The Uglier, Squatter Children

Wlsh your male part was larger‏
From: Jamel Ho (*****@db.com)
Sent: Mon 5/24/10 10:20 PM
To: ****@hotmail.com
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2



Jamel, Ho!

Reading just the subject line of your email, I realized that the male part in the 700-page novella I’m writing about the Hundred Years War, Viceroy Kensington Aberdale-Wickersham, should indeed be larger. I will confer with my editor. Who is imaginary.

Jamel, Jamel, Jamel. Where to begin? I was born into fabulous wealth, which my father promptly squandered on his idiosyncratic dream of breeding mice with falcons. “Think of the military applications!”, he’d say as he rushed to the bathroom after losing yet another eye to the falcon’s unforgiving talons. None of us were proud of father’s profligacy, but we were stupid, ignorant, racist children and we didn’t know about high finance or interracial dating and we sat idly by as the bank foreclosed on property after property. First they came for the breeding facility, and none of us were really all that sad to see it go, except the uglier, squatter children. Of which I was one. Then they came for the candy factory, and all us children understood just enough to realize this was a bad thing. Then they came for the house and so many of us had slipped into diabetic comas that we hardly noticed.

I come, in other words, from Hard Times, Jamel, so I know a thing or two about natural penisenlargement products. When the weight of his ruination would come crashing down on father after a hard day working his job as Assistant Sluice Scraper at the rendering plant, mother would call upon him to perform his marital duties. We children could hear him through the paper-thin walls of our apartment: “Blast you, Genevieve, don’t you think if I could ENLARGE my PENIS I’d have done it by now?!” I can hear his effeminate, high-pitched voice in my mind still, and the thud thud thud of my parents’ bedpost rhythmically crashing into the wall. Mother was into humiliating my father, you see. None of us children learned why they got their rocks off in such a particular way until we’d seen a bit of the world, later in life. An appreciation of Mappelthorpe’s more outré work helped somewhat.

Speaking of being proud, Jamel, my third son just got accepted to Brown! Now, I know what you might be thinking, but Brown’s a fine school that offers a good deal to a young man of drive and determination. Unfortunately, I rather think my Geofferey was admitted in error, because his hunch back would simply not permit him to sit at a table long enough to compose an admissions essay. “Learn a trade,” I’d tell him, “A gentleman’s collar is one you weren’t destined to don, dearest Geofferey.” He’d slurp and sputter through some silliness about being “more than this hunch’d back” or some other rubbish, but the proof’s in the pudding, as Granny Hettie always said. In Geofferey’s case the pudding in question is my ruinous seed - suffice it to say, Geofferey is the least malformed of my nine children.

Jamel Ho, you seem like a man who knows his business. I suppose now is the time to get to the brassest of tacks: I can’t mention any details at this time, but I very much need to fake my own death. Your help would be greatly appreciated, send a telegram as soon as is convenient.

In Seriousness,

Yancy Ickford Hangstrohm