Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Man Pole

You'd think penis would be sufficient. Or cock or dick or wang. But it's not. Not for my brother, at least. When my brother wants to gross me out--when he really wants to get me going, to get me shrieking and fake-puking and saying, Adam! Stop it! Stop it! You're disgusting! You're a freak! Ew!--he will roll out other words for penis.

I know this because he and my father were here for the last four days, and for those four days my brother taunted me incessantly. And my father wasn't exactly any great help. After all, he thinks my brother's just oh-so-funny, and whenever my brother rolled out another gross phrase, my father would double over and laugh-laugh-laugh.

I should've known things would devolve into this just as soon as my brother got in my car on the first night. He lifted one butt cheek and rattled out a fart that smelled like death.

"What the hell?!" I said. I fanned my hands in front of my nose. "Adam! JESUS!"

He laughed. "It's from what I ate last night," he said. "Fried peppers." And then he farted again.

Then, hours later, the boy got to riffing on penises. "Want to talk about man poles?" he asked me. He leaned over and punched me in the arm. "Want to talk about zipper snakes?"

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"How about purple-headed yogurt slingers? No? Don't want to talk about those? How about balls? Want to talk about nubs? Nubbers? Want to talk about hairy balls?"

This went on for days. And it didn't get any better after he'd met my friend Christine, who is tall and curly-haired and very pretty. In short, she's right up my brother's alley.

We had ice cream with Christine right before we headed down to Portland so that Adam could spend hours combing through tourist traps, looking for the perfect souvenir for his girlfriend. He'd already gotten her a shirt and a hat and a mug (he gets her a shirt, a hat, and a mug everywhere he goes, so she's positively laden with shirts and hats and mugs, and when they finally get their own place together, they're going to have to devote an entire room to the shirts and hats and mugs they've amassed over their relationship) but he wanted to get her something else too, something with pizazz. But we couldn't do that before we had a snack, and ice cream it was.

Driving away from the ice cream stand, Adam blew a gust of air between his lips. "That Christine," he said. "She sure is cute."

She'd won him over in the first five minutes, probably when she told him there was a place in state that made lobster ice cream--actual lobster ice cream, not just the kind he was eating (Lobster Tracks, which featured red-tinted chocolate swirls)--and he decided that if there was a woman who could enable his lobster fix by giving him a way to eat it in dessert too, well, she was really special.

"Yes, she's adorable," I said. "There's no doubt about it."

"Do you think she'd like to talk about man poles?" he asked. "Do you think there'd ever be a day when she'd touch my man pole?"

I plugged my ears. He started to sing a little song about man poles, about purple-headed yogurt slingers, and my dad almost drove off the road.


I figured it might be more vivid if I showed it to you in cartoon format, so here you go. And, yes, I made us British.


Jason said...

For an ostensibly straight man, your brother has schwanz on the brain an awful lot. One wonders.

KNC said...

Oh my. I'll be laughing at that cartoon for a long time. And with that, I'm going to get some of Matt's sausage (He just made sausage and pancakes for dinner, but see how it totally fits in with the nature of the blog? That's how I roll.)