by Pissy Philly…
The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. Wait, that’s another story. Still, you get the idea. And anyway, equality came a long time before that.
While our story does take place in the very same year, 2081, it’s not about equality but instead the nicing-down of America in the years leading up to the 22nd century.
In the year 2081, finally, there was no more discrimination. There was no more sexism, ageism, classism, colorism, sizeism, no prejudice against fat people, ugly people, midgets or fags. America was finally perfect. Well, not exactly.
Enter into this world Norman Nesbit. Norman was your typical male in the year 2081. He was married with two and a half children, a dog, and a home in the suburbs. Norman had a good job, too. He was a lawyer.
On this day in particular Norman had a consultation with a cookbook author known more for getting himself into trouble with the law than for his recipes. Maybe you’ve heard of him: Dick Dickabee. Dick Dickabee, author of such well-known cookbooks as Transgender Chocolate Éclair Delights and Transsexual Soup Surprises: You’ll Never Guess the Secret Recipe!
“Hello, my love,” said Dicky, hugging Norman and grabbing him by the balls. His name was Dick, but he insisted everyone call him Dicky.
“Hello,” said Norman. He hated it when Dicky grabbed his balls.
“So,” said Dicky, “sucked any good dicks lately?”
Norman hated being called Normy almost as much as he hated being grabbed by the balls, but had become accustomed to both by now. Dicky loved talking about blowjobs. Giving, not getting them. It seems this time, he tried giving one to a cop. Even in Nicety America 2081, that was still a big No-No.
With all the trouble he was in, you’d think Dicky would want to talk about his case. Instead, he went on about being gang-raped at the public restroom in the park. “I waited in that damn bathroom for three hours before someone finally gave it to me,” said Dicky. Apparently, three hours is a long time to wait to be gang-raped.
“Do you think it’s because I’m getting old?” said Dicky. Norman had no idea. All he knew was that it didn’t bother him one bit. He just sat there smiling, unphased.
Next, Dicky went into thorough detail about how he was planning on having his breasts enlarged to a forty, double-dee. “Dolly Parton size,” he said, and he promptly flashed his tits. Dolly Parton, for those of you in the year 2081 who do not know, was a famous country music singer who was even more famous for her enormous Ya Ya’s.
This didn’t bother Norman, either. He just sat there smiling, like any other man in the year 2081. For those of you still in the early 21st century, you just wouldn’t understand.
Then, Dicky leaned back in his chair and, reaching into his pants, whipped out his ding dong. It was a big ding dong, even in its current sleeping state. “Do you think I should get another penis enlargement?” said Dicky. “I’ve been seriously considering it.”
Norman came out from behind his desk and stopped in front of Dicky. He then leaned over and, putting on his glasses said, “Looks fine to me. How many inches is it awake?”
“Twelve,” said Dicky.
“That should be plenty,” said Norman.
“Yeah,” said Dicky, “you’re probably right.”
Norman assured Dicky that everything would be all right, which is all Dicky really wanted to hear. It didn’t even bother Norman when Dicky flashed his ass to him on his way out the door. That darn, Dicky, thought Norman. What a card.
Now, you might be wondering just how on Earth men in the year 2081 could have such a high tolerance for things that men just fifty years before would have murdered each other for. For example: In Texas, USA, in the year 2016, if someone like Dicky had done any one of these things to a red-blooded American male he would have been killed right there on the spot. But not in the year 2081. So why not? What was going on, anyway?
Was it that in the year 2081 all American men were on some kind of salt-peter medication? Had they all gone soft? Were they all eunuchs now? Not hardly. The answer lay in a franchise of shops known secretly to manly men as SRF, or the Stress Relief Factory.
The Stress Relief Factory was a nationwide chain of massage parlors. But if you think massages alone were keeping American men from going insane, you’re way off. And No, it wasn’t happy endings either.
While the Stress Relief Factory did indeed give massages—happy endings too—it’s what was way back in the back room that kept real men these days from losing their minds completely. It was called the Mean Machine, and No, it wasn’t the football team from the movie The Longest Yard.
The Mean Machine was a large pod-like device invented by Simon Simbleton in the year 2075, and it was the whole reason America was so perfect these days. Unbeknownst to queers, nerds, retards, transvestites—even women themselves—it was an actual working version of the holodeck from the TV show Star Trek, only in this case it wasn’t Roman orgies or African safaris offered-up to its customers, but bloody murder.
That’s right. After a long day of putting up with fags and freaks of every sort by the average, red-blooded American male, after a full day of smiling and putting up with shit the average American man wouldn’t normally stand even for one second, it was time for one good round in the Mean Machine, and everything would be all right.
For Norman Nesbit, today’s episode starred himself and a certain transvestite cookbook author. It all started with Norman brandishing a machete, the man-bitch running for his life. It was something right out of Richard Connell’s The Most Dangerous Game, only this time it was General Zaroff getting the better of the encounter.
I don’t have to tell you, things did not go well for the transvestite. For Norman, however, after one solid hour of tracking and torturing, dicing and dissecting, beheading and disemboweling, tomorrow was going to be a brand new day. A bright and wonderful day, full of smiles, all thanks to Simon Simbleton and his Mean Machine. And Norman was going to need all the happiness he could muster. Tomorrow’s client: Harry the Hobo, the self-proclaimed governor of Fifth Street. All grins and giggles in Nicety America 2081.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. Find out more about Loyd at http://PhilipLoyd.com
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