Sex Talk

My father’s sex talk with me was very brief. He said,

“You have a penis, and you stick that in a girl’s vagina, and you ejaculate sperm, and that’s what makes babies. You got that?”

I got it. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but I got it. He didn’t want any questions, and he especially didn’t want any trouble. I didn’t have much sex in high school.

When my older brother went to college, my father’s parting advice for him was:

“If you get a girl pregnant, I’ll cut your balls off.”

When I went to college, there was, apparently no need for such advice. In fact, I think my father was so concerned that he had frightened me off girls, that he went out of his way to introduce me to girls in the dorm. Now, how is that for good luck? First day of college, I’m surrounded by rich, intelligent, beautiful young women from all over America, especially Long Island, and my father, wearing soiled, pink seersucker trousers and a jacket embroidered with a softball team’s nickname, “The Ball Blasters”, is cruising the dorm, introducing me. I must have seemed like quite the catch. My college social life played out as one might expect. Luckily, the university’s androgynous society met in our dorm on the second Tuesday of every month, so it wasn’t as if I was a total outcast.

Oh, and to top it off, most of the upper classmen on our dorm were born again Christians who had decided to stay in the dorm so that they could pray together in the evenings. The one guy who had a fake ID would only use it to buy communion wine.

I met my wife through a catalog, long before that was the popular thing it is today. Unfortunately, I ordered mine before the women of eastern Europe were desperate, and so she doesn’t do a damn thing I say. She doesn’t even make a decent cabbage roll, and if you’re going to be married to a woman with thick ankles who wears a babushka to bed, she damn well better make a decent cabbage roll. At least that’s what I think.

Now my own son is 13, and it’s time for his talk. Luckily, The Family Guy and South Park have removed most of the mystery for him. I take solace in the fact that if he happens to know what a rusty trombone is, he didn’t hear it from me.


So my wife brought a cat into our home. I’m not strictly against cats, and we have had them in the past and I have enjoyed them. But playing with a cat is like having an affair with a fat chick: it’s great fun until your friends find out.

What bothers me most about the cat is that it jumps up on everything, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter, whatever it feels like. This cat is always searching for food or adventure, and my wife tends to be fake mad at it a lot, the way women get mad at rich, good-looking men that cheat on women—oh, he was dating Susan, but then ran off with Susan’s sister Becky and went to Bermuda for a long weekend and rode her mercilessly, to the point where she needed a wheelchair at the airport, but Susan took him right back after he bought her that diamond necklace—so the cat is on the counter eating my damn omelet, and my wife says: “Get down from there you naughty kitty!” She puts her hands on her hips and stamps her feet just like in the movies and everything. Of course, she doesn’t make me another omelet (she didn’t make the first one, so why should she make the second?) but just picks up the cat and hugs it.

People say that cats are cleaner than dogs because they neatly cover their turds in the litter box, but the cat doesn’t wash his paws after using the litter box. No, the cat goes for a walk, making a beeline for the kitchen counter and my omelet. So we have these germs spread all over the place, and, in truth, I’d rather not even know, but having witnessed this, I can’t help but to think of all the places that cat has walked. I got out of the shower the other day and I see the cat on the bathroom sink, rubbing up against our toothbrushes. I guess he had an itch that needed scratching. So I threw my toothbrush out, and I used my wife’s toothbrush to groom the cat. Serves her right for not making a decent omelet. My wife and I don’t kiss much any more.

Meet Me

My name is Mickey Hadick. That’s spelled Ha, d-i-c-k. As in, hey. D—. It rhymes with attic, but everyone wants to say it more like two words.

I was teased in grade school, as you might imagine. Not because I was fat and wore “huskies” from Sears; not because I cried like an abandoned crack-baby every time it rained; no, not even because I had a crush on Ms. Anderson, my fourth grade techer. I was teased because of my name. The other children though it sounded dirty.

So the long and the short of it is that I’m thinking of having my name changed to avoid all the silliness. I’d still be the same person, but all the idiots in the world with an arrested sense of humor won’t be able to make fun of me. So instead of Mickey Hadick, I would be ‘Mickey Hadpenis.’