[I am going to repeat the warning that was blared at you in the header - NOT SAFE FOR WORK. If you have this post on your screen and you get fired, it's nobody's fault but your own for having lousy reading comprehension skills.]
[Background: You may remember THIS. If not, what follows will be somewhat incomprehensible. By now, you should be used to that here, but let's pretend I'm coherent sometimes. If you don't remember that post, you should read it. And then read the comments, too, with a special emphasis on those left by Eeka, Expat From Hell, Janet, and Lime.]
[Also, if you're a skimmer? Then skim your ass down to the final two paragraphs before commenting and making an idiot of yourself.]
"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things:
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing wax - of cabbages - and kings..."
(OK, last warning. Here’s where some of you better cut and run. If the addendum to Lewis Carroll didn't clue you in, then this photo certainly will.)
[space added intentionally to keep it off your screen before you know what it is]
That, my friends, is THE GAFFY AWARD.
(Its real name is The Jelly Clitterific, and it's available from Eden Fantasys. Reasonably priced, too, I might add.)
THE GAFFY AWARD (or, 'THE GAFFY', for short - which it isn't, as it falls well within the normal size range for jelly-filled ersatz penises) is a solution to a problem of mine. Let me explain.
Several weeks back, I received the following e-mail:
Hey there, I wanted to say you have a great blog. I love it. I clicked over from the comments you left on Ciara's Ramblings about a review she was doing for us. Thanks for the fun comments. It is nice to see her blogging community supporting her. She was a blast to work with.
Now on to Suldog -- I was cracking up about A Night at the Opera. The picture alone is funny, but a Springer Musical sounds hilarious to me. I never was one for those shows, but if anything can be lampooned for a laugh it is definitely Springer. I love the whole story though, the auction, I never win those things when I bid and you won them all! Great post!
If you are ever interested in working with Eden Fantasys, I would be thrilled. You have a great blog and a great sense of humor, which is always a good combination. Please email me anytime and maybe we can figure out a fun promo to do together.
My first thought was, "I guess I don’t have quite the same demographic as George Will." My second thought was, "That could be fun, but My Mother reads this stuff." My third thought was, "Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to keep the avenues of communication open. Who knows? I might score some free samples!"
Little did I know.
I wrote back and conveyed my thanks for the compliments, but didn’t commit to anything. About three weeks ago, this e-mail arrived.
We are working on a fun new campaign with some of our favorite guys out there. We want people to know what is in their vibrators - so we are asking guys to take vibes and smash them open with hammers, blenders, run them over in their cars or anything else fun, and show us the results and let us know what they look like inside.
It seems like something you can have fun with for sure. What do you think?
Email me anytime.
Now, imagine that you’re me.
(I know. It’s painful, at best, but it’s important.)
Do you believe, for even the tiniest fraction of a second, that I could have passed up an opportunity to make scads of jokes about dildos, especially when I’d be able to post accompanying photographs? I could no more ignore it than a Democratic congressman with an opportunity to vote for a tax increase. Plus, I get to demolish the dildo in whatever way I see fit? I might as well have been Pepe Le Pew in a room full of black cats with painted white stripes down their backs. The temptation was too much. I told him to send it.
The only thing I didn’t consider was MY WIFE. What would she think of me being delivered a huge pink rubbery schlong with the proviso that I decapitate it, write about the results and take photos? I decided to do what I always do in such situations: tell her about it after the deed was already done and it was too late for her to object.
So, I was sitting on the couch watching the British Open when I heard the front door open and something heavy hit the porch. I got up, opened the inner door, and there was the Jelly Clitterific, although I didn’t immediately know that's what it was. It was discretely packaged. Until I opened the Priority Mail box, I didn’t know for sure what was inside. It could have been rosary beads (although I hadn’t received any e-mail from The Pope inviting me to have fun smashing some up, so it was doubtful.)
I opened the box and...
