Good Morning Minions of Testicular Savagery,
I’m reluctant to mention my good friend as people accuse me of picking on Cush. It’s just that he’s one the most transparent people I know. Without hesitation, he’ll slice off a significant piece of his life and share it with everyone within earshot! At the same time, he’s a person that will go out of his way to help a stranger fix a flat. It may surprise many to know the man has an odd attraction to rats!
I was personally repulsed by this, but that’s just me. When I ask him about why he feels comfortable spilling his guts to virtual strangers he always quotes Popeye; “I am what I am” and for the most part I believe him. I never doubt he’d have my back if things got ugly. He’s loyal to a fault I suppose, but I admire that in people.
He proudly declares his love for the Hoffa family and wells up over the Teamsters Union. For five years I was a card-carrying member of the ‘Ornamental Iron Workers Union.’ These guys build the aluminum and glass façade on high-rise buildings. Chosen to protect me from an ‘uncaring contractor, ’Chicago’s Union selected Charlie Lombardi to oversee potential safety hazards and then demand their correction.
The Shop Steward is a position of trust yet only the union favorites are given this responsibility. Without a doubt there are numerous safety issues on any given job site, however, this trusted union man was a drunk; passed out most mornings behind a nearby stack of sheetrock. Union men would always cover for him and rally behind their fallen idiot even though this asshole’s sole function was to ensure their safety! I’m not sure about blind loyalty though because I suspect this level of devotion contributed greatly to Charlie’s liver failure.
In an earlier posting, I speculated about Cush’s decision to mount bull testicles on the rear axle of his truck. Not having any real way to know why anyone does such things, I proffered a theory. I supposed he put them there to make sure we all know he is a manly man and not to be trifled with. The truck balls have been swinging for years, and they’ve actually become part of Maggot’s lore.
However, during a recent trip to our watering hole, I noticed something different about Cush’s big blue truck. As I approached the entrance I was shocked to see his beloved truck had been castrated! Holy Shit!!!! I’ve always thought a news story should be evenhanded with equal weight placed on each side of an issue. Cush isn’t talking about it leaving those of us who wonder to cogitate.
In spite of his union, balls-on-a-truck, and a torn Bronco flag, I know Cush to be a sensitive caring man who at times gets his feelings hurt. Hopefully, the two or three of you reading this axle grease know by now it’s not my intention to hurt my fellow curmudgeon rather intervene and put him on suicide watch. Cush, please forgive me, but unlike Charlie Lombardi’s ‘union brothers’ I’ll not stand by and watch you slowly die. My prognosis is of course theory, but since you’ve not offered an explanation I must go strictly on my gut.
I think it’s safe to assume this dramatic change was brought about by shame and ridicule on some level. While attending our last committee meeting Cush revealed a clear case in point. It seems two young women had been following our associate and noticed his manhood pivoting on the rear axle. He went on to say they pulled alongside and in a single hand gesture using the thumb and index finger to indicate something extremely short caused our dear friend to wince. I think about how many other similar encounters he’s had to endure and feel bad for him.
What does it mean when a man castrates his own truck? Knowing full well his ball-sack adorned transport personified his self-image as one tough dude is what makes this self-mutilation so tragic. Cush is facing his own mortality and it’s taken its toll. Fallen arches, man-boobs, and listening to Barbara Streisand recordings has slowly but surely caused his emasculation.
Like a Eunuch in servitude, his manly-man things have been vicariously ripped out leaving only a shell of his former self. Our associate now cries and sobs unprovoked. He was heard vowing to take his own life after throwing himself on the couch to cry, accidentally killing one of his adopted rats. He’s dark and moody these days and I miss his infectious laugh. Those of you that frequent the Maggot please help me by keeping him away from sharp objects and Nancy’s ‘deviled eggs;’ either could be fatal.