Wake up. There’s dishes in the sink, an unused car in the driveway. Flip to the internet, and there it is, finally, the real truth about lockdowns, the thing they will never tell you: lockdowns decrease the size of your penis.
I run to the bathroom and have a look down there. “Seems the same size!” But then I stare harder, and I wonder: maybe it is smaller. I get on Youtube. Five different videos presented by five different people all say the same thing. Penises are getting smaller due to lockdown.
“Fuck you, lockdown!” I scream. Then I call Umba. “Umba, how is it in Strasburg?”
“It’s fine, Trenty. We are trying hard in challenging times. Good people are doing their best to keep us safe.”
“No, Umba!” I scream at him. “I just saw Youtube videos saying that penises are getting smaller! That’s too high a price to pay!”
A pause. “I have not noticed this shrinkage, Trenty.”
I grit my teeth. Suck a bucket of coffee through a hose. “Well, what about the children? There are children starving because of these lockdowns, Umba! Are you going to tell me that’s okay?”
“Trenty,” comes his voice, “I never heard you saying a word about starving children before the lockdown. Was it okay then but not now? Be honest. This is about your penis, no?”
“Everything is about my penis!” I scream. “You’re the fucking problem, Umba! You are!” Then I hang up.
I get online. Oh yeah. Fuck yeah. Look at all that information. Anyone with a blog or a Youtube account can post anything they want. It’s the greatest, easiest access to information that’s ever been presented to the masses. It’s such a wealth of information that I don’t know where to start!
I call my doctor. “Look, you overeducated, overpaid, rubber-glove loving pervert… tell me how to reverse my penis shrinkage. This lockdown is killing my junk!”
“Penis shrinkage? Have you been measuring yourself, Mr. Lewin?”
“What kind of question is that, asshole?”
“There is no evidence that lockdowns diminish the size of male genitalia.”
“No evidence?” I cry. “No evidence? What do you call all these people who are saying that it’s happening?” I send him some links. “You don’t think for yourself, doctor! You’re just part of the medico-industrial complex! Next thing, you’ll be telling me that I should get vaccinated for this fucking virus. I don’t believe you, you corrupt piece of five-week-old turd!”
“I see,” says my doctor. “Very well, I can’t help you. Clearly you’ve researched this better than I have.”
“Fuck yeah!” I tell him.
A pause. “Will you still be coming in next week to discuss your last blood test?”
“Of course I am, you shriveled little un-humpable know-it-all! You’re nothing but a learned pawn of the political system, propogating a message designed to keep I, Trent Lewin, a slave of the system! I see right through you!”
“I suppose you’re the expert now.”
“Fuck yeah! I got Youtube. I got my blog buddies. I’m going online right now and we’re going to figure out all this stuff. To hell with you! You’re the fucking problem! It’s you!”
“See you next week, Mr. Lewin. Please wear a mask when you come to the office.”
I hang up on him.
The day is bright. The coffee is in my guts. I go online. I gratify myself with the strength of my own intellect, writing out my theories, my thoughts, my solutions to all of it. Two hours later, I have the answer to the dick-diminishing problem of lockdowns. I tell the world that answer. And the world – it tells me I’m right.
I go outside and take off my clothes. Across the street, my neighbor Omar stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“Fuck you, Omar! Don’t tell me what to do! Don’t take away my freedoms or the size of my dick! You’re the problem, man! It’s you!”
And then I run. I run because that’s what I’m designed for. Yes, I’m a fucking idiot. Lurking inside me, that truth is right there. What the fuck do I know, I ask myself? But then the unvarnished pain of all this isolation, especially when I see my bank account shrinking, comes back upon me, and I realize who I am. I’m a fucking pagan a couple of thousand years ago, wondering why my rituals never make me rich. I mean, I dance around fires dressed in a robe and all I get for it is some crummy fornication on the altar stone with a dingy woman who might actually turn out to be a man. And I start asking questions of the stars until a new religion comes around and finally gives me the immediate answers I crave. Cue forward. Progress. Suddenly, we’re flying through the air and going to the moon, suddenly we’re curing diseases and drawing up inventions that make our lives better. But it’s imperfect. It’s probably a big fucking problem, all this consumption and all these people living in a world that hasn’t gotten any bigger since we as a population definitely have. But perfection aside, we figured shit out and are better today than we used to be… until lockdown. Now, lockdown. Fuck you, lockdown. My bank account is shrinking and I’m thinking of the children starving because of lockdown, and it doesn’t matter one single fuck to me that children were starving before lockdown, because I have a super smart point to make now and I’m going to use fucking starving children to prove how goddam smart I am. Progress? It fucking failed as of lockdown, and everything that made my life better and got me to where I am? It’s all fucking useless because I’ve lost a part of my savings account.