Can I tell you something, in the strictest of confidences? I had never had my hands on a dildo before. I had seen them, I had read about them, and I had enjoyed their presence in a number of stunningly graphic and completely enjoyable films, but I had never actually hefted one. I was amazed at the weight. The damn thing was as heavy as a Wagnerian opera. I had never before considered the weight of a dick, but if all dicks weigh that much, then it’s no wonder men have an expected lifespan some seven years lower than women. These things must be putting an amazing strain on our hearts.
I’m standing in our kitchen, staring at this thing in my hand, when it occurs to me that the shades are up on the kitchen window and my next door neighbors might be looking at me holding this huge goo-filled phallus. Well, I'm no shrinking violet - and neither is the Jelly Clitterific - but those folks have three small daughters, so I figured discretion would be the better part of valor. I put it back into the box and put the box in the bedroom.
And there it stayed. I got cold feet. I couldn't figure any way to do the post without utterly mortifying MY (somewhat conservative) WIFE. I was on the verge of sending it back, with a sheepish apology to Drew, when, lo and behold, Eeka came to the rescue!
I wrote about how I was never going to accept another award. Eeka, being Eeka, toyed with me in the comments. She gave me an award. Here it is.
Now, I know she only gave me this award in order to push my buttons. I know it, but I still have to accept it. My ego - which is even bigger than the Jelly Clitterific - won’t let me pass up ANYTHING that names me something of the year. And, take another look at her award. I don't know about you, but to me the graphic appears rather... erect. Light bulbs went off in my head.
Eeka knows me too well from the great Boston-centric site, Universal Hub. She and I hold some differing political views, and we’ve had some gentle battles over there. I’m proud to say we’ve given each other respect and always kept overt insults out of it. She tweaks me on occasion, which keeps me from always being a pompous ass, something I might easily do if I knew that nobody would challenge me. I don’t know what she gets out of the relationship, but maybe she just likes pricking my balloons (which would be the only thing she likes involving pricks, so far as I know, her being a lesbian and all.)
I know that Eeka reads my stuff on a semi-regular basis, so surely she knows what I usually do to awards and award-givers. The parenthetical above was a start down that road, but I’m hesitant to continue. The reason? While it would be tremendously easy for me to jam on her lesbianism for, say, 28 paragraphs, I honestly try not to cross into territory where I might cause someone real mental anguish. My insults are usually ones I know the person can take, and I generally throw enough of them at myself, during the course of a tirade, to let everybody know that I’m just kidding. Here in Massachusetts, though, things being what they are, I don’t want to cause some poor misguided dyke any extra heartache, you know? I mean, sure, I could make jokes like this...
Q: Why did the lesbian throw a clock out the window?
A: She didn't realize it was spelled with an "L".
...but that barely makes sense. And Eeka is a cunning linguist, a veritable master of tongues, so such an obviously flawed attempt at humor would probably enrage her so much she'd feel like munching on a rug or something. So, let's try this one, instead!
A lesbian comes home, screeches her car into the driveway, and runs into the house. She slams the door and shouts at the top of her lungs, "Pack your bags! I won the lottery!"
Her partner says, "Oh my God! What should I pack, beach stuff or mountain stuff?"
"Doesn't matter. Just get out."
Of course, make it a plain old hetero couple and that one dates back to Henny Youngman.
(At this point, for no good reason whatsoever, I need to tell you about a spam I received this morning. It was for some Viagra-like substance. The subject line said: She Will Lose Her Mind From Your Great Size!!! Yes, that's just what every man dreams about, his partner left with no mental faculty merely from the sight of his humongous tool.
Well, OK, yeah, that might be fun, but what happens afterward? Will she regain her senses enough to be able to dress herself and maybe go out for a burger? Or are you stuck from that point onward with a quivering and crying mass of female flesh, barely recognizable as a human being, eating her own waste products and mumbling, "Too big... Too big... Too big..."? Seems to me that would be more trouble than the initial fun was worth.)
Anyway, Eeka giving me her phony-baloney award was just what I needed. Now I knew how to get rid of the motorized pseudo-penis without sending it back to Drew at Eden Fantasys. I'd get him his publicity, and also have some fun. I would make the thing into an award, giving it to my most irritating award-giver. Thus, THE GAFFY!
