Slung guts into
The first time I asked about my father, my mother simply told me he was, “The biggest arsehole God ever slung guts into”.
I was nine at the time and thought it a blasphemy. I couldn’t imagine God not doing things meticulously, although I didn’t have that word for it then. I just couldn’t imagine him chucking body parts around, hoping they’d find a mark, however inappropriate. An ear — thwack. Bullseye! Some guts, coiled around the forearm and heaved towards a gaping abdominal cavity. An eyeball sling-shotted towards a socket. The dude had all the time in the world — he had invented time after all. Nobody even knew what a week was before all that “on the seventh day he rested and admired his DIY handiwork” stuff, did they? He could have taken his time making my dad, couldn’t he? Before he started slinging things around? I guess in those days I still imagined God as a bit of a perfectionist.
“Not so,” insisted Richo, years later. “If he’d been that precise Benjamin Saunders would never have ended up with both male and female parts.”
“How do you know what parts he had?”
“Saw ‘em,”
“Fuck off!”
“How much ya wanna bet?”
“I’m not betting you haven’t seen another man’s tackle, Richo. I’m not an idiot.”
“Not a man, bro, but not a bitch either. You really think I’d pass up that opportunity?”
“I think you’re making all of this shit up. That’s what I think.”
“Just because you haven’t seen flaps yet.”
“What the …? I’ve seen flaps, bro.”
“In a magazine. Not really the same is it? Not the same as seeing he–she flaps.”
“So what’d it look like?” I couldn’t suppress my curiosity, even though I was pretty sure he was full of shit; Richo usually was.
“Like a bulldog eating a saveloy.”
“Fuck off!”
“No, seriously. Like a giant squid sucking down a lump of Devon.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“It was man. It was disgusting. Disgusting, in a kind of erotic way, you know.”
“Wrong!”
“Oh… man … so right. You ain’t seen pussy till you’ve seen hermaphrodite pussy, dude.”
“You’re a twisted son-of-a-bitch.”
“Mom! Chris’s calling you a name again!” he hollered.
I was nine at the time and thought it a blasphemy. I couldn’t imagine God not doing things meticulously, although I didn’t have that word for it then. I just couldn’t imagine him chucking body parts around, hoping they’d find a mark, however inappropriate. An ear — thwack. Bullseye! Some guts, coiled around the forearm and heaved towards a gaping abdominal cavity. An eyeball sling-shotted towards a socket. The dude had all the time in the world — he had invented time after all. Nobody even knew what a week was before all that “on the seventh day he rested and admired his DIY handiwork” stuff, did they? He could have taken his time making my dad, couldn’t he? Before he started slinging things around? I guess in those days I still imagined God as a bit of a perfectionist.
“Not so,” insisted Richo, years later. “If he’d been that precise Benjamin Saunders would never have ended up with both male and female parts.”
“How do you know what parts he had?”
“Saw ‘em,”
“Fuck off!”
“How much ya wanna bet?”
“I’m not betting you haven’t seen another man’s tackle, Richo. I’m not an idiot.”
“Not a man, bro, but not a bitch either. You really think I’d pass up that opportunity?”
“I think you’re making all of this shit up. That’s what I think.”
“Just because you haven’t seen flaps yet.”
“What the …? I’ve seen flaps, bro.”
“In a magazine. Not really the same is it? Not the same as seeing he–she flaps.”
“So what’d it look like?” I couldn’t suppress my curiosity, even though I was pretty sure he was full of shit; Richo usually was.
“Like a bulldog eating a saveloy.”
“Fuck off!”
“No, seriously. Like a giant squid sucking down a lump of Devon.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“It was man. It was disgusting. Disgusting, in a kind of erotic way, you know.”
“Wrong!”
“Oh… man … so right. You ain’t seen pussy till you’ve seen hermaphrodite pussy, dude.”
“You’re a twisted son-of-a-bitch.”
“Mom! Chris’s calling you a name again!” he hollered.
