Excerpts from the Book 'Portions of a Life':

Angels on the Ninth Floor:

The real life journal of Timothy Fak’s premature birth and his struggle to survive.

….As we write down these words I wonder how long this diary will be. Will it be enough to fill a book? Or as we write this, will a doctor come down the hall to tell us there are no more pages to be written on your life. 

……That morning I was certain that your life was going to end. I thought mom’s water breaking meant you had to be born soon and you were far too young to survive in the outside world. Later at St. Johns I realized there was still a chance and that the people surrounding mom gave you that best chance.

     Driving home that night I remembered a day from last year. We had lost my dad and mom’s grandmother. Mom hobbled about on a broken foot and then we had the miscarriage in January. I remember dropping her off at Lincoln College and watching her walking up to the door, clumping along with a cast on her foot and a now empty womb. I recall never being so sad in my life. I feared I would have a more sorrowful day very soon

….The nurses kept telling me to try and rest and to take a nap which was really getting me mad. Mom and Aunt Norma were down for a visit and I felt really sorry for them, especially my mom. She looked like she was in as much pain as I was just watching me.

     Mom touched my shoulder once and I snapped at her to not press on me. When Aunt Norma asked me if I wanted anything I told her I wanted to get out of here.

     Besides getting really angry at my mom and aunt, in the pain I found myself getting really angry at myself. I was thinking I wanted the hospital to do “something” and I knew what that “something” was. What I wanted but couldn’t say was for them to take the baby out of me. The thought made me sad because it meant I was giving up on buying you more time. I didn’t want to say that out loud so I just kept asking for someone to do “something” right now

….Dr. Amankwah, with no emotion in his voice, tells us he is going to take you out and grabs a pair of clamps that look like two huge spoons on a hinge similar to a pair of ice tongs. I look over to where he is and can now see that they have given your mom what they call an episiotomy, meaning they have cut her open as wide as possible to help get you out. Dr. Amankwah asks your mom to keep pushing while he moves the two clamps inside your mom.

     Grabbing hold of you, he tells Dr. Woods you are face down and adroitly spins you around so that you are facing up in the womb. Dr. Woods continues to cut your mom to make the opening still larger in order to not have you be under any stress during this process. Suddenly Dr. Amankwah takes the clamps out and reaches inside your mom with both hands and pulls you out of your womb.

     You are very red, almost purple, and covered in blood. The Drs. clear your nose and quickly cut the umbilical cord. Nurse Linda, trying to keep us calm, tells us we won’t hear you cry because of your size and the fact your lungs aren’t fully developed.

     I have never seen anyone so small in my life as Dr. Amankwah hands you to one of the neo-natalagists. You are limp with your arms and legs hanging down off the sides of the Doctor’s hands and I can see that your tiny chest is not moving. I think to myself “That’s it. The little guy didn’t make it,” as the four doctors furiously work on you. 

     "Yeh, we won’t hear him cry because he’s dead." I think to myself. The four doctors are moving at a feverish pace and I know they are trying to bring you back but I feel a wave of finality to the ordeal entering my heart. I can see Dr. Chapman’s eyes as he stands near the doctors working so hard on you. I can see in his eyes that you are not responding to treatment and I start to direct my worry to your poor mom who looks like she was in an explosion.

….I go to bed but I just lay there, my brain too active to find any rest. About 10:30 your mom calls and says you had an episode of apnea which means you stopped breathing. The nurse said as soon as she shook you, you started breathing again. The Doctors asked for approval to do a spinal tap to make sure there wasn’t an infection that caused the apnea. Mom says you are otherwise stable as I say goodnight. Now for sure I can’t get to sleep. I go into the unfinished nursery and sit down on a five gallon bucket of plaster. I cry very hard believing there is no hurry to finish your room.

…..Dad’s Journal: Sat. Jan. 5^th

     I went into work today to make sure everything is alright. Tom the owner has been great about the entire deal. He appreciates me coming in, but anytime I feel compelled to leave is just fine with him. He is being a true friend to me as well as employer. Your mom called and said you were still stable but had lost a couple ounces. The staff had told us to expect this but it still gives cause for worry.

     You got a group special from the Catholic Church today. You were Baptized and given The Last Rites as well. Not many people can say they received two sacraments on the same day but you will be able to.