(Another aside: The Jelly Clitterific is made in China. Can you imagine working in a Chinese dildo factory?
"Hey, Wong, where's that batch of wangs?"
"Oh, OK, I'll check with him."
And they ship these things off to the United States by the thousands. They must think we do nothing but play with ourselves over here - which isn't too far from the truth, I suppose.)
As easy as it would have been to just stuff the obscene thing back into its box and mail it off to Eeka, there were more nominees to consider.
Expat From Hell gave me this award.
(Ugh. This is turning into such a gay post! Ginormous dorks, semi-nude wrestlers... I sure hope MY WIFE doesn't divorce me when she reads this. I desperately need someone to reaffirm my straight manhood.)
Expat is a guy, by the way. And from Texas, where men are men and women are glad of it (and sheep say "thank you" to the women.) None of that swishy stuff for them, by gum! Their women would no more think about kissing another woman than they would a New Yorker. They take their beef straight up, thanks, and no chaser. They don't call their football team the Longhorns for nothing, you know.
Seems like a nice fellow, but Bobo Brazil? Definitely worth a nomination.
Next on the dissing list is Janet.
Now, Janet is one of my all-time faithful readers. She's sweet, kind, a nice mom, never has a bad word for me, and her award may actually have posted prior to my warnings about what would happen should I receive another one. All of that won't save her, though.
What will save her from too bad of a beating is the fact that she lives in the Appalachians. Too easy a target. I mean, sure, I could sit around all day bashing hillbillies, but where's the sport in that? I'd have them skewered before they could wipe the tobacco drool off of their chins. It would be like... well, like making fun of Texans or lesbians. All they have to do is show up and it's funny. I don't have to say a damn thing.
Our fourth nominee, Lime, didn't even give me an award. Well, at least she didn't give me one this week. She gave me the following one - The Zombie Chicken Award - a couple of months ago.
So, why is she a nominee for THE GAFFY? Well, she made the comment that now I'd be getting more awards than I could handle, putting that idea into easily impressionable heads, like Eddie Bluelights. For that alone, she deserves to be tied to an anthill and drenched in honey (and, knowing her, she'd probably get some jollies from that.) But, more important, I was just over at her place and I saw that she doesn't even have that damn award on her own sidebar. In other words, she foisted it off on me and never really accepted the thing herself. If that isn't worth a GAFFY nomination, what the hell is?
(Also, she's a liar. I've met her, and she's not a small green oval-shaped sour fruit at all! Eeka is, of course, but I've already ragged on her for being queer, so why pile on?)
The envelope, please!
And the winner is...
Eeka! Her award was given with the express purpose of dissing me, so she basically started the whole thing. Anyway, all of the other nominees either have an actual dick between their legs, or can get one there on a regular basis, so Eeka would appear to have the most use for the award. It will be winging it's way toward you via the United States Postal Service this weekend, Eeka, batteries included! Enjoy it in good health!
Oh, I suppose there's one unanswered question. Why is it called THE GAFFY AWARD? It's an acronym. It stands for Go And Fuck Yourself.
(If you insist on telling me that 'Go And Fuck Yourself' has only one 'F' in it, then go and fuck yourself.)
And here is the most important part of this whole post: All participants in today's reamings were asked if they'd be willing to participate. All of them, being exceedingly good sports, said 'yes'. As a matter of fact, they all seemed rather thrilled with the idea. Eeka, especially, loved it, and her plan is to pass THE GAFFY on to some other deserving soul, who will then pass it on to another, and so forth. Thus, good friend Drew at Eden Fantasys (and that's his spelling, by the way, not mine) will get the benefit of multiple exposures (so to speak.)
My readers are the best people in the world, and I would no more really tell one of them to go and fuck him/herself than I would tell my own mother (who is probably passed out on the floor, since she reads my stuff regularly and, though she has come to expect odd and possibly disquieting things here, probably had no idea that a huge red rubber dick would pop up on her screen today.)
Soon, with more better stuff (and an iron-clad guarantee of no putzes, aside from yours truly.)