The Penis Monologues (A Shortened Story) by Michael H

Quite a few years have passed since the old man sent that letter. I’ve kept it in my safe and still read it every few years.

I met that svelte blond woman in the late 70s and we married in the early 80s. No one calls her The Missus; that’s just a name we made up one night when I was laughing so hard from the nitrous that she couldn’t get the key into the handcuffs. It’s surprising the things a man’ll do when he’s wearing a mask.

Life has been good. The timber business in Thailand turned was a long shot that paid off better than we ever dreamt it could. We did get stuck with that ranch in the Australian outback after the owner disappeared, but when we hit on the idea of making cheesy sheepskin boots to sell to female mall rats and model wannabes, that deal also turned golden. As did everything else.

We’re starting to age a bit. And we’re getting more introspective about our role on earth and our legacy.

A few months back, after she turned off the camera and sent the crew from National Geographic out of the hot tub room, she asked “Honey, do you ever think about donating part of big Richard there to ol’ LBJ?’

Well, I had been giving it some thought, to tell the truth. I told her so, and we talked about how we could do it for the old man, not to mention that awaiting pile of Texas sized American money that had grown into something that might make a billionaire wishful.

The thing was, we needed to keep it private. A donation like that just can’t be talked about, ever. It’s too personal.

So we planned and planned and planned. The easiest story would be one that is nearly true. Say, for example, that it was about a kidney. Yeah, that’s it, a kidney. That’s believable, and in the same general neighborhood.

So we called it kidney cancer. Heh heh. And we made all the secret arrangements to have surgery for a “Mr. Long.” Heh heh. It all went well, perfectly, in fact, until that chump posted the damn photo of old LBJ showing off his scar. So of course he’s expecting that I’ll post a picture showing my scar.

I can’t do it. The feds would be at the door before I can click the “off” bu.tton.

So as a last resort, I have to tell my sorry story. The sad truth about LBJ making me have penis reduction surgery.

Ah well, it was the least I could do for our country. Call it the mega-briss. Call it the 20% commission off the top. Call it Shirley.

The plumbing’s fine. There’s some pain and there will be for quite a while to come. There seem to be no long term negatives. I can still write my name in the snow, but the font size is now smaller.

That’s my story.