Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Sunday Brunch

November 6, 2007 / / 42 Comments

Sunday was Hilly’s birthday. We met Hilly and SJ for Sunday Brunch.

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Here Sophia is teaching Hilly how they drink mimosas in Europe, Bruderschaft style. (photo by SJ)

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SJ and I in a competitive smiling match. (photo by Sophia)

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Hilly and Sophia after two mimosas. (photo SJ)

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More mimosas. (photo by SJ)

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After one mimosa, I became a little dizzy as I fantasized about being with three women at once. (photo by Sophia)

It never happened the way I had hoped — but I did bring all three women back to the house. Most of the action came from SJ, who decided to take photos of our living room. Here are a couple of her photos. I figured I might as well show you where Sophia and I do it every day — and by “do it every day” I mean watch “All My Children.” (photos by SJ)

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Hilly, may this year be your best!

I’m OK, You’re Nuts

November 5, 2007 / / 23 Comments

Thank you so much for all the comments yesterday. By revealing some of your neuroses, you made me feel a lot more normal. Perhaps that is the best therapy of all. If we can be as understanding and caring to OURSELVES as we can be to others, I think a lot of our problems would disappear! When I hear about the foibles of others, I always tell them to get over their embarrassment. It is all in their head! No one really cares! However, if I make the same “mistake,” it is as the whole world is watching.

The comment that inspired me the most yesterday came from new reader, TC.

You know what kills me about people like you and me? That we actually think we’re UNIQUE. Or that, if people heard about our little ‘quirks,’ they’d think that we’re insane.

Instead, of course, they do what I did when you talked about your coupon thing…they go “Oh, man, *I* do that!” Except not with coupons…For me, it’s calling in an order for take-out. I somehow have it in my mind that I’m going to “bother” the person on the other end of the phone by, you know, asking him to make food for me to pick up (or, worse, to have DELIVERED to me). When, of course, every logical cell in my body and everyone else’s says, THAT IS HOW HE MAKES HIS MONEY. He COUNTS on people calling in orders. And yet, I can’t do it. Seriously. Can’t.

Ain’t insanity great?

How insightful! My first thought: “This women is nuts! I wanted to speak to her like Mr. Spock “Your fear makes no logical sense.” ” I felt like sitting her down, tying her to a chair, and not letting her up until she “understood” why she was being illogical. “Why would it bother the restaurant if you called for take-out?”

But this was the point TC was making.  In therapy, the therapist sits there, never talking about herself. I’m not too fond of the student/wise Yoda relationship.  I think I would overcome my “coupon” fears a lot faster if the therapist just came out and said, “Holy crap!  That is nuts.  But not as f***ing crazy as my fear of calling restaurants asking for take-out!  We’re all crazy.  It’s hopeless.  Let’s just take some Prozac and go out for some burgers.  You still have forty minutes on the clock.”

Self-Help Books

November 3, 2007 / / 28 Comments

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Today, Sophia and I sat in Borders for half the day, reading self-help books. I was determined to find a book that described me and my “problems” in psychological terms. After my two months of therapy, I’m fully convinced I need this help, and I want to understand myself better. I almost feel as if I’ve been blind to parts of my own personality. I am neurotic, but just saying “neurotic” is too vague for me. I want a stronger sense of the problem. I’m envious of you bloggers who have something specific, like ADHD. That is a “sturdy” psychological problem. If I met you for the first time, I could shake your hand and you could look me in the eye and say, “My name is Jack and I have ADHD.” It’s just not the same to answer, “Hi, I’m Neil. I’m neurotic, but I’m not exactly sure what that means or what exactly I’m neurotic about.”

The first book I read at Borders was on procrastination. I certainly procrastinate on my writing, but not with everything. Other times, I am very much on the ball. (Editor’s note: I’d like to see that ball — Sophia) I can’t honestly say that I’m NOT a pure-blooded procrastinator. (Editor’s note: I can.)

I was excited about finding a book on anxiety, especially one that screamed “Millions sold” on the cover. Anxiety is nothing new to me. I HATE making cold calls. I freeze in fear. That is anxiety. In my single days, I could never get enough nerve to talk to women in bars. I was too anxious.