The Handicapped Graduation

….There at that point in time, at that point on the stage, Timothy's struggle with life was defined. He was caught in no mans land. There was nothing around him to use for balance. For perhaps five seconds that lasted in my mind for hours, he struggled to stay on his feet. I could see him raise his hands from his sides as if to catch a breeze to keep him aloft. I felt tears welling in my eyes. "He's going down", I thought.

….Finally he was at the end of the stage and bouncing back to his seat. Again a smile of accomplishment beamed from his face. I had sensed the whispers in the crowd as my son had made his triumphant march. I knew some of the murmurs were from many of the parents who knew my son and knew what he had just accomplished. I also knew that some of the mumblings were from people who did not know my son and were making judgments about him that were terribly incorrect.

….I felt a deep urge to stand up and lecture the crowd in that hall. I felt like' telling them that at the age of ten my son had scored an IQ of 139. I wanted to tell them that he consistently scored as a college senior in many of the Iowa tests the school administered. I needed them to know that my son was witty and charming and a wonderful person to spend your life with.

….Standing in the middle of the gym, I noticed one of Tim's classmates talking with his father. The young boy was tall and straight as he laughed with his dad. I found myself hating those two people as I watched them. I found myself hating their being normal and told myself what jerks they probably were.

    I then took a breath and apologized to God. Here I was, a person who didn't want people to judge my son on his appearance doing the same thing to this boy and his dad.

   The kid is probably a great kid I thought. The dad is probably a better dad than I will ever be. You are a real jerk, I thought to myself. Here you are making judgments on people you don't know because they are normal, but you don't want people to do the same to your son because he's not. I went back to the table and sat with my son until he asked if we could go.

The Great Raccoon Hunters

….A week went by with no further sightings nor bumps in the night and I was beginning to think that I had indeed just had a bad 3:00 a.m. nightmare. That was until Sharon yelled at me one morning to come to the bathroom. There as Sharon dried off after a shower was a thirty pound raccoon sitting on the window ledge, knocking to get in. My wife, ever so calm said: I think he needs to use the toilet". I made a quick gesture towards the window in an attempt to scare the behemoth away. The male raccoon stood up on its haunches and clawed at me through the glass.

….That afternoon I went to Wal-Mart to purchase a BB rifle and ammo. I looked at the BB guns on display and picked the one with the maximum stopping power. The cardboard case the gun nestled in showed a picture of a dead grizzly bear, its tongue hanging out, as a small boy raised his BB gun in the air in triumph. That's the one I need, I exclaimed.

   Nervously, I took the rifle and the box of BBs’ up to the counter. This was my first gun purchase. I kept myself from having eye contact with the clerk in case she ended up being a witness. Without a glance the clerk rang up my purchase and placed it in a large non-transparent bag. That was it. In just a few moments I had chosen and then purchased a weapon of destruction with no questions asked.  

     As I walked out of the store I thanked the Lord for the NRA.

Murphy the Cat

….As the years went by and Murphy slowed down, she began to gain weight. Her life became simple and basic. Take a little nap, eat a little food, and find somebody's lap to lie on and get a good scratch job. In later years it got to the point that as soon as I sat down anywhere, there was old Murphy on my lap, ducking her head under my hand looking for a little attention. You could never give that cat enough scratches.

   She also had another very strange habit that I have never seen before. When you picked her up she would open her forepaws and place them around your sides. Many are the witnesses who would say;" Is she hugging you?" She was, and I miss it terribly.

   In 1998 I had to have Murphy put to sleep.

Jackson’s Christmas

 ….The old man found out from one of the other workers that before Christmas, Jackson had somehow ended up in one of the worker’s vans and had been transported to Lincoln. Jackson, not as friendly with people she didn’t know, had taken off when released from the truck and had begun a great Christmas journey back to the cardboard box she knew as home.

     It had taken nearly a month for the kitten to make the thirteen miles back to that old box but here she was with the man she considered her friend.

     As the kitten curled up in a ball on the man’s lap, the man thought of what the little kitten must have gone through. Thirteen miles in the cold snowy farmland was a trek by itself. Where did she find food and shelter? How often did she come close to being killed by a farm dog or a coyote during the travail? What empowered her to face any and all dangers just to get back to a cardboard box with an old flannel shirt stuffed inside it?

Dogs in my Life

 ….I don’t have many fond memories of Skipper, as he came into my life, ate all the furniture and then abruptly left almost as quickly as Sparky.