I run naked through the streets, rejecting everything I’m told to do. I go through the middle of town and piss on a tree. When that’s not enough, I take a shit on an electric car. There are a few people around, their jaws open. I lick a stop sign. Manhandle a doorknob. And as I run, I can feel it. I can feel my brain getting bigger, and as it enlarges, so does my dick. It springs out, dormant no more, jutting into the spring sunshine, searching for a place to go. “Hi, Trent!” says my penis. “Holy shit, you talk?” I ask it. “I do now, Trent baby! Where we going? I’m feeling pretty good right now. Feels like I haven’t been out in a while,” says penis. “It’s because of lockdown, man,” I tell it. “But I’ve fixed the problem, so don’t you worry.”
It’s glorious. Some guy tries to stop me and tell me that I might be putting peoples’ lives in jeopardy. He’s wearing a mask. And a fucking sweater. All I want to do is bend him over and hump him, but I point at my erect dick instead. “You think other peoples’ safety is worth me going back to a small dick? Bend over. Let me hump you.”
A cop tries to run me down. “Sir, sir, you can’t be smearing your rear end on a window like that!”
“Fuck you, cop! You’re just part of the policio-industrial complex trying to take away my freedoms! Where is it written that I can’t smear my ass on a window?”
He looks at me. “Sir, there’s no specific rule about that… but just think of the people you might be putting at risk by doing this! What if you’re infected and someone touches this window?”
“I don’t fucking care.”
And there it is. I don’t fucking care. I just don’t fucking care about other people, not really. When push comes to shove, I don’t care how many of them die. My ideas and intelligence are way more important than people. I want to have a conversation about how many people can reasonably die so that I can spread my cheeks and put my crust on the window of this sex shop. My dick just wants to get in there and bang a mannequin, maybe that cutie in the leather bra, carrying a whip. Whip my ass, baby!
Listen, people, I don’t care about you, I really don’t. I just don’t fucking care. My dick is more important than your life. My bank account is more important than your life. Get the fuck off my planet if you don’t like it. Or, you know, just die. I don’t fucking care about human life. I would rather wax philosophical on the basis of zero evidence, no education, no fucking learning, no reasonable logic, about how it’s better to let people die because I have a twelfth grade education in squat fucking nothing. Die, all you fucking losers. I care about starving children now. Now, I magically fucking care about those homeless twits and their distended bellies, because I have a point to make, and my point is more important than peoples’ lives.
This is fucking progress. It really is. Today, I’m rejecting everything that has led people to this point, imperfect a journey as it’s been. Today, the ability to leverage my anus against this piece of glass on the strength of my suddenly-enlarged cranium and remarkably-firm phallus is the only thing that matters. I am a fucking god.
“Trenty!” comes a voice. I’m on the main street, sprinting next to a grocery store with a lineup of mask-wearing people outside it.
“Umba?” And there he is. Umba from Strasburg. I’ve never seen him in person before. “But… but… you’re black!”
“Yes, Trenty. I got a call that you were streaking the city. Got on an airplane. There were many seats available, Trenty! I came to take care of you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you some kind of scientist as well, Umba? Are you going to tell me that you know what’s best for me?”
“Well, Trenty,” he says, “I would much prefer a scientist discussing the mechanics of air travel than for instance, you. I think I would be safer that way.”
“I could design an airplane…” my penis tells him.
“Do your genitals speak now, Trenty?” asks Umba.
“I will fucking design a plane and you will travel on it back to Strasburg, you magnificent ebony hunk!” says my penis. “May I perhaps hump you?”
