There are eight million dicks in the Naked City. And chicks have some of them. Here are two of their stories.
It all started when I was twelve, and saw Blade Runner down at the Cinemark. It completely blew my mind, and so I ran right out to Waldenbooks and bought the novelization.
I had no idea who this Dick person was. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? was a lot different than the movie ... and the more I read it, the more I realized it was even cooler.
I got The Man in the High Castle next, and after that Confessions of a Crap Artist. By the time I was 16 I started on The VALIS Trilogy.
I started to seriously question the nature of reality and memory, and I began to distrust the government. When all the other girls were reading Seventeen and writing fan letters to the Backstreet Boys, I was reading the Philip K. Dick Society newsletter and engaging in intermittent correspondence with Tim Powers.
When it came time to go to college, I enrolled at Cal State Fullerton, just so I'd have the chance to read all his personal papers. I was a total dickhead.
Right now I'm working on my PhD at Stanford and doing experiments on the nature of time. If I can build the machine, maybe I can go back and save him ... and then he will be mine, all mine.
I used to think that having a pussy was pretty cool. G-spots rock, plain and simple. And being able to have a baby and create a whole new human life -- how awesome is that? And if you aren't the baby type, you can keep your pot stash in there; if you wrap it up good and wear enough Chanel No. 5, the drug dogs are none the wiser.
Umm. Forget what I said about the stash -- that's just an example. My point is, the pussy is handier than most people realize.
And if you're turned on, nobody has to know, right? That's why guys don't wear skirts, you know, except for Scotsmen and they've got a sporran to hide behind and keep their dignity intact.
But then I started camping with my boyfriend, and damn, the first time you gotta go pee in the mountains when it's freezing outside, you really wish you had that dick. Then, of course, I met that hippie chick in Sonoma who showed me how to pee standing up. All you gotta do is get one of those hollow medicine spoons and cut the end off and press the spoon end against your bits -- instant pee tube! No frozen butt on the mountaintop! And you can do it without; you just gotta learn to pull your lips up with your fingers and practice in the shower for a while, and you can get pretty good aim. I even learned how to write my name in the snow! It freaked my old boyfriend out something fierce, but then I figured it's better to have a pussy than be one so I dumped him.
The pee thing aside, it wasn't until I started reading Freud that I really got on the dick trip. I mean, here's this doctor with all these women coming to him with stories of molestation and societal oppression ... and he goes and decides they're all crazy and have penis envy instead.
At first I was thinking, "Man, this Freud dude is such a dick for dismissing their abuse and thinking it was all about them wanting the Mad Powah of the High Holy Man Meat."
But then I realized, for him to ignore all their stories ... the cock must be pretty compelling, you know? He must have thought that his dick was just the most wicked thing ever.
And so I started noticing the inherent coolness of the almighty cock ... and I began to seriously respect the cock, though sometimes not the guy it happened to be attached to.
I decided I wanted my own dick. First I got a functional red rubber number from the local fetish shop -- I felt like Mick Jagger strutting around my bedroom with that thing strapped to my hips. So I went back and got this mighty 15-incher -- you could hit homers with that baby. I felt like John Wayne and Sammy Sosa all rolled up into one petite package.
But wearing those rods under my clothes ... well, I do have some sense of ladylike discretion. So I bought a couple of soft, wibbly pack-and-play numbers that wouldn't show under my dresses. I could be a chick with a dick all day long! I felt powerful and confident.
But as time went on, and I got passed over for promotion after promotion at work, I realized it wasn't enough to have the dick ... you have to be the dick.
So I started extending my dick. I started smoking cigars, and I bought a cell phone with an extra-long antenna. I saved my money and bought a Hummer that I ram through every traffic opening I can find on the freeway. I use my cell phone as much as possible, antenna up, and talk loudly so that people know I'm more important than they are.
Am I a complete dick? I don't think so, but I try harder every day.