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I can't explain my driving compulsive perfectionism to others, nor would I want to. My train's wheels squeal and spark against the tracks. My own words stagger back and forth against the walls of my mind, dehydrated but defiant, stunned by the cruel rigor of my demands.

So they rebel. In that spirit, here's my (latest) effort at hip-hop:

(Untitled)

Challenge me son, and I'm not so nice
I'll cut you apart on my recording device.
When the crowd falls quiet, then I get the panics,
So I hide in a corner, and I chew up a Xanax.
I don't like to curse, but what the motherfuckin' heck...
Crazy Johnny's my name, I'll stick a needle in ya neck.

That's how I'm gonna get laaaaid!

When you step to me, I step on back,
Because you stink real bad and you whyme weal wack.
You remind me of Jimmy, he talks like a clam,
And when he gets drunk, he gives his wife a choke-slam.
Now he's in therapy, and it's good for him...
He's more sensitive, and I'm with Mrs. Jim.

That's how I always get laaaaid!

We'll blow up the chorus, don't linguistically bore us.
Brave the danger, explore us
Because it's death to ignore us.

If I don't make sense, just feel my tone,
And check the vibration, now stroke my bone.
Take a taste of my skin, it's honey sweet.
And I ain't got no foreskin on the end of my meat.
Most of my life is about my penis...
But don't worry 'bout the herp, creature of Venus.

That's how I never get laaaaid!
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Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: Erection on the train.

Solution: Get off.

Complication: That depends, doesn't it?
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Sun, sex

Sun worshippers at least can see and feel their God. Also, they get what they pray for, as long as that's improved mood, brownness, skin cancer, and to be forsaken in winter.

My friend, drunk during the middle of the day, despite my empty threats, insists on calling me a heliosexual, which he knows bothers me because my penis is only ninety-two million miles long (and, as you may have guessed, a fraction of a millimeter wide). I'm deathly afraid of space junk and Venus.

I love Spring. And Sun, if you want to move a million miles closer, I think you're really hot. And I'm not just saying that. It's science.
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Southern Cross

I've always hated going to church, except in my mid-teens when I would be blessed enough to sit behind some hot suburban mother in a tight pantsuit. I would spend the standing parts of Mass with head bowed, committing her ass to memory and trying to arrange my boner so it didn't poke directly outward, lest it be taken for a Crucifix. I never felt guilty about that, which is odd, because I grew up Catholic. Maybe guilt just became my default emotional state. Or maybe I didn't feel guilty because my instinct told me that my boner was normal and natural (since then I've realized that my boner is neither natural nor normal -- it's cross-shaped).

Cross-shaped. You ever heard of anything like that? Outside of the supernatural?

And the second weirdest thing about my penis is that it looks relatively normal flaccid: not at all like a "t." And then, by accident, I see Joss Stone on Carson Daly. Pop! I can hang Christmas ornaments on it. But only the ones with the strings, not the ones with the hooks, unless it's Christmas Eve.

You want to know what it's like having a cross-shaped boner? Ladies?

Well, the condition manifested itself in my early teens, and I worried nightly that there were malignant tumors in my penis. At fourteen I had a choice to either show the male doctor my boner or risk death. I chose the latter. That was a terrible decision, but twelve years later, I'm still alive. To date, a doctor has never seen the cross (or the Cross, if you prefer). Doctors have grabbed my balls pretty regularly, and they have never led me to believe that there might be something abnormal about my penis. If I were hard, my condition would be staring them right in the face.

It's a cross left-to-right, not up-to-down, in case you were wondering...

My relationships tend to be pretty short. I don't like the awkwardness of pretending that I don't have an intimate defect, so I make it a point to tell a hot suburban mother before she has a chance to see it. And I often ask her name first.

Offerings can be left in the comments section.
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Advice

Don't aim your pee after handling jalapenos. Unless you're a woman. Then, aim away.
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