The Compostual Existentialist

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King Dong

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Yesterday’s entry about the trials and tribulations of sports and physical education during my tenure at secondary school reminded me of an amusing story. I can vouch for it’s authenticity because I was there and I remember it well because it helped take the heat off me for a few months (at least).

Paddy was a goofy lad. He wore NHS spectacles (if you are British you’ll probably know what I mean) the kind that were tortoise shell plastic. I had a pair myself but hated wearing them even though mine were of a lighter shade of brown. Paddy’s gangly frame was further illustrated with really bad acne. My god he had some fine spots. You know, them yellow headed ones that some girls love to squeeze? Yeah, well them.

At 12/13 such a large affliction of acne probably indicated the advanced spread of pubescent hormones that raged within. His deep voice also betrayed the physiological maelstrom inside.

It came to pass that, after a rather wet and muddy Wednesday afternoon of running after a leather sphere, showers were to be had before the boys of my year were allowed to depart for home.

Not being of exhibitionist stock, I had managed to perfect the “quick run through the showers” to appear that I had washed communally. I had, in fact, only wet my hair, hands and face. Sneaky sod that I was, I also prefered to shower in the comfort of my own home.

So there I was, drying off in the dank, stale piss and sweaty preteen boy smelling changing rooms when Daley Minor came running into the room shouting something. That something was to go down in legend amongst the boys in our year.

“PATRICK’S GOT A BIG DICK” he shouted.

Whispers and murmurs spread around the room like an infection. What had Daley said? Something about Patrick.

“PATRICK’S GOT A BIG DICK” he giggled loudly.

The infection turned into a rash of giggles which turned rapidly into guffaws as Patrick, oblivious to the events that were unfolding. Persumably because he was busy drying his curly head hair vigourously with the towel that should have been around his waist covering his decency. Realisation that he was the centre of the frivolity hit like a lump of lard into a bowl of flour.

“PATRICK’S GOT A BIG DICK”

Quickly he moved the towel from his head to hide his modesty. His face flushed with red embarrassment.

“I haven’t” he retorted, his bottom lip quivering with distress.

More laughter chants of “King Dong”, “John Holmes” and “Monster Knob” soon permeated the changing block. Even the teachers, who had until this revelation been quietly discussing coffee or something.

Poor Patrick. The ridicule was intense and soon he lunged at Daley Minor and a fight ensued. Patrick was clearly upset. By this point I had left for my walk home. Giggling with Brady who shared my route. The next morning the topic of conversation amongst the 2Beta boys was the size of Patrick’s appendage.

Several fights broke out, Patrick being the main victim and the ridicule continued. Not just that day. But for the 3 remaining years at that school. People would chant King Dong after him, if ever he said something stupid or out of place he would be reminded that he owned a large penis. The cries of “I HAVEN’T” would soon be followed by tears and embarrassment. In turn, more intense taunts usually resulted in a scrap. It was, on reflection, really nasty bullying. It probably gave the poor lad a complex in his later life.

I often wonder about Patrick. I think I wonder if he realised how daft it was to get so worked up about the oversize of one’s member. I’m sure many men, billzy especially, can only dream about owning the pork sausage that Patrick was blessed with. Hell, if it was me I’d have caught the first plane to America and found myself some porn king to offer my services as a porn star to. Maybe it would have given me the confidence to persue girls at an earlier age than I did.

Last I heard, Patrick, a bright and intelligent boy, was now quite removed and insular. Rumour had it he had sired a child. So perhaps he did get over the embarrassment. Other rumours included those that he had been so embarrassed that he tried a John Wayne-Bobbit approach; He had lost it in a terrible accident with a can of Cherry Seven-Up. Who knows. Maybe he had it surgically shortend and he changed his name to billzy. Who knows…..who knows……

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Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists.

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