A Million Versions of Right (4 page)

Shortly I will be conducting a demonstration that I believe is vitally important for your children to see. The demonstration in question will include the destruction of a standard male scrotum. Due to the unattractive nature of a scrotum, it is strongly believed that your children would benefit from witnessing its destruction.

We live in a world dominated by certain aesthetics. Aesthetics that the scrotum only detract from. In order to maintain a strong stance in support of beauty, we will embark upon the symbolic gesture of dismissing the opposite.

Please grant us your blessing and sign this permission form with pride.

Sincerely,

Mr Spencer Wilkens,

Principal

Mr Wilkens was biting his bottom lip and crossing his legs into a knot as he anxiously watched Bernice read the form. When she finished, she placed it to one side and stared intently into Mr Wilkens’ eyes.

“Well… what did you think?” he asked impatiently.

Bernice was trying not to give anything away but despite every effort, a large smile broke its way through her exterior shell of cool.

“You drop those strides, Mr Wilkens. I think somebody’s arsehole needs a lickin’.”

Mr Wilkens beamed, “You like it! you really like it!”

* * * * *

“I don’t know what to do, Chip. I really need some balls.”

Allen was crying quite uncontrollably as Chip, with a face full of concern, looked on.

“I’m thinking, Allen. Let me think. This hollering ain’t gonna bring ‘em back.”

Chip turned to face the mirror and carefully touched up his quiff. This activity helped stimulate his brain juice, which he hoped would lead to an adequate solution to Allen’s scrotal dilemma. An idea began to twist and form in Chip’s mind as his quiff stretched like arms in the morning.

“I’ve got it!” he shouted, knocking Allen from his brittle sitting chain.

“What?” moaned Allen from the cold floor.

“Well, you’ve lost your balls, right?”

“Somebody, who shall remain nameless, popped ‘em for me!” he spat back.

“Okay, okay, that’s by the by. Point is, we still have a perfectly good set of balls right here.” Chip reached into his pocket and retrieved Mr Wilkins scrotum, which he waved about like a dainty glove smeared in cream.

“That don’t belong to me, Chip! I can’t just take Mr Wilkens balls and staple it to my crotch stump”

“And why the fuck not? We’ll be up on that stage a good thirty feet from the audience. We just have to make a fake sack, pretend it’s Mr Wilkens’ and you can pocket his originals. Who the hell will be able to tell from that distance, Allen?”

Allen was still on the ground, letting Chip’s words penetrate and absorb.
He really does have a point
, he thought as he fingered his crotch pus, wishing he had his junk back.

“So, what do you think?” asked Chip, somewhat impatiently.

“I think you may have a point. Why waste a perfectly good scrotum?” responded Allen eventually.

Chip clapped his hands together, breaking both palms and snapping a button. “Good O!” he yelled, “So, now we just have to get ourselves a proxy for the demonstration.”

“Do you think we could perhaps staple those balls onto me first?” Allen asked.

“We’ll do it later, Allen, I promise. I think I just fucked up my hands.”

* * * * *

Hedging Littlepop paced his lounge room in a rage, the permission form clutched tightly in his hand as he read it over and over. With each reading his anger intensified until it was a white hot ball in the pit of his stomach.

“Can you believe this malarkey, Tina?”

Tina Littlepop was Hedging’s wife and business partner. Together they ran a testicular advocacy group with the overall aim of abolishing discrimination toward the scrotum.

“We’ve been fighting too damn long for some stuffy nosed academic cunt to fill our children with this shit!” continued Hedging.

“Well, we simply won’t allow Alex to attend dear,” said Tina, trying to calm her infuriated husband.

“You bet your arse Alex won’t be attending but that’s not nearly enough! No child should be indoctrinated into mindless testicular discrimination.”

“But that’s not for us to decide, dear. That’s the individual responsibility of the parent.”

“You can be really naïve, Tina, you know that? In a perfect world every parent would do what was right for their child but this ain’t no perfect world, Tina! Parents don’t give a shit. Sure, let their child grow up hating themselves for a God given appendage. Who cares right? Well I fucking care, Tina!”

Hedging unzipped his jeans and removed his scrotum proudly.

“Alex, come here!”

Moments later, the pitter-patter of feet could be heard running down the hallway. When Alex arrived to face his parents, he flashed a giant grin and picked his arse.

“What’s this, Alex?” asked Hedging as he pointed toward his exposed scrotum.

“That’s yer junk, dad,” answered Alex proudly.

“Yes, son, it
is
my junk. And what do you think about junk?”

“It’s important.”

“Yes, and WHY is it important?” enquired Hedging, with a giant grin.

“It’s important because it’s part of who I am. It’s important because without it, I would never have been made.”

Hedging picked up his son in loving arms and held him tight. “Yes, good boy. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Run along now.”

Alex hopped down from his fathers embrace and scuttled off to play with his collection of germs, one of which was pregnant.

“You see, Tina?
This
is what we’re fighting for: the sanctity of biology and the awakening of acceptance. I’ll stop this demonic presentation if it’s the last thing I do.”

As Hedging spoke, his scrotum flopped about in flamboyant animation, reacting to every word. Tina smiled sharply, nicking her soft cheek with a shard of lip. The blood drizzled down her chin, dripping off in gory worms.

