Wednesday, July 27, 2005
In the ancient, misty past of human pre-history, in the dark early days of man's wandering presence on the earth's coldest, darkest, dampest (semi-)continent, proto-Europeans warred against nature and Death itself to found societies that would one day become the great and hallowed fountain of all the world's pompousness.
They braved the life-sucking cheese-swamps of Gaul, conquered the high craggy peaks of the Alps despite the flesh-hungry guardian Bumbles, tamed the wild, intoxicating beer-trees of Allemania and bent them to their will.
And when their labors were complete, when the land bore their mark and did their bidding, all was quiet. Except maybe for the virgins who were being sacrificed on stone altars to appease the gods whose incipient wrath could only be slaked by offerings of warm human blood, that part wasn't so quiet. Those chicks could really scream, especially when stabbed.
After nature had been tamed and civilizations founded and gods appeased and all the laundry folded and put away... it was time to party.
Let me tell you, nobody parties like barbarians. A great steaming pile of writhing, slithering, humping humanity lubricated by an oozing slick of wine, mud, vomit and sweat.
And then in the end when all the drink had been drunk, when all stomachs had been purged, when all red-eyed berserker rages had been spent, when all the casualties had been cleared, when all the cribbage pegs had been lost, the pile would break up into smaller piles, lazing away in the smoky post-orgy haze, snoring or giggling or making idle smalltalk in the barbarian manner,* suddenly all would go quiet. They would look at each other and they would know it was time. One of them--probably a priest or a chieftain--would disappear for a moment and return with a heavy wooden box. The box would be set in the center of the room and slowly, reverently opened.
And there, lying in its fur-lined vessel, would be the Thunderdick, the Great Stone Dildo of Heaven. The women would quiver with a mixture of fear and great anticipation while the men shrunk away, their brawny, filthy barbarian masculinity made cheap and wanting in the presence of a great big granite cock.
Let me tell you, you haven't been diddled until you've been diddled with a strap-on made out of rock.
It was never comfortable for them as the use of lube was strictly prohibited. Plus the instrument was all chipped and nicked up from people using it on its days off as a hammer, a nut-cracker, a cudgel, a fire-extinguisher, an whisk, a fly-swatter, a chisel, a torch, a tent-pole, a sign-post, a fence-rail and a sanitary napkin. But the point wasn't for it to feel good, it was to be touched by a relic that seemed really, really holy after four or five barrels of mead.
The next day their orifices would begin to heal and the buzzing in their heads would wear off and they would swear never to do anything like that again. And because they were barbarians, they would one day invent new gods of fertility and sexuality, ones that thought lubrication was a good idea and encouraged the use of more forgiving materials for the construction of their phalluses, like tree-branches or wool or plastics.
So the Thunderdick was lost, forgotten in a cave on a hilltop in present-day Germany for thousands of years. Until this past Monday, that is, when it was found by paleontologists and then written about in an article for the BBC by--apparently--Beavis and Butt-head. Seriously, read the article, it's hysterical.
Actually I found out about this yesterday via Technorati. If you click on the tab that says "Popular" it will tell you what the most-linked-to article for that day is. Yesterday, it was Thunderdick. You people frighten me.
The good news is I think I might have accidentally uncovered the plot for the next Indiana Jones movie. In the dark days before Viagra, the Nazis are on the trail of Thunderdick in an effort to restore Hitler's mojo and thus win the war. But not if Indy has anything to say about it! Maybe throw something in there about eugenics to make it all science-y and sinister. And a hot young chick for Indy to nail at the end in a comic sequence when his triumph in acquiring the object has hi-larious indirect consequences when it kicks his flagging, old-man libido into white-hot Sean Connery-esque overdrive.
This might be going some where. I got dibs on this idea, people, don't you try to steal it.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 3.0
*=usually this involved taking turns punching each other in the face.