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Friday, March 4, 2016

Dirk Destroyer Part 23 Chapter Eleven DMS

For those who feared chapter eleven ended last Friday, fear not! Chapter 11 ended, but eleven lives on. And with such semantic garbage comes a flicker of hope for our protagonist, Elmer who pretty much blew his chance for happiness with the lovely Ono.

Chapter Eleven
Desperate Male Insecurity
Over the millennia I have observed odd things about how the genders interact. I will not attempt to define what women think or want as that would require far more millennium than I have lived for me to understand, but I have come to a basic understanding about us men.
Men want to eat what they want when they want it; they want to have sex with who they want when they want it, and otherwise they want to be left in peace to watch mindless entertainment – jousting, the dog and cat fighting, or the neighbor’s wife undressing in front of an open window.
In short, the male mechanism is simple and gratification oriented – a very efficient mental machine – most of the time.
One might think that due to male simplicity that all of the great innovations and advances in society would have been developed by women who are, at the very least, more complicated.
But it’s not true. Many, if not the majority of innovations and advances were developed by men. The reason for this is the most powerful, least understood, and clearly least respected dynamism of human history: Desperate Male inSecurity.
Desperate Male inSecurity, or DMS is responsible for the lion’s share of changes in human living – both good and bad. The scratchwing, for instance was created by Horace N. Scratch on the coast of Pogo.
Horace was a trader in coal dust. Coal dust gathering, consolidation, and merchandising is usually a painstaking and solitary profession. It also tends to clog the nose. For this reason, coal dust traders were, as a group, inveterate nose pickers – or at least they were if inveterate means what I think it means. If it doesn’t, then coal dust traders were not inveterate nose pickers, but they sure picked their noses a lot, because every spec of coal dust dreams, from it’s early days as a little spec, to someday settle down in a spacious human nostril, and maybe raise a couple of…”
I’ll spare you.
Horace’s problem was that he wasn’t nearly as solitary as was the rule for coal dust traders – or at least he didn’t want to be. Horace was cursed, (by coal dust trader standards,) with non-repulsive features, and a personality that bordered on companionable.
“That boy will never make it big in coal dust,” said his Uncle Scrofulous, and Uncle Scrofulous needed only point to Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty Carpenter-Collins-Baez-Springfield-Blondie as the reason why. You see, in spite of the fact that Horace was a less than successful coal dust trader, Karen------ didn’t find him immediately repugnant. As a matter of fact, she might have had serious interest in the guy except for one thing – you know - the nose thing.
“I’d never give up a healthy nose picking for any dolly,” said Uncle Scrofulous, who like most coal dust traders, had done his procreation through Speedies Mail Order procreation service, which may have explained why Horace’s cousin, Sniff looked a bit like an anteater.
But Horace had heart-fire for Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty, which is a dangerous thing to have around so much coal dust, and as a result, he developed that most powerful and dangerous of all creative forces – Desperate Male inSecurity – DMS™.
The problem was to keep his gnarly fingers out of his nostrils, and so Horace began wearing wool gloves. He knew that wasn’t working when the tiny dust families started dressing their specks in tiny wool sweaters. He tried keeping his hands in his pockets, and ended up having surgery to remove a blue jean rivet from his septum, (which became a short-term fashion statement in art schools and snake-handling religious sects.)
Finally, in desperation, Horace attached a wood frame around his neck to keep his hands away. This simple device made a rich man out of Uncle Scrofulous, who sold the idea to the Shackles weight-loss company.
It also began Horace’s journey to a pick-free life. In the early days, he bruised his knuckles against the wood frame, and grunted with frustration at the population explosion of dust and specks populating his nostrils. The knocks and grunts reverberated through the frame creating interesting and not unpleasing sounds.
Then one day, while coal dust buying and needing his hands free, Uncle Scrofulous carelessly placed his horickvock on top of Horace’s neck frame. I don’t need to tell you how a horickvock responds to knocks and grunts, but within the confines of Horace’s ingenious frame, the horickvock mutated Horace’s knocks and grunts into…
This was a foreign concept to the coal dust trading community, and rich Uncle Scrofulous feared it might be some religious thing, but Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty knew music when she heard it, and knew Horace for the musical savant that he was.
They lived happily for three months until Horace was swept away by a moose of unknown gender and never heard from again.
But the music that Horace and KJJD created was a sensation that lasted three or four times the usual end-by date that traditionally limit sensations. More importantly, they accidentally created a musical genre known for its excessive use of the scratchwing, and a coal-filled nasal quality to the vocals.
Was I any different than Horace? Well, I hoped I was, but one thing we had in common – Desperate Male inSecurity, DMS. And I knew only one place where desperate male insecurity could create the kind of help I needed.
The school of amazing stuff.

Will Elmer be able to return to the school of amazing stuff? Will he find something he needs to save his budding relationship with Ono? Will he even understand what he finds without Dirk to guide him?
Why am I asking you these questions? I wrote this silly parody; you’d think I’d have a clue what’s ahead.
One thing’s for sure. We’ve had chapter 11 and chapter Eleven. There can’t be any more 11/Eleven left, can there?

Again, I’m asking you? We’ll just have to discover what there is to see next Friday.

Sometimes villains just have to sell it - from Phineas and Ferb.