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It lived downstairs,
in the Men’s room, at the old Brunswick alleys where my league used to
bowl. Some boys, my age--twelve or thirteen,
probably a little older--lured me down there and instructed me on how to coax
it from its slumbers. You had to stand on a particular spot, and jump up a bit to catch hold of this metal bar
that was a part of the stalls. Then, dangling for an instant, you
reached for the hot-air blower and pushed its On button.
This simultaneous action--of holding to the bar whilst engaging the blower
button--resulted, more often than not, in the delivery of an electrical
shock. And for an instant you’re made helpless, dangling there like an
idiot while the boys gathered ’round you have a fit.
And so, my fellow electricians, I leave
you with this thought, but more than a thought, really, a fact. In the
words of the great Watschandis, who dig a hole and
dance around it with their spears held in front to simulate an erect penis,
Not a pit, not a pit, but a cunt!
---
*Excerpt
from a work in progress
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