….We didn’t have enough money to get Skipper fixed, but I think Skipper did the job on himself that first time he jumped into old man Westlake’s rose bushes.

….I remember peeking in and seeing dad and Rusty on the bed, the two of them savoring another chocolate cream drop together as the Sox tried to win enough games to prevent my dad from getting mad at them.

Before it was Wrigleyville

 ….I watched from a distance as I became a young boy again, standing and talking to Ted Williams, my hero. Without explanation (which is never needed in a dream), I saw myself walking away with Mr. Williams. I knew as I watched the two of them leave the ballpark that they were going somewhere to talk about my youth around good old Wrigley. With their backs turned to me, I heard myself say to Ted, “You were my dad’s favorite ballplayer.” “I know”. He replied. As the two figures dwindled in the distance, I saw the young boy reach to hold the man’s hand. Gently, you could see the older man return the gesture.

….I recalled how for several years half of the dining room was a train layout on two full sheets of plywood. I remember dad continually buying new buildings or tiny streetlights or Lionel cars that did special things when you threw a switch. I also remember mom being mad at dad for spending so much money when there were other things she deemed more important than another building for the miniature city. As I grew older I came to realize it wasn’t my train set but dad’s that he continually worked on. Somewhere in his childhood he had dreamed of having a train layout like this one, and I being born had been the perfect excuse to go and spend a fortune on these toys. I recalled looking under the apron of the layout at what looked like hundreds of feet of wires and considering my father a genius.   

…. Ernie Banks was always the best. Every time we saw him we would yell, “Hey Ernie”.  The man would always acknowledge us with a huge smile and that constant classic retort of his, “Hey, how ya doin?” Although he said it to all the kids he saw, the genuineness of his manner made every kid feel like they were a personal friend of Ernie Banks.

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….It probably was a better time for all the ballplayers back then.  They could walk over to the stands, spend a few minutes of idle chatter with us and not get deluged with people shoving things in their faces to sign. I think they knew who the Wrigley kids were. So many adoring faces in so many towns they couldn’t remember us individually but they acted like they knew us.  This simple if false recognition by our heroes was everything to us. It allowed us to pretend we were friends with our idols. It validated our lives.

….I recalled getting in serious trouble with mom and dad while helping out Tom Terrific one Saturday morning. I drew a boat on the T.V. picture tube to help Tom get away from some dastardly villain. I was supposed to have a Winky Dink set that included a plastic film to be placed over the picture tube in order to do this but I didn’t. For many years the family saw their favorite television programs with a faint vestige of a poorly drawn boat still indelibly smeared on the 10 inch screen.  

Remembering the Tough Guy

....One day, as worker after worker went down swinging, the son’s bragging became too much for the father. Putting down his sandwich, the man ignored the bat, grabbed a janitor’s broom and unscrewed the handle. Stepping up to the mock plate the father didn’t say a word. The man just stood there. His eyes telling his son to deliver the best he had to the plate.

   The son recalls how with everything he had in his strong arm he fired the ball at his father. The son also recalls the solid sound of the broom handle meeting the ball true and square as it soared over the fence and adjoining factory’s roof.

   The old man looked at his son and said; “too much mouth” and walked back to continue eating his lunch. As the work crew howled with glee at big Mike showing up little Mike, the son sheepishly went over and sat down next to his father. His dad immediately started talking about an idea he had to get more air pressure out of the factory’s compressors. Nothing more needed to be said about his son’s arrogance. The lesson had been given. The lesson had been learned.

The Things We Throw Away

….With no budget and even less school interest, our school was delighted that they had been able to finagle hand-me-down uniforms from another ball team. When we were given our uniforms, there were no questions about the size of your chest or waist. Brother Frank simply said: "Your tall, here's a tall one; your short and dumpy, here's a short and dumpy one".

     Those uniforms precipitated the season from hell. The major leagues in those days had switched to lean, cotton uniforms, with a higher stirrup sock than before. Our hand me downs were drab, baggy gray and blue pin stripes, made out of 100% itchy, scratchy wool. We hated those uniforms so much that I don't recall a single player asking his mom to tailor them to size. I seem to recall now that a few guys on the team didn't smell like they ever bothered to take them home to wash.

The Reason I Can’t Fly

 ….I still remember the incredible feeling I had when I first donned that uniform. Standing in front of the mirror in all my splendor with hands on hips, I decided it was time to fulfill my destiny.

