He’s also a fucking creep.
And it’s not because he’s got a hairlip from his ten missing teeth (we actually reckon that adds to his “AW!” quotient) or because he likes to gnaw his black fingernails in the night, by your crotch, while you sleep or the three day walk of shame eyeliner he’s got happening (also, kinda swoony, the more I stare back at him).
Nancy’s a creep because he’s got a hardon for death.
And yes, he’s fixed. People always wonder about that bit but erections and testes don’t (necessarily) correlate for shit. Just ask my grandfather*. He had prostate cancer, surrendered his balls, grew manboobs and STILL made it with my bee-hived grandma more times than I would ever care to remember two sexagenarians (HA!) swapping spit, let alone making the beast with four tits. They even got it on into the late stages of his dementia.
I heard it all, man. I slept down the hall and my mother shared their wall.
But we aren’t talking about my grandparents and their inexplicably amplified post-op Irish Catholic banging here. We’re present to consider the unsettling predilections of my dog’s dick.
You see, the thing is, he doesn’t just go red rocket anytime he sees a dead thing and it’s not like he’s turned on by the kill (that I can tell). No. My dog only lets slip his alarming, wet stiffy when he’s found the corpse (a bird, a worm, a mouse, etc.), inspected it thoroughly and – when he thinks I’m preoccupied picking up the others’ shit – starts rolling around in it: nose to tail, back to belly. And I suspect it’s that stink on his skin that really gets his motor running.
And for a while I tried to stop him because washing the stench of old death (the pieces he prefers are never fresh) of an excited dog (do pups get priapisms?) fucking sucks but now I kind of don’t give a fuck.
I mean, I do. It’s a hideous thing to see and cleaning caning cocks is a delicate chore but it’s also rather mesmerizing, really and that fucker just looks so happy rolling around in a squirrel’s entrails that I’ve decided ten minutes scrubbing (gently, OH so gently) in the tub is a small price to pay for what appears to be his one insurmountable pleasure.
Well, that’s not true. He gets rage hardons, too but anger’s not what Tobacco’s playing out. Mr. (questionable, redacted, otherwise unknownable) dispenses the creepy fuck fritz glitch and gasp from the sticky armchair of a broken Morricone snuff theater with all the pearl necklaces of a life refined in subversive cult cultural madness. Anger doesn’t serve him and neither does violence. He’s all dicks and ass and sweat and tits and death and – though it took me a few years to recognize this – the world is much better for him fucking felched sounds all around up in it.
And Nancy agrees with me. He’s sitting in my lap as I type this, panting fast and wriggling his ass to “The Streaker” for the umpteenth time this evening.
That, or he has to piss.
*Ed. Note: Please don’t. He’s dead.
Ultima II Massage Tracklist:
01. Streaker (ft. Notrabel)
02. Good Complexion
03. Video Warning Attempts
04. Eruption (Gonna Get My Hair Cut at the End of the Summer)
05. Lipstick Destroyer
06. Self Tanner
07. Face Breakout
08. Blow Your Heart
09. Beast Sting
11. Creaming for Beginners
12. Omen Classic
13. Pool City, McKnight Road
15. Father Sister Berzerker
16. The Touch from Within