Proctal Algesia, a fictional satirical blog by Hamish Dixon, monstrous expat Scot living on New York's Upper East Side, plus spurious news from around the world

Droning on...and on...and on...and on...and on...

Lies, Lies, and more damned lies...

HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY

Friday, December 05, 2003

WANDA WELAXATION

The snow arrived in New York today and I slipped in the slush on the side walk and was covered from head to foot in icy water. The passers by either stood and stared or actually broke into raucous cheers. Luckily I was just exiting the Metropolitan Club after a surprisingly edible lunch, on my way to visit Wanda in our suite at the Pierre, just round the corner, so I was able to shed my clothes to the sympathetic cooing of my little sugar plum rather than to the hard unsympathetic braying of Dolores. Wanda did all the things to warm me up that a satisfactory and expensive mistress would, and I was soon reclining on the crisp sheets in a state of tingling warmth. I proceeded to lecture Wanda with my opinions on a wide variety of scabs on the posterior of the country such as Michael Jackson, Rush Limbaugh, the entire Democratic National Committee and in particular Simon & Garfunkel, when I looked over and noticed that she was sleeping soundly.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

LIFE WITH A BUICK BEGINS

The doctor has me in his thrall and so this morning, as every morning, I trudged dutifully across town from windswept Hell's Kitchen to my haute luxe office in a masterpiece of 1960s architecture on Lexington. A friend asked me once if I had managed to find a "scenic route" for my walk, and we had a good laugh. In fact we were almost reduced to helpless wheezing rolling around on the unsavory floor of the splendid Landmark Tavern (splendid, I should say, except on the relatively rare occasions when a bunch of kids hop on the ferry from Jersey and pollute its sacred atmosphere). Any walk, I said, that had to cross the aesthetic desert of Sixth Avenue (laughingly known as Avenue of the Americas - or at least, I presume that the other Americas laugh at this pretence at giving a toss about them) could hardly aspire to being scenic. But one makes the best of what one can find, or I do, at least in my more sober moments, and so I vapored on to him about the various ways one could dodge in amongst the vile inhuman erections of the corporate ubervolken and so avoid the worst of the traffic fumes. I waxed lyrical about the windswept courtyards and breezeways that developers were forced to include so that they could build their oppressive towers yet higher. I sang paeans to buildings that should never have been built, and having been built, should have been immediately torn down. Pathetic, really.

Slobodan arrived home today with a brand new supercharged Buick Regal in a depressing maroon. I simply cannot believe that I own a Buick, even one that Slobbo tells me will "rip ass" at the lights. It has to be the most humiliating thing I have ever experienced. A Buick, for God's sake! Even finding that I no longer possessed a penis was less demoralizing, being, as it was, dramatically less public.

Dolores is generally sulky -- I'm not sure if it's because having suggested it, she has now turned against the idea of the Buick (although she has now persuaded me to hang on to the Maybach so that she and the children can ride in comfort), or because she find the idea of a tool-less husband too much to bear.

Time will, no doubt, tell.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

SLOBBO'S RETURN

Prunella left again this morning, saying she couldn’t bear living in Hell’s Kitchen. It just isn’t cool, apparently. “Well, fuck off then, you little ingrate,” I said, “Would you think it cooler if we lived on the Upper East Side like all your stuck up little private school friends?” She just shrugged at me and slunk out the door. Oh, but I love my little girl so! – even if she does remind me of that bitch Fiona – and now she’s off to get up to some more of her shit, and get herself arrested again, no doubt, and I have absolutely not the first clue about how to help her.

On the other hand, of course, I can’t believe that Hell’s Kitchen is really quite that uncool. I mean, how many balding old fools like me who can afford to drive around in Maybachs (even if I have been reduced to a cheap shit Buick in order to persuade my Johnson – as I have learned to call it from a close reading of Maxim – to grow back) are living in this still semi-gritty frontier?

As Prunella was leaving the building, Slobodan must have passed her on the way in. It didn’t take long for him to sober up, I must say.

“I check out the cheap shit Buick and it not so bad,” he said. “I willing to drive it.”

“Oh, too bad, Slobbo,” I lied jauntily, “we’ve replaced you already. You’re on the street, washed up, you’re an ex-chauffeur.” I did a little dance of triumph right there on the spot.

