Now, normally I can only be found at fairs that start with the word Renaissance and spell fair with an “e” . Before you judge, I’d like to reiterate that I do NOT, under any circumstance, dress up as a knight or knave . Even though that would be awesome, I simply don’t have the courage. It’s a whole other level of commitment I can’t seem to summon.

Earlier in the date my date had taken me to a photography exhibit for her friend and dropped a king’s ransom on an original black and white. This was the first big art purchase since moving into her townhome. She was pumped. Also, woozy from the money she just dropped. But we were both jazzed about the idea of picking up some additional art for her place at this craft fair.

I also wanted to buy something for my condo. I figured I would identify a fun piece to put up on a wall.

The challenge is that at an art/craft fair, I have to find something I can’t live without. It must speak to me and whisper in a low and sultry timbre. Calling to me like a siren and all that sexy shit.

Or it must make me laugh. Hard.

Well, I stumbled across this mobile art booth and I saw IT. This one didn’t speak to me like an adult film actress on quaaludes. No, it shouted from the mountaintops, “I declare myself the most amazing piece of art EVER!”

Now, mind you, I already own the most amazing piece of art ever. It’s hanging in my bathroom. But this one is a close second.

Before you get all offended and put-out, let me qualify this purchase. First, I dig Jesus. I was raised Christian and it’s just fine by me. I don’t hit church up except for Christmas, but that’s because I’m lazy and like to watch Meet the Press. Also, the ten commandments are a pretty decent list of dos and don’ts. I don’t know what they were thinking with the covet ones, but whatever. Nobody’s perfect. Oh wait, Jesus is.

Anyhow, the idea of Jesus terrorizing people is kind of funny. I mean, it’s just a great use of juxtaposition. Perfect use, actually.

It’s like calling a fat guy “Slim” – it’s just funny.

Clearly I doubt Jesus would return to earth as a forty-foot incarnation and scare the bejeezus (see what I did there?) out of everyone. That’s the joke. And it’s a good one.

Except… well…

I have this thing where I never want to offend anyone. If I put this up in my second bathroom and invite over a bunch of fundamentalist bible types, this may upset them. They probably won’t get the joke. Of course, I don’t know any people like this, nor would I have them over for finger foods even if I did have them in my Rolodex. I’m probably overthinking the whole “offending people” thing.

So, I’m trying to figure out where this piece of beauty goes in the house. I’ll probably settle for the guest bedroom. Above the bed would be a funny place to hang it.

By the way, out of the hundred or so pieces in this kiosk (many had Jesus riding dinosaurs for some odd reason), the woman said this was their best selling item.

I’ll be a little embarrassed to take it to Jo-Ann Fabrics to get it framed, sure. I’ll feel the need to explain the joke to the person working in custom framing. Then I’ll present him with the coupon for 50% off. Victory!

Did I really want to blow a few hundred bucks on a lead apron?  Seems like an expensive experiment.  I mean, I only have had that thing on me for three minutes at a time.  Maybe at minute four it starts to feel constricting and scary.  Who knows?

So, I took my search to Ebay.

More of the same, really.  Expensive aprons, and shipping is a killer.

Until I found IT.

Let’s zoom in a bit, shall we?

Not “a stain”, but “some staining”?  That’s more than one stain.  Good that there’s no rips, I guess.

Oh man, do I have some questions for C. Wang, M.D.  What’s the C. stand for?  Did you go bankrupt?  And, if so, I’m guessing it’s because you didn’t wash your lead aprons.

I have another, more interesting thought – Dr. Wang loves boobs.  He decided to become a radiologist, and my theory is that he got in so he could look at cans all day.  As a result, he started doing breast exams that lasted a little too long.  Plus, he would grin the entire time.  He was brought up on charges, sent to jail, and shivved in the shower by a large Mexican.

And now I’m going to buy his nasty old vest.  But I have a few questions, which I sent over to the seller.

• What is the heaviness of the vest?  I want to make sure it’s no pussy 5lb’er.  I need a heavy vest.
• What kind of stains?

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!