Thursday, July 9, 2009


When I was just a wee-wee, there was one bedtime story that always confused me--angered me, even. It was Pinocchio. He had this kind, old father figure who dreamed of bringing his wood to life. Yes, it's a fairy who does (turns?) the trick, but that didn't bother me; to each his bone, I say. You might think I took exception the fact that a part of him would grow big and long only after a moral lapse. Yes, that made my foreskin crawl, but I also understood from an early length that such an erection was simply too suggestive for Disney and had to be viewed negatively. I don't share that point of view, of course, but I do accept brand management; it's why I've never been seen with Tim Conway's dick--that thing is a fucking garden hose.

Coming to life wasn't good enough for P. No, he needed to transform into something else, because being someone's sentient wood puppet wasn't real fulfillment. That I didn't buy. And back then I wasn't even enjoying the bountiful rewards of being Ron's sentient wood puppet. But I didn't feel like my life wasn't real just because I was mostly wood.

This may be why I admire dildos. They don't suffer any such existential challenge. They know they're fake, but they get to fuck real pussies, so they don't complain. There are dildos out there that were literally made in my image. You can buy them. I can't imagine how I'd feel if one of them wished upon a porn star and magically became real, but I suspect those old gripes about Pinocchio would return. Be happy with yourself! You get to be you, so why become something you're not?

Oh crap, was this about Michael Jackson?
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