing at the bottle she had brought for me. Nero said, “Christ dude, the least you can do is pretend to need a break, standing over us like the shadow of pure evil.”
I smiled down at the little girl and said, “Thank you so much, drinking the tears of young men is thirsty work.”
[Groans and oaths to stab me in the knife sparring rose from the resting men.]
Turning to the Lady of the House, I said, “How about a Hennessy billboard add graphic, you know, the Brother with an Asian babe on one arm and a mixed babe on the other. It can be captioned, “SAMPLE the PATRIARCHY.”
The men laughed and her pretty face went aghast as she recovered, “Isn’t there enough of that going on?”
“I suppose there is, Doll. I’m pleased with my ladies.”
Her pretty eyes rolled as Erique interceded, “I guess I need another beating—taking one for the team!”
As the week wore on I was attended by a string of physicians in a quest to divine the nature of my groin distress:
-Doctor Obabe, a Tall, buxom, proper, Nigerian doctor with a giant diamond wedding ring gave me a right proper examination, noting, “I must be thorough, with your travels I don’t know when I will get to see you again!” She found two inguinal hernias and passed me along.
-Doctor, Eyetalian Plumpster, quite the pallid doll of grace, found two holes in my lower abdomen, confirming two inguinal hernias, and passed me along.
-Vampire Annie drew my blood for the labs, letting her long hair brush across my arm once. This was becoming a cross between a night club for geezers and veterinary medicine of the highest order.
-Little Asia Annie, greeted me with a smile at the next facility, pretty behind her white desk.
-Cat Scan Cougar, in her platinum hair, imaged my guts in her magnotronic tube.
-Urology, saw me admitted by a certain Sister Shine of some 45 years old, weighed, measured, pressurized and interviewed. She laughed a few times during the interview about junk disasters. The doctor on the card in the examination room was some bald Hindoo junk mechanic. This was ending on a bland note, I thought. Then the charming tech said, “She will be right in.”
‘Oh no… If this is a tranny urologist, I’ll, I’ll, get felt up by a tranny urologist!”
A light knock on the door admits a 30-year-old Candice Owens look alike with a rocking bikini body that could not be contained by those medical scrubs. Candice Curves then interviewed me in depth as to the athletic, sexual and medical history of My Junk. I thanked her for being so thorough.
She responded, “I appreciate your concise and direct narrative. Most people are all over the place. You can tell a story. Now, I have to get a chaparone, its required,” she said by way of apology.
In comes Sister Shine to stand by the door and watch my examination, three other hens clucking out in the medical round. Candice Curves is not the distant, tall and at arms length Doctor Obabe. No, she gets close to her work, squats down on her lovely haunches in front of me and her face right there. I was waiting for her to pull down my trunks and Sister Shine says, “Oh, YOU can pull them down now.”
I shrugged my shoulders, having obviously been looking forward to watching Candice Curves do it, and as I slid the shorts and jock down below my knees and Candice began checking for lumps and stuff, said to Sister Shine, “Thank you so much for protecting me!”
Her grin said, as she laughed, ‘I don’t know if I am ruining your day or making it, you terrible old dog.’
When the two ladies left me to dress I heard them and the three others engaged in racous laughter outside.
After I was discharged, Incognegro called as I waited on the bus stop, “James, I have a Four Kings shirt for you, with your man, Duran on it.”
I then gave him a rundown of the Sample the Patriarchy shirt, which I believe is an idea confirmed and improved by the Almighty Himself who saw fit to have me attended by the Junkyard Valkyries this week.
We decided that the patriarchs would be in a white wife beater and be based on us, the salt and pepper patriarchs: Crackerjack and Carjack versions respectively.
“James, I think I’d look good in your beard.”
“Bro, it’s a deal if you hang your dick from my image. I want to look like an Anaconda Malt Liquor model from the waist down.”
[Laughter, he while driving and I while waiting for a bus.]
I then recalled, “You know, most food icon images are no longer used. You might be able to grab a graphic for Hungry Jack, the redneck pancake and mashed potato icon and place the Land ‘o Lakes Butter Babe and Swiss Miss at his feet, as submissive slave girls, with Aunt Jemima and Blue Bonnet, in their traditional head gear, as his wives upon his brawny arms.
That’s right Girls—ladies too—Sample the Patriarchy!