The trouble is that “anxiety” is a term too broad for my taste. I don’t feel anxiety in typical social situations. I love to speak in public. I would have no problem running naked in the woods. I’ve met many who are plenty more anxious than me. Maybe I’m not really “anxious.” (Editor’s note: Yes, you are.)

The book that affected me the most was one about self-esteem. There was much in the book that made sense in the way it related to me– from the way I speak about my own accomplishments to my inability to say “no” to someone — fearing that they wouldn’t like me.

After our visit to Borders, we went to a Bistro-type restaurant for a late brunch. I brought along a 2-1 coupon that I had found in the mail. As some long-time readers of this blog know, giving coupons to waiters is one of these events that makes me ANXIOUS. I need to talk to my therapist about this. I know this makes little sense to you, but it almost feels as if I’m asking the waiter for a favor and imposing on him. I know, it sounds crazy, especially since I always leave a good tip on the full check amount.

As the waiter came over to our table, Sophia nudged me to give him the coupon before we order, as it is stated to do.

“Excuse me, ” I said to the waiter, as I fumbled with the folded coupon. “I have this thing… some sort of a certificate… um… but I’m not even sure if you even take it on weekends…uh?” (Editor’s note: On the coupon, it said, “Use any day.”)

“Oh yeah”, the waiter said, matter-of-factly. “Great. I’ll take it.”

And that was that. Sophia looked at me, laughing at how the episode made me into an incoherent wreck.

I thought to myself, “Think about what you just said to the waiter, and WHY — and you’ll understand YOURSELF a lot more than reading self-help books.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Make Me Insecure Friday

Celebrating Ten Years of Being Free from Shoe Trends

November 3, 2007 / / 35 Comments

Today is a special day for me.  I am cleaning out my closet and tossing away these old Doc Martens that I bought in 1997.  Why is this important?  These were the last pair of shoes that I bought solely because they were “trendy” at the time.   Since then, I have bought shoes for no other reason than they appealed to me, whether they were found at Nordstrom or Payless.

Back then, these  Doc Martens were all the rage in Los Angeles.  The shoes were uncomfortable.  They were ugly.   I wore them because they were cool at the time, even though I was probably already too late to be part of the “grunge” scene.

Throughout most of my life, I wore shoes to please others — to fit in — to be one of the crowd.  For ten years now, I have steered away from any shoe trends, building enough nerve to make this final step — throwing away these old Doc Martens!

I know many of you are parents of teenagers.  I feel for you, as I’m sure the importance of what brand of “sneaker” your child wears is still as important to him today as it was in the past.

Here is my life in “be like others” footwear, up until 1997, when I went into footwear rehab and started freeing myself from the tyranny of the shoed majority.  My must-haves begin at an early age — first grade —

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PF Flyers “Center”

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Keds

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Converse All-Stars

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Hush Puppies “Surround”

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Adidas “Country”

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Puma Clyde Basket

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Bass “Yuppie” Penny Loafers (80s!)

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Reebok “Classic” Black

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Nike Air Jordan

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New Balance 801

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Doc Martens

Today, I’m wearing sandals I bought at CVS pharmacy.

Little Artie

November 2, 2007 / / 25 Comments

Therapy has had two opposite effects.   It has motivated me to be more productive and organized, hence my post two days ago on how to be better organized.  Thank you!    Therapy has also made me incredibly self-absorbed, which is perfect for procrastination.   I never knew I could be so interesting to myself!   So, rather than working today, I spent most of the day mulling my own existence.  

First, let me ask you something.  I don’t know about your therapist, but my one hour session is really fifty minutes, because “Barbara” needs ten minutes to write her notes.   Does your therapist do the same?  I like Barbara a lot, but this business practice sounds a bit like the plumber charging you labor costs for his time filling out the paperwork.    Maybe I’m just grumpy because fifty minutes is not enough for me.  I’ve even started to skip the pleasantries of talking about the weather for a couple of minutes because I can feel the clock ticking.   When I walk out of therapy after such short sessions, I feel unfulfilled, as if I just went to a beautiful, naked Thai masseuse who rubbed by entire body in sensual oil, then told me to “get the hell out” so she could watch “Oprah.”  After my session today, I was in such a crazed mood to talk… to talk about myself.  Unfortunately, for many of you on my email list, there is the little invention called IM.  Please accept my apologies — all twenty of you — who I IMed with today while you were in the office.  At first, I was polite, meekly saying, “Hi there! How are you?” and then when you answered, I knew I had you trapped. 