    Going into the living room and removing the third floor window screen, I prepared to leap out into the wild blue yonder. At just that moment of historical import, my mom grabbed me by the cape and pulled me back into the world of mere mortals.

The Phone Call

….You know the call is going to come. You put it out of your mind as many times as it pops into your head but you always know it will happen one day. Always, when the thought crops into your head you ask God: not today. Not next week. Not next year. The call is as inexorable as life itself. It comes in its own time, not ours.

     My call came at 6:45 a.m. Sunday May 25^th 2004. My sister Patricia made the call to tell me Mary Catherine Treacy Fak, our mother, my mother, had died.

….I find myself walking around the house today talking to mom. That makes sense doesn’t it? I could have talked to her every day for hours if I cared to, but I waited until she was dead and now I feel the need to tell her everything. I feel like an idiot, but I know, although she is listening, she isn’t judging me. That just wasn’t her style.

How I Lost 50 Pounds in 90 Days….Without Cutting Something Off

….I have never been a breakfast person except when there is a pound or two of bacon lying around, but I found comfort in the cereal section that day. Many breakfast cereals, which I had never eaten before, claimed only 100 calories per serving. I liked this since I knew I had to start eating breakfast for the first time in my life on a regular basis.

     The closest I ever came to eating “The most important meal of the day” was when I was a kid and mom made me a bowl of oatmeal every morning before school. Of course every morning when mom went downstairs to iron my clothes for school, I took the oatmeal and flushed it down the toilet. I could always bank on mom never having my clothes ready the night before so this ruse worked well for all the years she fed me that garbage. In later years dad had to completely replace all the plumbing in the house and I will always believe it was because of mom’s oatmeal.

….The first thing was to consume all the Italian beef my wife had made for me for Father’s Day. I couldn’t imagine looking at the leftovers every day and not ripping into them, so I got rid of the beef the only logical way I knew. I consumed it. All 3 pounds of it.

   The second thing, and I believed this would be the hardest thing to do, was to get rid of all the beer and wine in the house. I had made up my mind that eating less but still drinking tons of calories and carbs would just protract the time frame of my diet. Feeling better about myself, I washed down all the Italian beef with all the beer and wine there was in the house. When I went to bed there wasn’t a trace of alcohol left in the house. I felt good about my first day on a new diet plan.

….I found I was now able to go to the bar and drink club sodas while everyone else swilled down their brewskies. This was important as I was now starting to get comments that people could tell I was losing weight. When I told them I had lost twenty pounds in a month I received several retorts that such a weight loss so quickly sounded unhealthy. I explained I was still eating a lot but eating a lot of good things rather than bad. When I was stilled questioned about my loss being too fast, I told the person to shut up and that they were drunk. Nothing worse than a reformed anything is there.

                               In search of false teeth

My teeth have not only lost their enamel but have begun shifting around in my mouth. The other day when I was brushing my teeth, an old pot roast from months ago fell out from between a couple molars  

….I have been debating removing my teeth myself since I am a “do it yourself” kind of guy, but I think I should have done such an operation before I gave up drinking and not after. I tried the string around the doorknob and then around a tooth. So far I still have all my teeth, but only one doorknob left in the house that’s operational.

…. The Christmas of 1960

….I do remember my Grandma Treacy mentioning that she could have used the electric meter for a meat slicer when dad turned all the decorations on every Christmas season. All of this started in the year 1960.

….Dad, rummaging through the company’s scrap heap, had found this marvelous bit of junk and he started explaining to me what he thought we should do with the bomb. His idea was to cut the front of the bomb off, from left to right, at an angle that matched the slant on the roof of the house. Then bolting the bomb to the roof, it would look like it was sticking into the house. Behind this “ornament” would be a sheet of plywood with lights strung on the board saying: “Merry Christmas, The Russians are coming”.

     It only took my twelve year old mind a few seconds to realize this was one of dad’s best ideas yet.

Wishes over Resolutions 2006

….Now I don’t wish to become a radical about animal rights either. I mean I won’t demand sportsmen shows on television display a disclaimer: “No worms were hurt in the filming of this fishing show.”  You won’t see me picketing outside a business with a sign saying “bug whackers are inhumane” either. I guess what I’m saying is, I wish I could find a happy median in all of this, but I’m afraid I won’t. I picture myself harboring guilt the rest of my life even when I’m just eating a gummy bear.

