No skin in the game

Forgetting Richard Johnson

He may be a prick but my Dick’s a standup guy

Richard Johnson and I have been like 🤞 since birth. I gave Dick everything. CETAPHIL Hydrating Moisturizer for his itchy head. Silk boxers. A MaxPeen the Superhero Woodhood. All the petting he could handle short of chafing, til he weeped with joy.

All I ever wanted was for Dick to feel warm and safe and loved enough to stand tall, to salute the world with his signature burst of joy.

My wife, who at first worshipped Dick but now seemed to prefer quilting, lets him spelunk in the tunnel of love on Saturday night. Mind you that’s way down from whenever the tide changed on our honeymoon, but still. Dick does love a snug humid musky cave to stretch out in. Home sweet home.

Yes. Dick’s a he. Before you peg me as some jamoke from Peoria who’s not woke to pronouns, you should know Dick is officially he/him/Maestro. Officially. On his Facebook page.

So very sorry. Facebook by Meta. Love the ∞ thing, très woo-woo. I mean, isn’t that special, Zuck.

Can I call you Zuck?

But it’s not about Zuck. He’s a small d dick, but not my Dick. Like Dick, other dicks have no skin in the game. They all find out eventually.

We drove to my health club a few months back. Dick and I walk in and the guy at the desk asks Dick if he’s a member. Pretty insulting but Dick’s used to it.

We work out, then hit the sauna. Dick spots some goy sporting the hooded ninja and asks “What’s up with that? It’s 110° in here, we’re schvitzing like it’s a hyperhidrosis ward, and that dude’s wearing a sweatshirt!”

Was I naive in thinking Dick wouldn’t notice? Maybe. I hoped to shield Dick, since he’s been shields down since the bris. Ixnay on the oreskinfay. Gone commando. The hoodless horseman.

This morning, Dick wanted to talk. I’d been dreading the moment ever since that gruesome scene so long ago. The scalpel. The blood. The pain. The blessings.

Thank you Lord for making this child — who now understands he can be knifed by an assailant twelve times his size at any moment — a part of our loving spiritual community. We pledge to nurture and protect him.

Not to mention the schnapps everyone inhaled afterwards. Me? Same old tepid bottle of milk.

So. Watching me get mugged was so disturbing you need a drink to steady you? Maybe you’d like a neck rub too? Do try the cheese blintzes! Cigarillo? While we have the mohel, maybe get that wart lopped off? On the house!

Dick’s a doer. Not a talker. He’ll plant a seed to discuss later. Sometimes I’ll get impatient and snap “Spill it!” but my wife urges me not to hurry Dick. Let him spill his seed in his own good time. What’s the rush? Give him twenty minutes. Think about baseball.

Dick admitted something was missing from his life. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Dick lacks fingers. He does sport a thing called a frenulum that looks like a biology experiment gone terribly wrong. But if he had fingers, he couldn’t put them on what he missed. Which is true.

I’ve got digits to spare. They fit Dick like a glove. So I offered a back rub, which we affectionately dubbed the five knuckle shuffle.

Wish I’d shuffled after the attack. No one else thought to comfort Dick. I was eight days old. My shit still looked like mustard. What was I supposed to do? I thought Dick was a toy snake some cousin gave us.

Dick shook me off. No sanding the old mainmast today. A shame really, because my wife was out, I had just seen Emilia Clarke in Me Before You, and I had thirty minutes to spare before yoga.

The truth had to come out, so it was my turn to spill. Dick was shocked. He said he must go. He had to search for that part of himself that was scalped and tossed so long ago.

My head spun with all the coming and going. With Dick’s going, no more coming.

I watched Dick go. Soon, I would have to go. A different go. No longer possible from my customary position.

I tried putting it off. But I was getting thirsty.

I sipped my Venti.

I waited.

Today I got a postcard from Dick.

Another letter from Dick. He found the mohel! The dude played coy until Dick blew his top and splooged hot rice pudding all over the guy’s bespoke Tom Ford O’Connor suit. Pretty clear the mohel had a side hustle to sport those duds.

Horrified, the mohel admitted he sold his “merch” to a shady character named One-Eyed Willie.

Dick tossed the mohel a double sawbuck to cover the dry cleaning. On with the quest!

No word from Dick. Should I have bought him a SecondSkin™? I anxiously await news.

My Dick is finally back!

Just had the best piss of my life!

After greeting my wife, and it was a Tuesday morning praise God, Dick told the whole story of how

• He tracked down One-Eyed Willie
• Willie went rogue after his own scalping, and started hawking skins
• Jonathan Demme, director of Silence of the Lambs, was desperate for an authentic looking “suit” for the Buffalo Bill character
• Willie sold the lot to the film’s Costume department and, suddenly rich, joined the Republican Party, where he remains anonymous by blending in with the swarm of dicks, including some prominent female dicks
• Feeling guilty, Demme offered Dick the whole suit
• Dick realized he was already comfortable in his own skin, and wasn’t keen on the aardvark look anyway

That afternoon, Dick and I erected a lawn sign.