Free Headless by Benjamin Weissman

concept, but that’s just my point—straining to be one of the guys. Coming up with the perfect nickname. I’m man enough to concede when a bigger tool shows up that can do the job better, but the problem is that your crank is giving everyone nightmares. The guys are waking up screaming in the middle of the night. No one is sleeping. Everyone’s drinking buckets of coffee and then falling asleep in front of their computer and a little later barking their way out of daymares. We spoke to a horse doctor and he said that we need to get rid of the demon-stud. Productivity is way down and this is all during the Viagra era so we’re all hard but not really up for the challenge. Envy is dangerous, it chokes the victim. There’s actually less oxygen to breathe, we’re gasping—and it logically follows that we’d blame the thing we worship, you, our genital deity, after blaming ourselves, our respective gene pools, and God himself, of course, always an easy target, but in the end there’s no one to blame but you, O Cocklord. We were fine before you stepped in and dwarfed our gentle giants. A businessman must never drool. Robert, Bobby, John, and the other Bob are cramming cotton puffs in between their gums and lips to keep the saliva where it belongs, not pooling around our tasseled loafers. You have little eyes, the skull of a T-Rex, and this turbo sperm log which has frankly made us all a bit suicidal. You know how a big cock enters the brain—no, you probably don’t know this, and can’t comprehend a word I’m saying—a bigass dong barrels in the side door of the normal male brain and camps out like a belligerent elephant, refusing to budge. In another life I hope to be a zookeeper for your cage and mop up all the dick sauce your lower half discharges. Most of us work 18 hours a day and box the clown to slo-mo close-ups of one fleshhead sucking on another. But in this current life, this tedious humiliating strip of tightly wound cable, we can’t even accomplish that. Now, the simple relaxing j.o. session has been stolen from our lives, which is another way of saying, mental grand larceny. Granted, we’re surging in the dollars dept., we all own mucho real estate, but no plot of land can match up to the 20-plus inches of erectile furor you’re packing. Look at you. You’re shy, humble, polite—you flop your meat down right between your toes as natural as pie. We don’t want love. What we want is a bigger, more substantial chunk to suds up in the shower and adjust during tiresome luncheons. And, if at a party, having had a bit too much to drink, we find ourselves in a closet with a coworker, we unleash the Salisbury battering ram, an instant standing ovation, which in turn leads to awe, respect, overall happiness, salvation, and peace for all.
    As you must know, or maybe you don’t, the last thing on the mind of a fellow with a big thing are the little people—you can’t hide a joystick. They broadcast their own diminution. Don’t nod your head. Now is not a good time to agree with me. Of course one can hide it. They go into hiding on their own. They know things. They’re ducking for cover, committing the lower halves of our bodies to a life of chaff by squirming into the flesh bunker. To seek shelter only screams of fear, and most walking, talking, breathing human beings, like other predators, can smell that sour panic like hot sloppy lunch, and find the cowering soldier in seconds, sandwiched between thighs. What all of your colleagues are now forced to do is march straight into the boardroom, strip, jump face-first on the table, flip over, go spread-eagle, and say here’s what I am, a minute steak, a tough little fillet that means business. Act proud, know your limitations, remember names. The phrase I won’t take no for an answer only works if you mean it, if you’re willing to cut your own balls off. I tell my fellow genital mates, leave your balls on. Live your life. But I stray from the singular