“So, I just got back from therapy and it was very interesting.  I’m beginning to realize that I…. and that I… and… is the best for me… and… more sex… more for me… what I want… me…me…me…oh, right, your grandmother is dying… I remember when my grandmother was dying… me… me… and I was fourteen… and there I was, with my penis… me… aren’t I interesting?   What?  You have a job? … when I grow up, I want to be…”

I use Trillian for my IM messages, because the application can work on Gmail, Yahoo, MSN, and AOL simultaneously, so I had the entire world covered today.  Is it my imagination — or is everyone  on my IM list “invisible” tonight?   Oh, well, maybe everyone is just watching TV.   I can’t imagine that you would “hide” from me.

Barbara is a traditional therapist and she believes in all that crap about everything stemming from your childhood.   OK, I shouldn’t say “crap.”  I actually believe it too, but I am using humor as a “defense mechanism.”  How do you like them apples?  Defense-mechanism!   Don’t I sound self-actualized?  I know my stuff! 

When I look through my blog, I see themes that are played over and over.   I don’t mean that I use the same stories over and over again.  I do that, too, hoping most of the readers from 2005 have disappeared by now.  I mean that many of my posts have a certain world view that relates to my own neuroses.  One of them has to do with gender issues in my marriage.    Over and over, we’ve seen that Sophia is outwardly the strong one, while I sit at home, listening to ABBA.   Who wants a wimpy husband?  Gender roles affect our home, our family, and our relationship.  

Since these issues didn’t play much of a role in my life until I married Sophia, I saw it as a “marital” problem, but Barbara is helping me realize that you can’t really fix a couple; you can only fix yourself.   The seeds of my behavior were planted in me way before I had met Sophia.  I learned about gender roles and marriage from my own parents.  My confusion over a “man’s role” in society were already bouncing around my head as a child, my brain crowded with images of Clint Eastwood and James Bond battling it out with sweater-wearing Bill Cosby.

When I was at USC Film School, my final thesis film was a broad comedy called “Little Artie.”  It was just a little funny film, but when I mentioned the plot-line to Barbara, she was surprised that the story foreshadowed my relationship with Sophia — and I hadn’t even met her yet.   It feels pretentious analyzing my “work” as if I am Ingmar Bergman, but I’m surprised how unaware I was of the similarities. 

Is this how little I know myself?

Little Artie:

Artie and Elaine are a married couple.  They have a little dog named Little Artie, and they treat him as their child, like many pet-owners do when they don’t have children.

Note:  While it seemed funny at the time, it now seems a bit odd that I named the two characters, Artie and Elaine, since my parents’ REAL names are… Artie and Elaine!  And who would be Little Artie then?

In the story, Artie works as a curator at an art gallery.  He is peace-loving , cultured “liberal.”   Elaine is training to be a black belt in karate.  She is more conservative and believes in self-defense, and is more aggressive in the bedroom.   They get along great, except for differing opinions on how to “raise” their dog, Little Artie.   Artie wants him to be a loving pet, while Elaine wants him to be stronger, able to take care of the family if there is danger.   Later, while they are at work, their home is burglarized and the dog stands there watching all the furniture disappear.  When they come home and see their empty home, Artie and Elaine have a big fight.  Elaine insists that Little Artie go to “guard dog school” to get him into shape, while Artie refuses to allow this.  The argument gets intense and they file for divorce.  The question remains — who gets the dog?  At this point, the dog runs into the dog house in the backyard and refuses to come out for either of them.   The couple goes to court and the judge rules that whoever can get him out of the doghouse first can keep him.  And then there is some crazy comedy!  Well, except for the parts that fell flat.  There’s some new “lovers,” and a karate fight finale (I used a real fight coordinator) between Artie’s two rival women at an art gallery opening.  At the end, Artie and Elaine learn to compromise — Little Artie needs to be both strong AND sensitive.