….On an ethereal note, I wish to make it known I want to have my remains cremated. I wish to have this done to me after I have died and not a moment before. I still have a problem with this thought and wish I could talk to someone who has experienced this event personally to be absolutely certain that it doesn’t hurt.

I’m in the Senior Olympics

….Members of the fundraising committee believed the possibility of seeing me crushed by a bear would be huge for ticket sales, and encouraged me to find a bear. Unfortunately, I found out bear wrestling in America is now illegal.

….I will need a few sponsors to help with bills while I train for my events. I have a real good idea on who will help me with that. The entire Senior Olympic field will be people old enough to croak at any minute, so having a funeral home as a sponsor is a natural in my opinion. I can have a track shirt printed out that says on the back: “I intend to be cremated by so and so funeral home”.

In Search of Fak

….Further searching tells me my name will forever be ensconced in the modern scientific world. FAK, Focul Adhesion Kinase, is a new something or other that bio geneticists have found to be anti-apototic. Japanese researchers appear to be very excited about FAK and I can only wish them luck in their fight against apototics. Unless of course apototics are good things, which would mean FAK’s are bad things.

….Unfortunately, after further studies, I found out that the 90,000 inhabitants of Fak-Fak are aborigines, many who have yet to get over such mundane problems as genocide and snacking on each other. My new vision again saw myself being hoisted into the air, but this time the crowd was delivering me to a cooking pot rather than a luxurious castle. To further make the point, the “New Guinea Tourism Bureau” advises a traveler not to waste time carrying credit cards, as they have no value except as potential ornamentation around the neck of a no longer hungry Fak-Fakian.

Ghosts of Alzheimers

….In 1982, there was not much known about the disease, so tests showed there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. My father knew there was.

     Ready to be sent home from the hospital with a clean bill of health, my father, in control of his wits that day had asked me to come and drive him back home from the hospital. As I watched my dad get dressed, I asked him if there was anything I could do for him. Still being the tough street kid, he told me to go find his old colt 45 pistol and put a bullet between his eyes before it was too late.

     Tearfully, I told him I couldn’t do that and, ever the pragmatist, he told me then there was nothing I could do for him.

….As the water washed away my brother’s tears as well as my own; a myriad of emotions ran through my mind. I recall as if yesterday that I never did and never will love my brother more than I did at that moment in time. I remember feeling so terribly sorry for my mom who was going through this hell every day without a complaint passing her lips. I also remember being terribly angry ay my God for allowing this ordeal to happen to my father and this family.

The Turn at the End of the Hall

….I remember now the small bedroom and the small dresser at the foot of the bed. I recall how the Bushman sat on the right hand corner of the dresser…except on stormy nights. On stormy nights it would sit where ever it wished to.

     I recall the first terrible storm after the great ape was brought home. A storm with heavy winds and drenching rains was mauling the city one late summer night. The wind, whistling and screaming through the old wooden window panes, brought a chill into an otherwise overly warm apartment.

     The old oak tree outside the bedroom window scratched and clawed at the glass, as the wind helped it try and get into my room.

…..Finally, after fighting the pull for hours as best I could, I was compelled to enter the long hall way. I grabbed hold of the doorway of the bathroom and hung on for dear life. The shadow, now only ten feet away, mentally continued to draw me towards its clutches. It wanted me to come to it, at the turn at the end of the hall.

The Great Latrine Fiasco

….After about the tenth key on the ring finally opened the lock, Flynn threw open the massive twin steel doors, and fumbled inside for a light switch. He had to dart out of the way as Hall came barreling into the structure with the deuce. Flynn really didn’t need the lights. The years had made so many holes in the rusted away thin corrugated metal of the hut that, coupled with the doors being open, plenty of light from a bright summer’s day filtered into the building.

    Two hundred feet into the center of the hut, Hall slammed on the brakes of the deuce and popped out of the truck. He, like Flynn, was speechless for a minute as they looked at the contents inside 456. On both sides of the Quonset hut, stacked fifteen feet high, the entire length of the structure, were pallet after pallet of five gallon buckets of off-white and O.D. green paint.

….Flynn turned to the latrine door and should have changed his mind about painting the bathroom right then and there…but he didn’t. The lids were off every bucket of paint. A half dozen of Fifth Platoon sloppily stirred the old paint that had set through God knows how many seasons freezing and then thawing. In line, almost like they were waiting for chow, another half dozen soldiers waited with pans and buckets to get their share and to start painting.

