The Fate of the Lardass

A few nights ago I had a dream where I was completely nude standing at the counter of a snowcone stand with some old childhood friends (who recognized me) standing behind me. I'll let that sink in a minute for those of you who know what I look like.

The angry Austrian pictured here is none other than my main man Sigmund Freud (Booyakashah!). He posited that nothing we do occurs by chance; it's all in some way motivated by our subconscious at some level. In order to live in a civilized society, people repress the urges and impulses they find embarrassing (or are illegal). Freud said that those impulses need an outlet, and dreams are the catalyst. If you ask me, Freud was an oedipal, sex-obsessed, depraved maniac who badly needed some Jesus. In no fucking way is there some impulse in me that wants to get a snowcone in the middle of the day while au naturel with a couple of kids behind me that I used to play hide and seek with.

First of all, I am unusually self-conscious about my ass. That may be in some way related to the fact that it is a stark white, lumpy, hairy extension of my lower back. I am also strangely large-titted; I think I may be a B cup, I'm not sure. As if that weren't enough to keep me from exhibitionism, my manhood is rather humble. It doesn't help that any smallish part of the body is going to seem even smaller in relation to…oh, I don't know…maybe my enormous fucking gut! How the hell is it even remotely possible that I have some depraved desire to put all of the above described horror on display? Maybe if I were an agent managing some professional circus geek who smells like cabbage I would want to exhibit someone with a body like mine. But I never, ever want anyone to see what's under my clothes. Every time I undress to bathe in front of the walls of mirrors in my bathroom, I shudder to think what my wife has to deal with. Jeebus H. Krikey, she must spend more time suppressing her gag than concentrating on having an orgasm. Thank God for my platinum tongue.

I have written about my appearance before, so this is nothing new. But the Freudian idea that I somehow want to run the streets with my fat and my phallus flopping around stretches the boundaries of the ridiculous. During my recent vasectomy, I was subjected to the horror of having to expose myself not only to the oddly touchy-feely and soft-spoken surgeon, but also to the very cute nurse, who happens to work next door to my wife. The first time I met this chick she congratulated me on the birth of my son; as it turns out, she is also a patient of my wife's office. I was beside myself at the horror of this chick seeing me unclad, and could only hope that her stupidity precluded her from being present during a delicate procedure involving the very essence of my identification as a male of my species. No such luck. She waited at the foot of the table until the doctor exposed me, caught a glimpse, and then promptly took her place in her chair next to the examination table. Bitch of bitches! I imagined her doing this to every patient, deciding on the appearance of the organ whether she would help him with the semen analyses.
"Ooh! His dick is big and he's a hotty! I'm gonna give him a happy ending when he comes back to leave a sample."

On my follow-up visit, she told me to come back and get two sample cups, then go home and fill them. The bitch doesn't even want me jerking it in the office bathroom. Such is the fate of the lardass.