Anyway, that’s therapy — week seven.
 

NaBloPoMo – Day One (or Funny Women are Hot)

October 31, 2007 / / 60 Comments

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“Daddy, Daddy!” he cried, and I ran up the stairs, leaping over the Thomas LEGO Train  that I swore I put in the toy box just an hour ago.   “I’m coming,” I yelled.  Who knew that becoming a father would be like this — a life of big joys and even bigger anxieties?  When I entered his room, David was on the floor, still wrapped in his Transformers-themed blanket, his finger extended, showing me the “boo-boo.”

Sophia entered the room, interrupted the flow of my story.     

Sophia:  “What are you writing?  (looking over my shoulder at the monitor)  Who is that kid with us?”

Neil:  “I’m not sure.  While I was cleaning my desk, I found this disk of photos from 2001.  Do you know who he is?”

Sophia:  “Hmmm… no. ”

Neil:  “Is it possible that we had a child and we forgot?”

Sophia:  “You mean like we brought him shopping and left him there… and then forgot?”

Neil:  “You do have a habit of losing your keys.”

Sophia:  “If anyone would lose our child, it would be you.   Where’s my red bra you “said” you brought back from the laundromat?”

Neil:  I did bring it back.

Sophia:  OK, fine.   What’s the difference?  He’s not our kid.   He doesn’t even look like either of us.”  

Neil:  “I think I still have that sweater, though.”

Sophia:  “No, that’s the one you shrunk in the wash and we use as a rag.”

Neil:  “In case anyone asks, let’s call him David.”

Sophia:  “Asks about what?”

Neil:  “About our fake son.”

Sophia:  “And why are you writing your post like you are a father?”

Neil:  “I read on Twitter that one of those parenting blogs is looking for a writer.  I think they pay.   But you need to write about subjects such as “Daddy Depression.”

Sophia:  “Oh yeah?   Write away, Dad.”

Neil:  “I wonder why there aren’t any “Separated Husband” Blogs that pay bloggers?”

Sophia:  “You can start one.”

Neil:  “Eh, who would read it?  Every day it would be the same article –  “New Ways to Play With Yourself — Part #78.  I probably should just stick to Hollywood.  Online, I have no marketable niche.  I know very little about style or food or babies or gadgets.  I know nothing.  Well, I guess there ARE sex blogs out there…”

Sophia:  “Yeah, but you don’t know much about that either.”

Neil:  “Ha Ha.”

We laughed — we laughed for a very long time.  (Women, write this down.  It doesn’t matter the size of your boobs or what type of nail polish you wear.  If you can make a man laugh, you’ve won him.)  

Sophia:  “And what is this NaBloPoMo you’re doing?”

Neil:  “We’re all supposed to write a post every day in November.”

Sophia:  “Why?”

Neil:  “Why?  Why? Why so many questions?”

Sophia:  “Just curious.”

Neil:  “I don’t know why I’m doing it?  Some big-shot blogger somewhere wants us to do it, and we all follow like sheep.  That’s why!”

Sophia:  “But what can you write about EVERY DAY?  Do you have that much to say?” 

Neil:  “I can write about my life.   My adventures.   My wild sex life.  My female readers are always curious about what I’m like in bed.”

Sophia:  “I think these photos from 2001 might give your readers some idea…”

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Seriously, funny women are hot.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   Male Nurse

Be the Felix to my Oscar

October 31, 2007 / / 43 Comments

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Is there anyone out there who is excellent at managing their life? Do you effectively juggle work, family, romance, blogging, hobbies, writing, friends, and keeping up with “Dancing with the Stars?”

I need to talk with you.

How do you do it? Do you use any tools to keep yourself organized? Do you keep all your tasks on an online manager? Do you actually FOLLOW it? Have you ever tried working at home — and were actually productive? Why is cleaning the house such a drag? Do people with cleaning women have happier lives? Have you ever missed appointments to your therapist? Should I just drop Facebook completely since it is a time-killer? Have you ever been forced to masturbate using a timer because it wasn’t “slotted” into your daily schedule on Outlook?