….Suddenly Flynn realized the latrine job wasn’t being supervised.

     “Sarge, we’re painting the bathroom and I’ve got to get back and see how the guys are doing.”

     Contino jumped off his duffle bag.

     “You’re what? Whose painting the bathroom? Oh, Jesus, don’t tell me you left those idiots with five gallons of paint in a room?’

     “Actually Sarge, it’s more like 60 gallons.’

….Between Contino’s screams, Flynn asked Root where they found the huge canvas drop cloth.

     “Out in the shed, Sarge. Pretty good idea, huh.”

     Before Flynn could answer, his eyes noticed the heavy grommet rings that circled the edges of the drop cloth. Picking up one edge, he noticed the other side that the boys hadn’t looked at as they unrolled the tarp. In huge, professionally done block print, under a pair of antique crossed pistols, were the words: “250th Military Police Detachment”

     Saying nothing, Flynn laid the tarp down as Bullock bragged.

     “Almost done.”

….The group of soldiers all either nodded or replied. They were scared, but Flynn said he could fix things and they believed him. They had zero alternatives.

     As he turned to leave he could hear Tripp, sitting in one of the toilet stalls, complain that the toilet paper he had just used was full of green paint.

….Going downstairs, Flynn decided to make a call to Sixth Platoon Sergeant Hendricks. The sixth would be getting off duty at 2300 and he didn’t want anyone stumbling into the bath area full of wet paint and gasoline fumes. He pictured a dumb G.I. walking into the bathroom with a cig in his mouth and blowing the entire barracks to hell. He pictured the general from the Pentagon staring down into a huge hole in the ground full of O.D. green and off-white paint and asking Captain Mendoza what the hell had happened.

Things that Drive me Nuts

….I have to ask why I should trust these people if they don’t trust me. I think the passage of cash for chow should be simultaneous. Sort of like on television, when the dope dealer and junkie both stick out their dope and money, and snatch each other’s stuff at the same time.  

     Maybe a little conveyor system with two belts going opposite ways should be required at drive through windows. Like prisoner of war exchanges, where the two start walking across the bridge to the other side.

….I really wish there was a way I could make “flip flops” illegal. Those nasty, disgusting “semi shoes” are everywhere these days. This foot protection was invented for the armed services to issue to their soldiers. The human foot, being a carrier of many nasty diseases, caused the military to decide wearing a partial shoe that would keep all the germs swimming around a community shower off of everyone’s feet, would promote better hygiene. Well now that “flip, flops” are everyday wear, I believe they constitute the number one health problem in America.

….While I’m on parking lots, I need to take a jab at all the dolts who can’t put their shopping carts back in the shopping cart areas that are everywhere in the lot. These jerks just leave them wherever they wish and don’t give a damn about the carts drifting around, putting dents in people’s nice cars. If you notice, people who abandon carts all drive junker cars and trucks, have dirty hair, and have few, if any attractive teeth in their mouth.

     ….Men, of course, are even worse than the women. I would like someone to tell me why men refuse to admit they are getting fatter. When I put on the pounds, I went and bought pants with a larger waist, but it looks like a lot of men won’t do that. Instead they just slide their pants down below their bellies and then tell themselves they wear the same pants size they did in high school. I see men all the time who have their pants slid so low off their waist that I marvel the things still stay up.

….I don’t understand music anymore. I did as a young man, but even then I realized most music stinks. I think I was the only teenager in America who realized that ”Love Me Do” by the Beatles, was a poor grammatical foray into telling a girl you have affection for her and would appreciate reciprocity if plausible.

….The male country singers also don’t offer songs anywhere near the quality offered by the Females. For every “Independence Day” by Martina McBride or “I Feel Like a Woman” by Shania Twain or “Breathe” by Faith Hill. The males offer up such outstanding repartees as “I Spent my Paycheck at the Girlie Bar” or “My Wife Kicked me out fer Spittin Terbacky Juice in the Goldfish Bowl”.

….Why are there so many ads and products directed at men who have had their member get old along with the rest of their bodies? These disgusting ads talk about: “Penile Dysfunction” like it’s some kind of disease. Your eleventh digit getting smaller and disinterested isn’t a disease. It’s a natural regression of life. All those pills do is cause goofy old men to leave their wives of forty years and chase their daughter’s friend’s children. These pills hurt society more than they help it.

                               Excerpts from new stories