ComedyCollective Writers Project
Robert Priest

Robert Priest

The Unfortunate Genius
and his ‘Winkle’

For your sake I will say that it was a ‘penis’ he had and that it was fairly normal by most standards of height, breadth and cleanliness. The problem was that his mind was abnormal – that his eyesight was peculiar and his self-esteem small, such that whenever he perceived this ‘winkle’ as he called it, it appeared minute, ineffectual, virtually useless and embarrassing to him. No matter how much he put it up against the yardstick and measured six and a half inches, it would make him weep “Why me?” he would whimper. ‘Why am I one of those who has to be born with a smaller than average winkle?’ Of course he had read all those books, manuals and magazines that said six and a half was average, but it was no good. He couldn’t believe it – he knew who had commissioned and written those studies. Sometimes he would look down andit seemed just a little pink wick-like thing – something you would have to examine with tweezers. Perhaps this ailment of his was not peculiar. Perhaps all men have such doubts. But his mind was abnormal. He was, in a way an explorer of the self – one of those who could in desperation run through strange visions into the endless riddle of his own creation. He could go under in the dark waters of self and come up from dreams in control. It was by this method, through will power and determination, that he finally reached the source, the very center of his regeneration, and there, through sheer brilliance, through unheard of intellect, he reset the winkle control so that its stalled growth function would continue.

He never doubted for a moment that the next day it would be infinitesimally bigger. And he was absolutely right. And so on the next day. And the next. After about six months of this he had a real big whopper on him. A great big pink wang of a winkle that he waved at himself merrily in the mirror like an ape who has finally figured out his first blunt stone. Soon he would be able to go out into he world of sex, he thought. Soon he would be entirely adequate, esteemed, even talked about ogled over. And of course, as usual, he was right. Wearing tight pants he became in demand by a lot of women who like the feeling of ‘being full right up’ that a big winkle gave them during intercourse. For a while he was much happier. He realized though that sooner or later he must remake his velvet journey into inner peace and remove the stone of his command. After all, he didn’t want his winkle to get so big it became unruly and unnatural. Alas, by the time he tried this, the way was blocked, the former passes all impassable. Everything had shifted and restructured itself. There was a huge happiness in himself now to support. How could he, drained by it, venture into that canyon of agony again. “So wait.” He said to himself. ‘Wait till you are unhappy. The way will be clearer then and the will stronger.’

So, he waited and his winkle grew to the point of becoming a little unsightly. Now only the most bizarre of those who like to feel ‘filled right up’; came to him. Others began to regard him as something of a monster. HE enjoyed their awe for awhile but he knew the winkle was just getting bigger and bigger and more difficult to inflate for sex. Was he a little jaded?

Sucked out by the excesses of his recent life? Time to exercise the inner muscle, he thought. But it was no good. The way inside was still blocked, almost as though some genius had built a wall againt him. Still his winkle got bigger and bigger. He discovered for a while that if he diverted all his other energies against this energy he could slow the rate of growth. But this meant having his mind filled up with Sex and Gender and Coitus, and all its words and synonyms. During this time you couldn’t talk to him without his suddenly saying ‘Ah yes, I remember, I parted her lovely fucking cunt and poked my great big fucking winkle at her and she fucking grunted and I squeezed I a little, like it was snake going down a fucking elephant’s throat and I fucking humped and she fucking heaved and... ‘ On and on... At first some of the more machismo men would join in with him in this but soon he was too nauseating, too single-minded even for them. Still the winkle got bigger and bigger and one day when it began to erect, the blood drained out of his head and he passed out only to wake up in hospital. Here he was lonelier than ever before. After a month the winkle was as huge as the rest of him – a great, flaccid, pink stinking thing that even callous hospital officials and nurses couldn’t bear to look at, but had to keep always in its oxygen tent, pumping in the blood. Soon the rest of him began to wither. It was the law in that place that a person must live as long as anything can possibly make him, so they kept him on the heart and lung and kidney machines. Finally the rest of him just got eaten away by cancers and you could just barely see, hidden in the tumors, his crusty old faced withered there in mortal agony. When, at last, the eyes closed forever they encased him in a huge box and ten men carried it to the immense hole they had had to dig to put it in. After they had said their prayers over him they put up a tombstone which read:

Here lie the remains

Of a great big Dick.

-By Robert Priest 1976

(poem by Robert Priest)

How To Swallow a Pig

Recommended by Robert - Kim Morrissey:

Scene from Dora: wherein Freud can find many, many words for a man's member, and no word at all for 'toilet'

Comedy Collective Writers Project
Robert Priest