I’m serious. I’m somewhat of an organizational mess. I know it looks like I’m a “together” type of guy because I blog frequently, but it is all a facade. I’m embarrassed to show you what my desk looks like. (Sadly, Sophia is not much better as an organizer. We stare at mounds of laundry together for entertainment at night)

My therapist is terrific, but so far, she is only good for helping me “understand” myself. When I asked her how I’m supposed to “change” just through understanding, she said that therapy isn’t supposed to be quick. She said that if I really wanted a quick-fix, I should turn to the internet instead.

So, that’s what I am doing.

Can someone be the Felix Unger to my Oscar Madison, and tell me how you keep your life organized and productive?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: I Sing, I Dance, But Dooce is Still Funnier

Dear Michael

October 29, 2007 / / 29 Comments

Dear Michael,

Last night, on Dancing with the Stars, the final dance was a ridiculous group number to the classic song, Rockin’ Robin.   This song has been around forever, and has been released by several different artists, but without a doubt, my favorite version is yours, back from the early days. It captures your youthful energy, years before you became the King of Pop.   You were a star, even as a child.   And what an amazing child you were!   What talent.   I actually remember the days of the Jacksons, and those white spacesuits you would wear in your TV specials.

After “Dancing with the Stars,” I thought about you.   I watched a couple of your old videos on YouTube.   I love the Afro from the seventies! Everyone knew you were a brilliant singer and dancer back then, but no one expected your fame to shoot through the roof in the eighties.   I can’t think of any musical career like yours.   Is there anyone anywhere in the world who has never danced to a song on “Thriller?” (My favorite album is still “Off the Wall”)

I remember once being in Thailand, being driven in a tuk-tuk by a driver playing “Billie Jean” on the radio.

You were a role model to me, a symbol of a what could happen when you are talented.   You took your childhood talent and ran with it, eventually reaching the pinnacle of fame. You were the King of Pop!

And then you just went bonkers.   You seemed miserable.   You became the butt of jokes.   All my life, I was under the illusion that artistic success, fame, and fortune were the goals of life — and this would bring happiness to the one who attains it.   What went wrong with you?   Why were you fooling around with your face so much?   Who cares if you are gay/straight?   Didn’t anyone tell you that your obsession with young boys was unhealthy?   If I can find a good therapist in Los Angeles, couldn’t you?   It should have been as easy for you as… like your own song goes… ABC.

I hope you get your act together.   Maybe one day, you can go on tour again, maybe a couple of weeks in Las Vegas.   It would be a sellout.   I would go, unless it is really really expensive.   If so, I would just watch it on HBO a few months later.

If you don’t want to heal yourself for yourself, do it for me.   It makes me feel sad to think that you’re miserable.   If the King of Pop can’t be happy with everything he has, what hope is there for any of us?!

Fans Shocked at Bugs Bunny Gay Revelation

October 27, 2007 / / 65 Comments

NEW YORK (AP) — Only a week after the announcement that the character in the Harry Potter series is gay, the fictional world is again shocked with the revelation by Steven Blanc, son of voice artist Mel Blanc, that the perennial prankster “Bugs” Bunny of Looney Tunes cartoons is also gay. This announcement, while unexpected, give new and clearer meaning to many of the on-screen exchanges between the smart-aleck “wacky wabbit” and his put-upon nemesis, Elmer Fudd.

Bugs Bunny was in love with his male rival, Steven Blanc says.

The author of “Bugs and Elmer: A Forbidden Love,” stunned fans at the Academy of Motion Pictures annual Warner Brothers Looney Tunes Night, when he answered one young reader’s question about Bugs by saying that he was gay and had been in love with Elmer Fudd for years.

‘”You have to remember that this was Hollywood of the Golden Age, even before Rock Hudson. The studio just wouldn’t allow it. Instead, Bugs and Elmer expressed their love for each using homosexual codes of the day, such as Elmer pointing a gun at Bugs, and Bugs responding with a squirt of seltzer in his face. Those in the closeted gay community clearly knew that Bugs famous “What’s Up, Doc?” was the password to get entry into the notorious Hammer Club on the Sunset Strip.”

