“CURED! (like a side of Pork)”
Virtually confronted with my own shortcomings the other day, I decided now (that is, a few days after the other day) is (that is, was) the time to have a good, long look at myself, staring Me up ‘n’ down so that I can figure out where I fit in around here (i.e. “society”). While I was doing this, I was also feeling (and seeing) how something was obviously lacking re: my person (i.e. me), and how (furthermore) that Special Something may well be described as a healthy set of CHEST BLOSSOMS. Yep, it all came down to nipples again.
I spoke the other day (not the above “other day”, but another “other day”) about being obscenely obsessed with something or other (I forget what). And yet the real obsession is not the OB-scene one, but the UN-seen one (or two. As in my two non-existent nipples, neither one of which I could see. Because like I said– they were non-existent).
But y’know something? Why would a man (like me) actually need a set of teats anyway? I got no plans to breast-feed anyone (or -thing) any time soon. Which means the old saying “as useless as tits on a bull” should now become “as useless as teats on a boy”. Because paps-on-a-chap are just pointless blemishes, aren’t they? Like warts or melanomas or outie belly buttons or whatever. Damn right they are. And WAIT. What about this? What if all those fellows out there with dry old fallow nips are truly the less evolved ones, like Neanderthal Man was, whereas I (Duncan Dooligan) am the more evolved one, like… I dunno… the MISSING LINK… man… is? What if, ay? WHAT IF??
It could even be “true” (so to speak) that my “dilemma” (so-called) is Evolution’s way of saying: “Duncan Dooligan?” (Brief pause, as I ignore Evolution) “OI! PAY ATTENTION!!” (Begrudgingly, I do) “That’s better. Duncan Dooligan? I hereby give you permission to choose your own useless blemish without any sort of meaningful input from Nature. Because you’re better than the other men, gosh darn you. I’m not happy about that, mind. But I’m Evolution, so what can I do? Put the brakes on myself or something?”
So I decided I would follow Evolution’s advice by choosing to get my very own useless blemish in the traditional place: a TATTOO PARLOUR. To that effect, I (reluctantly) missed my Whiteness Studies lecture a couple days ago and went in search of the local blemishing boutique. It was one block away from the University. I went in and rang the bell and out lumbered the Skin-Sketchin’ Man. Ironic (I thought) that someone like me would have the mark(s) of his evolutionary forwardness carved into his flesh by one of those abovementioned folk of neanderthal-type. This Master of the Blemishing Arts had so much fur on his “person” that he kept his tattoo parlour as cold as a fridge to stop him from “dog-sweating into the inkwell” (as he said), thereby leaving a permanent woof in the skin of his victims. All right for some, I suppose… but those of us who’ve risen above the mere fur that holds the less-evolved ones down do not dig Ice Ages!
After all, sensitivity is another trait that makes me more evolved. And so it was lucky for me that I brought along enough medicine to well ‘n’ truly zonk myself out (anaesthetically-speaking) thereby warding off those tricky little goose-bumps that might make The Operation less clear-cut.
Before I swallowed my fistful o’ forget-me-knots, I gave instructions to Neanderthal Man in a lingo that someone without opposable thumbs might grasp (See Below).
“Ugh! Me come as friend. Me bring’um coin. Him buy goody-goody blemish. Me got no nipple. Me want blemish instead. You fix’um? You personally and irreversibly deface carefully selected portion of anatomy as more or less adequate substitute for lack of nippular endowment? Well, UGH, or what? ME WANT THAT ONE THERE!!”
At this point, I pointed up on the wall at a random blemish stencil (didn’t really matter which. They were all evil things like daggers and skulls and Company Logo-s ‘n’ shit) and as Neanderthal Man prepared his teeny little pneumatic drill (or whatever) I scarfed my pills and lay back on the operating table, expecting the best.
As I drifted off gently into Medicine Land, I could hear the soothing yet faintly jackhammer-like buzz of the blemishing tool. Worried at first (in a pilled-out sort of a way) I calmed myself (also in a pilled-out sort of a way) by telling said self that the “noise” near my flesh was probably just an electric toothbrush that the N-Man was using to cleanse and purify his one and only tusk. And then I slept the sleep of the soon-to-be happily defaced.
When I woke again, I opened my eyes (as is customary) and found I had pains in (uh-oh) “an unexpected place”. The N-Man sat nearby, leering hideously and screwing the lid back on a VASELINE JAR. Naturally, I feared the worst.
“Y… you haven’t…” I began, but couldn’t bring myself to finish the horror question. “Y… you haven’t… got chapped lips… have you?”
He said “Yes”, but he also said that he used a lip gloss fortified with aloe vera beneath a Vitamin E-based foundation, and a soothing ginseng-flavoured moisturizing lotion for that. The Vaseline was actually for his customers’ tattoos.
(Oh, and he also said he sometimes used it for butt-fucking them.)
Relieved at not coming into contact with highly contagious lip chappings, I asked if I could see my new tattoo. To this not-unreasonable request, he agreed. My next question (in Tarzan Pijun) was: “Where me blemished?”
“Exactly where you wanted to be,” said the N-Man, as he pointed at my chestal parts.
Now, maybe it was the pills a-talkin’, but I don’t remember telling him that I “wanted” blemishing anywhere in particular. So I thought I’d better get to the bottom of this by opening my top. Which I did. In front of a mirror. What I saw staring me in the face in that “unexpected place” (my chest) where I had the “pains” was a thing (or more correctly, two things) that almost made me cack my board shorts. Because that bastardo of a Neanderthal Man had flung me back in time several billion years to resemble one of him. Yes, the vandalizing scoundrel had (gulp) INKED ME A NEW SET OF NIPPLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Worst of all, these Horror Buttons I now had festering on my once-unblemished man-boobs were so fucking life-like they actually STOOD UP ALL POINTY BECAUSE O’ THE COLD!!!
And yet– at the time– I still had vague traces of pill-related happiness in my bloodstream. And while I certainly knew that I was a victim-slash-SURVIVOR of a horrible violation, I also knew that it’s always best if we don’t provoke Neanderthal Man by criticizing his Art. So I stood in front of the mirror, nodding my head and smiling a big, fake smile.
Still fake-smiling (with all the cheesiness of someone who was lactose intolerant) I buttoned up my shirt, paid that monster of the blemishing arts, and sat myself down in the wheelchair so that I could be wheeled safely (for insurance reasons) out the door of the Tattoo Parlour.
But now– several hours (or days, I dunno) later– in the cold light of not-being-whacked-out-on-pills (as much) I can see that there is only one possible name for Neanderthal Man’s type of practice: Mal. (Which, coincidentally, is also the name of Neanderthal Man). Yes, Blessed Reader, I think you know exactly where this is heading: A COURT OF LAW!!