March 22, 2005

Hey you out there,

I’m the new kid on the Bulldog, here to write whatever I want, whenever I want, for whatever it’s worth.

Let’s dive right in, shall we?

On my mind tonight are dicks. Dicks, pricks, penises, cocks, johnsons, peters, bananas in your pocket, kielbasas, pissers, schlongs, schwangs, dongs, poles, tools.

Rifling just now through a box of souvenirs from a 1999 trip to Italy, I came upon a “Minicalendario” for the year 2000, “Il Pisello nell’ Arte,” “The Penis in Art,” put out by Innocenti of Florence and featuring a monthly serving of spicy Italian sausage. I mean that is dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after dick after goddamn dick already.

[What movie is this a line from: “How many dicks is that?”
I’ll give you this one: It’s Mr. Blue to Mr. White in “Reservoir Dogs:”
Mr. Brown: [in “Like a Virgin,” Madonna is a fuck machine obsessed with dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick.
Mr. Blue:    How many dicks is that?
Mr. White:    A lot.
The correct answer is, of course, nine.]

No wonder my thoughts turn to dicks. I favor “cock” myself—it has the muscle of manpower behind it. If ever I find I must refer to your dick socially, conversationally, or in mixed company, I will probably call it a dick. If I refer to your dick personally, intimately, it will no doubt be as a cock. Dick’s a safe lightweight nickname. A cock is a sex organ. “Pisello” actually means “pea” but is slang for weenie orpisser. The cover of this calendar features a strategic beefcake shot of Michaelangelo’s David (you know the one) and unfolds into a triangular stand so you can display the dick of the month on your desk. Thinking back on dicks I have known, I’d have to say I’ve encountered at least as many varieties of shape, color, size, and personality as are demonstrated by the following slide show with rough translations.

How about this one:

tr: 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 …launch missile!












tr: My God, I’ve created a monster!
















tr: What—me, Gay? You betcha!









tr: Hey, Mister, where’d you get that sixth finger?











tr: OK, time out!












tr: Now that’s just ugly.

tr: Dad, you’re melting the igloo!









tr: Why don’t we do it in the road?










tr: “I’m partial to ‘firehose’ myself.”












tr: Dude, who sculpts your pubes?










tr: Really, honey, it doesn’t matter… Yeah, right










tr: Dude, where’s my dick?













OK, so you’re wondering, just who the h is this horny broad bursting out on the Scene?

With my hands riding my hips, I do declare:

I am Alexandra Jones! --   your worst nightmare!

 your maiden fair
  your California bear
   your avis rare
    your voluptuous pair
     your pommes de terre
      your rocket’s red glare
       your solar flare
        your chocolate éclair
         your fromage Gruyere
          your song of despair
           your vin ordinaire
            your silent prayer
             your devil may care
              your double dare
               your diamond solitaire
                your rouge Khmer
                 your Rapunzel’s hair
                  your overstuffed chair
                   your secret affair
                    Alexandra Jones is

your scribe extraordinaire…..

h digs me. That’s all you have to know.

The author savors a square of the Best Ravioli the World
Has Known, served up at Il Capitello Ristorante, Rome

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Short Attention Span Poetry Corner

A loose-flying yellow CAUTION tape
Flits across my chest
Like a beauty pageant banner

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Dicks & Pricks
3/21/05

axfiles@sbcglobal.net