The news of Bugs Bunny’s homosexuality brought gasps, then applause at the Academy, and set off thousands of e-mails on Warner Brothers cartoon Web sites around the world. Some were dismayed, others indifferent, but most were supportive.

” ‘BUGS BUNNY IS GAY’ is quite a headline to stumble upon on a Friday evening, and it’s certainly not what I expected,” added Looney Tunes fan Charlie Johnson, of Trenton, New Jersey. “(But) a gay character in the most popular cartoon in the world is a big step for gay rights.”

Note, November 2010:  This is not true.  It is a joke.  This was NOT approved by Warner Brothers.   And Mel’s son’s real name is Noel.  And just so you know — Bugs Bunny is probably my biggest literary influence.

The Werewolf: The Scariest Halloween Tale Ever

October 25, 2007 / / 28 Comments

I don’t like Halloween. I don’t like that children walk around play-acting as if they are ghouls and goblins, as if it is all a joke. Because it isn’t. There are dangers in this world that are too gruesome to even talk about.

I told Rob to be careful. He was one of my oldest childhood friends. We were in our mid-twenties, single, full of vigor, our entire lives ahead of us. We were camping in Colorado. Neither of us knew much about camping, seeing as we were both nice Jewish boys from Queens. We wanted to try it… to see the stars at night. Before we left, we attended a class at Paragon Sporting Goods near Union Square, where we learned to pitch a tent and filter our water. However, no teacher could ever prepare us for… the wolf.

I told Rob to be careful. Don’t go to far from the campsite at night. He laughed. He was just going to take a pee. I heard the sudden rush of the leaves, the scream, Rob on the floor, and beady eyes of the wolf, blood dripping from its paw. When the wolf saw me, he ran away. Why? I will never know. I rushed Rob to a hospital in Boulder. He would be OK. He only received flesh wounds. Rob was lucky that I showed up at the moment when the wolf attacked. He would live. At that moment, neither of us knew that his living was an option worse than death.

After our camping trip in Colorado, Rob moved to Chicago, and we lost touch. I frequently thought about him. What was his life like? Was he married? I searched for him on Google, with no success. Last week, I received a phone call from Rob. He said he needed to open up to someone, to unburden himself from the years of terror. He told me a story that made my hair turn white.

The following is a verbatim transcript of the phone conversation:

Rob: “After our trip, I moved to Chicago to work for an investment firm. It was a good job and I felt that I was a success. I was dating a lot of hot babes and my life was good. The only difficulty I had was with my arm — where the wolf bit me. The wound would burn like hell, as if ten thousand needles were being shoved into my arm. I would get faint at work and pass out. I started making mistakes with my clients, even losing millions of dollars by selling stocks short. I was fired, disgraced. No on would hire me. My body felt weird, as if it was elongating. I noticed hair growing all over my body, at a rapid rate. I had an insatiable urge to eat meat, even raw meat right from the package at the supermarket.

The worst was when there was a full moon at night. I would wail like an animal. All I could think about was finding a woman, a virgin, and devouring her like a monster. My body grew grotesque and my clothes felt so constraining, that I shredded them to pieces. Full of blood-lust, I careened down North Michigan Avenue, naked, my ears flared, my fangs ready, growling as my nose smelled the scent of a nearby virgin. She was standing outside the Gap, having just bought a pair of khakis, when I stood on my hind legs, and raised my paws, ready for the attack. She screamed, her face in shock at seeing a man-wolf on a city street, but as she looked me over, she started laughing, hysterically.

I made a hideous growling sound, but she just chuckled and pointed.

“Your penis. It’s so small!” she said.

Horrified at her mockery, I ran from her while crying, the cold Chicago wind hitting my face. I raced up the stairs of my building and jumped into my apartment, closing the door behind me. Disgraced and embarrassed, I spent the night watching “Millionaire” and eating raw meat. I was a failure as a werewolf.

I tried several more times, whenever a full moon hung high over the city. I could feel the transformation of my body, the saliva that would build up in my mouth, and the deadly paws that were ready to pounce on a new victim, but whenever I would raise my man-wolf body in the attack position, the woman would laugh at my penis.