Umba sighs. “Trenty, come with me. I want to take you home. You are shaking. You are breathing hard. I do not like that cough.”
“What are you saying, Umba?”
“I think you have this virus, Trenty. You have been running around the city and putting your body against much of it. You should not be surprised.”
“Oh shit,” I say, and suddenly I’m not feeling well. And it strikes me that maybe this hasn’t gone the way I expected. “Don’t come near me, Umba. I don’t want to make you sick! You’re my friend.”
“Oh Trenty,” he says, coming closer anyway. He puts his arms around me and draws me to a car. “Listen, Trenty, it is easy to talk about other people dying so that you can put your testicles on a mailbox, as I saw you do a few minutes ago. But it is different when it is your life, no? Maybe other people want their freedoms and maybe you are the one that is going to pay for them with your life, huh? You are not separate from the human race. You are expendable too, my friend, if that is the word you choose to use for the rest of us. And as for me, don’t worry. I have been vaccinated against the virus.”
“Vaccinated? You have a vaccine?” I cry, in the passenger seat as Umba drives.
“Our doctors and scientists invented one not long ago. Well-proven and tested. We will share it with you.”
“Well, what took you so fucking long?” I cry. I’m dribbling tears. I’m coughing up my lungs. “Why couldn’t you have invented it sooner?”
“Nature is a bitch, Trenty. We do not have mastery over it. There are parts of the world and our understanding of it that are difficult, Trenty. Many years ago, we danced in robes around altar stones to give ourselves a good harvest. Then we learned about proper agriculture. It took some years! In your United States, life expectancy in 1900 was forty-six years old, Trenty. Now it is over seventy years. One hundred years brings that progress, not some instant wish. There is no immediate gratification for your wants and desires, Trenty. You may decide that only you can come up with the answers, but I tell you, even though you are my friend, that I am glad you are not in charge of the system. Because, Trenty, you are essentially a fucking idiot.”
“That’s not nice, Umba…” I tell him. “Besides, lockdown is going to kill people, Umba. It is.”
“Yes, Trenty. That may happen. But that is not because of the lockdown. It is because of the system you live in, the one that does not take care of people very well. Your system is broken, not the response to this virus, Trenty. Maybe you can spend more time trying to fix that system, no, instead of going after all the people who are trying to save lives?”
And it’s crashing on me. It just is. His electric car, the one with the large turd on the hood, takes me home. Umba brings me to my bed and calls my doctor. An hour later, I’m straining for breath. The goddam virus got me, I think to myself. I think about my various ejaculates expelled all through the city, and what glad tidings of virus they may bring to other people. I wish I could care. I squeeze my eyes tight and try hard to care, to ignore my bank account, my dick, my comfort, my sporting events, my restaurants, my hookers, my blow, all of it. It’s hard. It’s just hard.
In the middle of the night, I get up. Umba’s sleeping on a chair, watching over me. The goddam beautiful ebony bastard… I never knew how pretty he was. He’s always been a voice, but now he’s in my house, tending me.
I head to the bathroom and relieve myself. Stare at my dick. It’s really small. Just a flabby bit of skin hanging over my feet. It was never that impressive. It doesn’t even talk anymore. Maybe it never did.
I go to the mirror and look into it. I’m pale, sunken cheeks, sweaty, hollow-eyed, like I had it coming. Maybe I did have it coming. And as I stare in the mirror, I wonder about the problem. Who’s the problem. Where’s the problem. Why’s it a problem. Identify yourself, I tell the world. And the world? All it answers with is my reflection.
I’ll take any and all criticism on this, if you think this is off base or just plain wrong. Let me have it. Unfortunately, I think we have to come to grips with the fact that there are know-it-all people in the world who think they know everything and what’s best for us, when in reality they’re just fucking stupid. I’m sorry, but some people are just stupid but think they’re way too smart, these armchair quarterbacks with their internet access. The know-it-alls have returned! So let me have it. I won’t block or remove comments unless they’re hateful, because I’m no coward and I’m not afraid of contrary opinions.
For my US compatriots, happy Memorial Day weekend. Stay safe, people. Take care. All we have is each other.