Try as he might he couldn't undo the tightly

had become a serious problem. He had laughed it off when the shoes became tight enough to kill a small child, but now there wasn't even a snicker. He pleaded silently

with the lords of priapism to release their grasp on his only positive attribute, but they ignored it. Why had he let her put a shoe on it? Wasn't it the guy who was supposed to

do the inane immature penis tricks? Then she lit a fart, scratched herself and ate some beef jerky. This hot chick was like a guy. Not just any guy, it was..."Dad?" He asked, "Is

that you? How is this possible? Was Freud right, after all?" Panic overwhelmed him, fear pulsed through his veins like hot wine through a cheap date. "Where do we go from here?

Here we were, living in the chapel of love, and all he wanted to do was work his pulpit day and night. He'd stand there rubbing its smooth surface until he'd emanate some mess of

fantastical ecclesiastical geriatric gibberish. He'd spout off on some rubric of righteousness and then go

on a retaliatory tirade about his salubrious conquests and hob-knobbing among the Duchy's finest soiree's. Well-to-do folk knew him as a solid standby when it came to social events

but he would never truly be one of them. He found the first homely looking girl he could and went up to talk to her. It didn't take long before she was gushing and begging for him

to meet her parents. They invited him in for a game of Canasta and meat loaf dinner. He laid back in the recliner petting the house cat and watched 'Bonanza,.' He found Nirvana.