I went to my family doctor, Dr. Eugene Fishback. I told him that I used to have a normal sized penis, but ever since I became a werewolf, it shrunk.

“Very interesting, Rob.”

“I’m not Rob anymore, Dr. Fishback. I’m the Werewolf.”

“I understand that. But your insurance still has you down as Rob. It’s probably better that we stick with that for insurance reasons.”

“Yes, good idea. Thanks, Doctor. So, what about the penis?”

“Well, the test results show that you’re getting a tremendous amount of adrenaline in your system whenever you transform into a wolf, and it is having an affect akin to steroids. It is changing your body in many ways, one of them being that it is shrinking your penis.”

“How can I be an effective werewolf with such a small penis?”

“It is mostly in your head, Rob. I’m sure there are werewolves with all sorts of penises. It shouldn’t really affect your performance when you go out searching for prey.”

But it did. I’ve always been insecure about things. Even in elementary school I used to get Bs on my report card, and I didn’t feel as smart as you.”

Neil: Oh, come on, Rob… I mean Werewolf. You were always very popular. Grades in school didn’t really matter that much.”

Rob: “But they did to me. I felt the same insecurity as a werewolf. Here I was, looking all scary and dangerous, from the waist up, but one little thing below the waist made my victims laugh at me.”

Neil: “Could the doctor do anything for you?”

Rob: “He gave me some pills, but nothing worked. I just got headaches. I tried Prozac for depression. Nothing. I went to herbalists, Chinese doctors — nothing worked. Finally I decided I needed help. I enrolled in a 12 step program for Monsters and Ghouls who don’t quite live up to their own standards. There was a witch who would get yeast infections from riding her broom, a vampire without teeth, and the ghost who was too lazy to scare anyone.”

Neil: “Did it help?”

Rob: “Not really. But I made some good friends. I became particularly close with the witch, Syeira, and we sort of hit it off. We became friends… with benefits. Man, was she wild! One day, she saw that I was moping around, looking at my small werewolf penis, when she said she might be able to help me. She opened up an ancient book of spells, and started to chant:

Wagga Wanna Wigga
Make His Penis Bigger

The room started to shake and I felt a surge of energy in my body. I screamed. I revolved like a whirling dervish and was thrown against the wall. I dusted myself off and stood up… and Syreira had succeeded! My penis was twice as big as it was originally! It was the happiest day of my life. I grabbed her and made love to her for the rest of the night.”

Neil: “That’s great. I’m so glad that you are happy!”

Rob: “The story isn’t over. The true horror has not even begun!”

Neil: “Oh no!”

Rob: “We’re men, you and I. We always screw things up, right?. Despite being happy with Syreira and my now-successful life as a scary werewolf with a giant penis, I found it hard to commit to just one woman.”

Neil: “I hear ya.”

Rob: “After coming home from a long night ravaging a virgin, I’m not in the mood to do the dishes, or talk about “her day.” I told her that if she gets yeast infections from her broom, she should just stop being a witch and stay at home and clean. She didn’t talk to me for a week.”

Neil: “Yeah, relationships are tough.”

Rob: “One weekend, Syreira came home from some witches’ convention a day early, and caught me in bed f**king her sister. She went crazy, calling me every name in the book. I tried to apologize, saying she was partly to blame. After all, she’s the one who gave me my new penis. Shouldn’t I be sharing it with the world?”

Neil: “It makes sense to me.”

Rob: “She immediately ran to her book of spells, and chanted:

Woodle Yoodle Oodle
Turn Him to a Poodle

And the damn harpy turned me into a poodle. A little white poodle. That’s what I am right now. That’s why you never hear from me. Can you imagine how difficult it was to use the phone?”

Neil: “But what about being the werewolf?”

Rob: “I’m not a werewolf anymore. I LOVED being a werewolf! Now I’m a stupid poodle!”

Neil: “I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m so sorry.”

Rob: “And the scariest thing is that she kept the new penis on me, so as I walk, it scrapes against the floor, causing me pain — just to punish me for my transgression.”

Neil: “My God, how cruel.”

Rob: “Women who feel wronged are the cruelest.”

Neil: “This is the the most HORRIFIC story I have ever heard.”

Note: Be careful… on Halloween!

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