Slobbo then grabbed me by the throat and shook me, so that, I have to admit it, my body moved backwards and forwards like a big white blancmange. “You lying, right?” he said. “You better be lying, else you dead, mutherfuck.” I quickly admitted that I was indeed being over-optimistic, and he put me down again. “But one thing, Mister Dixon,” he said. In my winded state I gesticulated to suggest that anything he wanted was okay. “Okay then. You gotta get the supercharge one. You get one of those fucking underpower Park Ave things an' I outta hear. Savvy?” “But Slobbo,” I started to protest. “And don’t call me that!” he screamed at me. “But Slobodan, dear fellow,” I continued, stroking the polyester front of his parka, “don’t you think a supercharged car might mean my penis will stay button-sized forever?”

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

DEAD CAT DRAMA

The cat died this morning and our world came to a halt. Absurd, but Dolores was besotted with the scrofulous creature in spit of the fact that it was one of wife #2's leave-behinds. D insisted on ripping out the brand new $250,000 kitchen that Mirabelle had had installed as a final act of lunacy before decamping to Peoria, and on having the bedroom professionally fumigated, but somehow found it in her cold unforgiving heart to give the cat a pass, in spite of the fact that the revolting beast, which I loathed from the moment I set eyes on it, threw up in the bedroom every night and filled the entire 5,000 square feet of our apartment with the stench of its enormous turds.

Good riddance, I thought, when the thing keeled over at breakfast time, little realizing that this would be the signal for wave after wave of clothes-rending and piercing ululations of grief from my suddenly latin wife.

In the course of all this, Prunella, my daughter from my first marriage, turned up out of the blue. Apparently she has been released from the English jail where she had been incarcerated on drug and prostitution charges six months ago, and sent packing back to the bosom of her family.

Monday, December 01, 2003

CHEAP SHIT BUICK NO MAYBACH SUBSTITUTE

Slobodan got wind last night that something was up and was generally difficult and unhelpful when unloading the car. Dolores became imperious, and, with what I thought was an unnecessary degree of spite and a rather Long Islandish manner, told him that from now on he would be driving a Buick instead of the Maybach, so he needn’t be so damn proud. “I come to work for you because you have Maybach,” he said. “I no driving any cheap shit Buick.” And with that he walked off and so far as we know we’ll never be seeing him again. I had hoped to employ him as the negotiator for selling the Maybach and buying the new cheap shit Buick, as his generally threatening Balkan mobster attitude would, I felt, result in a better deal all round. Instead I have listed the Maybach on Ebay, which resulted in an almost instantaneous call from the Maybach dealership. “Oh, Sir,” the dealer inquired, “is there something about the car you don’t like?” “Only that it has made my penis so small my wife can’t find it,” I replied. That certainly was a problem, the dealer replied after a few moments extemporaneously set aside for personal reflection, but was there not a less drastic way of dealing with it than selling the car? Couldn’t I, perhaps, experiment with some of the solutions so liberally offered on the internet? And what was I planning on replacing it with, if he might be so bold as to ask? “A Buick,” I replied. At which there was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. “I see,” he said. “If it is a financial problem that sir is having, then obviously we have no more to discuss.” And he hung up on me. So now, apparently, everyone’s going to think I’m broke. Next thing we’ll know, the tabs at Le Cirque and Daniel will be canceled.

After all this brouhaha, entirely caused by herself, Dolores managed to turn herself into a victim. “Are you really going to make me ride in that horrid cheap shit Buick?” she had the nerve to ask me a moment ago. “Couldn’t you ride in the Buick with the kids, while I go in the Maybach?” I think not, madam, thought I, and made a note to refresh my memory on the details of the prenup.

I think this determination to get rid of the Maybach and humiliate myself with the Buick is already beginning to have an effect, however, so Dolores was right on that score. I’m definitely beginning to feel a slight bump again where my wiener should be, and in my more positive moments I am managing to convince myself that a Roderick-style schlong is in my future. I wonder if it will grow back circumcised? Meanwhile Dolores has suggested that I could become some sort of porno star for sickos, and I’m giving it serious thought. What would the fellows at the Union Club think of that?