“If it means anything to you, hun, I find your junk
remarkably
appealing.”

She lunged forward and with a claw-like grip, clutched her husband’s proud balls.

* * * * *

“Sit still you shit tube sucking whore!” screamed Chip as he tried in vain to position the stapler above Allen’s writhing crotch. “The more you squirm about, the more attempts I’m going to have to make.”

Allen whimpered in anticipation of the pain he was about to experience.

“Don’t we at least have a balm we can put on it?” he pleaded.

“I’ve already told you, NO FUCKING BALM!!! Just sit still and I’ll be finished before you know it. It’s just like tearing off a sandwich only in this case we’re stapling foreign junk to your crotch stump.”

There was something reassuring about these words as they draped over Allen’s trembling body. They calmed him inexplicably. The burning wet pain abated and his eyes opened bravely. He thrust his crotch out and averted his eyes.
I really don’t need to see this
, he thought. Chip steadied himself, stapler in one hand and Mr Wilkens’ scrotum in the other.
It’s all a matter of angles
, he told himself as he lined up the scrotum with Allen’s bloody crotch. The scrotum was placed roughly in the position one would expect to find a scrotum. He slammed the stapler down with purpose, securing the junk loosely into place. Allen emitted a horrific howl which caused electrical interference in the surrounding ten block area.

“You sack of tits!” cried Allen. “This feels particularly unpleasant.”

“Stop your bitching. I got it on didn’t I?”

It hung blackened, lifeless and slightly off centre, but Chip was right; Allen had a scrotum once more.

* * * * *

“We’ve received some rather illuminating reports about a demonstration you have planned for your grade four students next week, Mr Wilkens.”

Mr Wilkens entered defensive mode and summoned up all the rants and speeches he had within. Internally he was composing the most appropriate line of response.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr Wilkens?”

The board of tangential education sat before him, overbearing in height and number.
Why must they insist on such implausibly tall chairs
, he thought, their intense scrutiny still directed toward his diminutive frame.

“First let me explain my motives, ladyfellows and gentlehaps of the tangential board. Who among you can honestly proclaim to remain unaffected by the dismal affront to anatomy that is the scrotum? Have you not caught glimpse of this putrid appendage and retched in disgust? Have you not questioned nature’s agenda and asked yourself why we haven’t been afforded the dignity that would accompany the internal concealment of the scrotum? Well let me tell you something, I have! Not a minute goes by where I don’t question this pernicious infliction wrought by an unjust biology.

“My argument isn’t just a question of dignity. This dilemma extends into the realm of aesthetics and the search for and preservation of beauty. How can such beauty be preserved and celebrated when it is wrought impotent by the very nature of the putrid scrotum? I don’t assume that a meagre demonstration can eradicate this disease but if I can instil within these children a necessary level of revulsion, then I have made an important step toward a scrotum-free future for all of us.”

Mr Wilkens finished his rant, inhaled some much needed oxygen and coughed up a few hopelessly flapping moths, much to the surprise of the tangential board. Silence permeated the room, which caused Mr Wilkens some considerable anxiety. When the silence eventually broke, it was due to laughter wafting over from members of the board. Mr Wilkens took a defensive step backward and prepared the muscle contortions required for an effective scowl. The man situated on the highest chair finally spoke up.

“Mr Wilkens, I can see you’re very passionate about this particular issue and rightly so if you ask me! The scrotum is putrid, as you suggest, and I can think of nothing better than instilling this reality into the minds of babes. We called you here, Mr Wilkens, not because we want to forbid the demonstration, but because we would like an invitation ourselves. We feel somewhat miffed that you never thought to ask.”

A smile replaced the impending scowl as Mr Wilkens said, “Come one, come all!”

Joviality filled the room and a half hearted version of the rumba spilled onto the floor. Mr Wilkens’ mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Bernice.
Come on back to the office, Mr W so I can give that arsehole of yours a good lickin’.

* * * * *

It didn’t even look slightly real. Chip had packed a pink stocking with grapes and cookie dough. It was hanging comically from his fly, slapping against his knees.

“Fuck me with a pickle stick, Chip. That doesn’t look too good,” said Allen in disbelief.

Chip sighed deeply and stroked his chin. “It’s not so much what it looks like, its how you use it. If we believe that this thing,” he thrust his hips, “is a dirty ol’ sack, we can make others believe it too.”

“You think?” replied Allen, his doubt apparent.

“Well what the fuck else are we gonna do, huh? I don’t see you offering any solutions. This way you get to keep Mr Wilkens’ sack and he still gets his demonstration.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t have to keep his ballbag if you hadn’t popped mine!”

Both Chip and Allen had entered into a defensive mode, their body language and intonation infused with distrust and caution. The bricolage scrotum hung limp and impassive, accentuating the unease between them. They were both aware of the effect the impending demonstration was having on them. They were brothers. They were the closest of friends. Now a popped nut sack threatened their bond. A bond that had previously withstood everything life had thrown at it. Allen felt an intensity of anger previously unimaginable. Chip was overcome by a powerful, unflappable guilt.