Is that a Beef Jerky or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Napoleon Bonaparte - owner of the beef jerky

Today I’d like to write about a little prick. No, Daniel Dalpiaz this one isn’t about you although I can understand why your ears immediately perked up. No, today the little prick that I’m talking about is Napoleon’s penis, which amazingly, has been making the rounds long after Napoleon Bonaparte met his fate in 1821 of a questionable stomach ulcer.

Commonly described as looking like a piece of leather or shriveled eel, the penis – which I will from here on refer to as Lattimer – fell into the hands of a New Jersey urologist who derived great pleasure by putting Lattimer into a little box and showing it off at shindigs for urologists (who apparently are some pretty wild characters).

This beef jerky is smoking

I know this is true because a urologist friend of mine attended one of these parties and witnessed Lattimer with his own very eyes and even confirmed its appearance – although he did suggest a resemblance a little more like a beef jerky.

It is on these pages that I would like to discuss – for the first and last time – this urologist’s account of that evening:

Urologist [with an uncanny resemblance to Jon Stewart of The Daily Show]: It was a cold, windy mid-December evening. Spirits were high as the posh ballroom filled with the deep melodies emanating from the 10 piece orchestra that tidily worked their way through a stirring ensemble. Thunder-snow lightning flashes occasionally cast fierce shadows –

Me: Hey, would you get to the penis part already?

Urologist: Sure. OK. It turned out that there was an investigation that was quietly happening in the background of the holiday festivities. No one knew about it. Not even the old fellow that had brought Lattimer.

Me: Yeah. Here comes Lattimer!!

The Mentalist

Urologist: Please! Would you? [uncomfortable pause]. Where was I? Oh yes, the investigation. It turned out that Simon Baker (aka The Mentalist) had been brought in by a blogger from the Huffington Post, a two-bit liberal rag, to find out the truth behind rumors that Lattimer had initiated a recent Signup request sent to the blogger, Paul Steele. Paul, being the bright, bald, philosophical guy that he was, felt that there was a secret message behind the request and wanted to check it out before his trip to the Himalayans with 13 lucky Tweeters.

Me: This is crazy.

 Urologist: It gets better. It turns out that Lattimer was being held against his will but was afraid to speak out lest he be tossed aside by his owner who, although provided well for him, tended not to be truthful all the time. In short, Lattimer felt jerked around and was longing for his release.

Me: And so the desperate call out to Paul. But why?

Urologist: Paul had quite a Twitter following and had held these Singups in the past. Lattimer was under the impression that he could somehow draw attention to his existence – and his conundrum – to a vast audience without alarming his owner.

Me: So what was the song Lattimer requested for the Singup?

Urologist: “I’m a Dick” by the Muffs.

Me: Isn’t that a little obvious?

Urologist: No one said Lattimer was a cunning…uh, penis. Anyway, Paul had grown suspicious, just as Lattimer had desired, and had tracked him down to this party on this evening and was planning to confront him and his owner. But Lattimer was having second thoughts. His owner had grown ill and was sure to die soon and Lattimer had his one eye on the sweet daughter. After the Singup request, Lattimer had decided that he wanted to stick around and get close to the girl.

Me: But Paul didn’t know that.

Urologist: Right. He didn’t know. And this confrontation was the highlight – or lowlight – of the evening. Depends on how you look at it.

Me: How’d it go?

Urologist: I’ll tell you…

[Dreamy screen wash, fade out and fade in to the ballroom. A small penis in a box rests on a wet bar stool. Paul, bald and in his hiking gear, approaches with the Mentalist, who is closely observing everything]

Paul: Lattimer? Is that you?

Lattimer [uncomfortably and looking back to the bartender with a slight slur]: uh…hey, bartender. Gimme another one of those Slippery Nipples.

Mentalist: No. Don’t give him anything else. Looks like he’s had enough stiff ones for one night.

Paul: Lattimer. We’ve come to help. We can take you away from all this…debauchery.

Lattimer [still slurring badly]: What does that even mean? Debauchery?

Mentalist: Excessive indulgence in sensual pleas- er, forget about him, Lattimer. Look at me.

Lattimer [unwilling to make eye contact]: I’m not Lattimer!

Mentalist: I know you’re lying. [Stares deeply at Lattimer with a kinda sideways skewed, observing, piercing glance]. Yes, I know you’re lying because the remaining skin around your shaft twitched ever…so…slightly as you were making that statement.

Lattimer: It always does that.

Mentalist: Plus, you are uncircumcised and drinking alcohol. The Muftis unsuccessfully tried to convince you and your army to give up alcohol, circumcise yourselves and convert to Islam as you over took Egypt in 1801.

Paul: How the hell do you know that? And what’s that have to do with this?

Mentalist: I know…lots of things. And I’ve just proven with my pseudo-psychic abilities that this is in fact THE PENIS OF NAPOLEON!

[A woman emits a shrill, blood-curdling scream]

Paul: This is getting weird. OK, Lattimer. We are here to help.

Lattimer [with seriousness]: I have changed my mind. I no longer want help.

Mentalist: How could you change your mind, Lattimer. YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A MIND!

What happened at that point according to my urologist friend is the stuff of legend. Basically, the place was trashed as Lattimer went nuts. The cops were called, some people even say to this day that they heard gunshots.

But it wasn’t until the notes of a tune began playing – a sweet tune that had been previously supplied to the orchestra – that Lattimer calmed down. Later, people would say that it was Paul who had tamed the beast of Lattimer, but the urologist knew differently. He knew it was the Mentalist, who was seen simply leaning against the bar, glass of scotch in his hand, slowly nodding as the lyrics oozed across the wrecked room:

Hey go away you’re annoying me
I’m a dick I’m a dick…

Paul knew the next Signup was going to be terrific.

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About Yorick von Fortinbras

YvF is a writer, musician that stays sane by being creative while navigating the demands of life, looking for those holes where a spark can get through.
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One Response to Is that a Beef Jerky or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

  1. Pingback: I’m a Prick – How Did That Happen? | The Functional Lunatic

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