Sunday, November 30, 2003

DIXON MANHOOD SHRINKS

On our way back to the city last night we found ourselves stuck in traffic on 1-95 just South of New Haven. While Slobodan, our chauffeur, fumed and grumbled in the driver’s seat Dolores and I relaxed in the back of the Maybach with our icy flask of Martinis. After a while D. pressed the handy little button that slides up the sheet of glass between ourselves and Slobodan’s prying ears, flicked the switch that makes the glass one-way only, and, slithering her expert hand (she’s my third wife and slithering is one of her strengths) across the acres of intervening leather armrest, deftly unzipped me. Imagine then my horror when, instead of administering increasing waves of pleasure, she rummaged around in my underpants for a minute or so before sticking up her head and saying, “It’s virtually disappeared Hamish! What the fuck is going on?”

Well you can quite imagine what a shock that was. I admit, I had been beginning to wonder lately if the Dixon member wasn’t diminishing just ever so slightly in size, but I put this down to a change in perception, brought about by comparing my always modest equipment with what appears daily in my inbox to show me what I could be if only I bought the right pills or hung half a ton of weights on the end of it. I thought this was just the modern day equivalent of the effect my cousin Roderick (of the Delaware Dixons) used to have every summer when we would meet up at the Dixon family compound in Maine and swim naked in the lake. From the age of about ten Roderick had a simply enormous and unattractively pale schlong with an evil bend in it about two thirds of the way down. He would bounce around like a maniac on the end of the springboard to make sure everyone noticed, and during the early years of his endowment show off by thinking whatever vile thoughts a blot like Roderick needed to think to make the thing come to attention. The effect of this was debilitating, to say the least, on the rest of us who were more normally equipped (and already unenthusiastic enough about this North woods nude bathing business) – although, if I remember correctly, a couple of the little cousins from the Pittsburgh branch of the family were perhaps a little too fascinated, and it comes as no surprise to find that Rory and Gavin are now involved in things theatrical – and constantly coming to yours truly and asking him to be an angel for their latest production.

Anyway, it’s now clear that this is not simply a matter of relativity. My manhood is shrinking away to nothing, and Dolores will be unlikely to hang around with a dickless Hamish, however loaded with the riches of the earth he may be. “I think it’s the car,” she said. “The car?” I said. “Yes,” she said, “the car. It’s the sort of car only people with microscopically small penises own, so yours has shrunk to fit.” I told her she was being ridiculous, that penises don’t change size to match the car you drive, but she was adamant, telling me a story in more lurid detail than I cared to hear about a muscular and well-endowed ex of hers who had bought a shiny red Ferrari and suffered a similar fate. “And don’t think of changing it for a Hummer,” she said, “that will make it drop off completely. Get a Buick.” A BUICK!!!!! My God, if she’s right, I’ll have to start a new life entirely. Wouldn’t a Honda Accord or a Camry do as well as a Buick? It seems so unfair, when you think that most people don’t even recognize a Maybach when they see one, and have no idea that it cost more than their house. But Dolores was adamant. “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll only have to have the Buick for a short time. Once things have returned to normal, you can go out and buy something a little less humiliating. Maybe a Mini.” At that gratuitous remark I seriously considered slapping Dolores around a little to show her that even if dickless I was still the boss, but at that moment the traffic began to flow and instead we both settled back in our seats with a fresh round of martinis and popped an absolutely riveting porn dvd in the player, determined to enjoy to the max our last ride in our marvel of Germanic precision.

and on...and on...and on...and on

Fiction Bloggers

Disclaimer: To all intents and purposes the contents of this web site are entirely untrustworthy. While it is possible, but by no means certain, that the opinions expressed may indeed be those of the writer, the facts upon which the opinions are based may well be wrong, and whatever isactually stated as fact can be virtually relied upon to be false. In any case, the reader can never be certain who the writer actually is, and therefore is in no position to judge his or her relative truthfulness. In the event that you read something that you know to be true, you should not assume that the presence in an article of that one true nugget implies that anything else in the article is true, because it almost certainly is not. It follows that readers should not be misled into assuming, when they stumble across the occasional article which is substantially, or even completely, true that the website is moving towards a greater global veracity, and that therefore more credence can be attached to its entire contents. Such an assumption would be entirely wrong.