The Man with the Huge Dick

Dear Elite,

The worst part about chronic pain is the lingering doubt that it’s actually all in your head, that you’re causing it, that your suffering is not some unfair punishment sent down from Randomness above; it’s something you’re doing to yourself; it’s all your fault. Yes, the absence of anyone to blame, the inculpability of Randomness, the possibility that your pain is self-inflicted, these thoughts transform physical discomfort into a greater evil, that of mental anguish. They would, that is, if they weren’t so easily dismissed, for you see, we elites are in complete control of our psyches, and there’s no way that we would ever willfully inflict such ailments as chronic back pain, headaches and vertigo upon ourselves. Right? No, an elite remains above the wasteland of self-defeatism; he is at once fully engaged in his outer life and attuned to the Great Man at his scientific core. Still, my head and my back just won’t stop hurting, and the scientific instruments and holy practitioners are frustratingly unable to deliver the answers I require. This predicament, alongside some of the Great Man’s hints bubbling to the surface, has me wondering lately: can elites be psychologically immature?

Here’s an excerpt from the penultimate chapter of Jung’s Man and His Symbols in which Jolande Jacobi details the analysis of a young man named Henry: “The problems we encountered in Henry’s initial dream showed up in many others – problems like vacillation between masculine activity and feminine passivity, or a tendency to hide behind intellectual asceticism. He feared the world, yet was attracted to it . . . such an ambivalence is not unusual for someone on the threshold of manhood. Though in terms of age Henry had left that phase behind him, his inner maturity did not match his years. This problem is often met in the introvert, with his fear of reality and outer life.”¹ Ok, well, obviously Henry is a bitch. Vacillation? Fear of outer life? The threshold of manhood? That is some subelite shit right there, and it is totally inapplicable to our own self-examination, but what’s all this about “hiding behind intellectual asceticism” and “the problem with the introvert”? We elites impose our intellectualism onto others. It’s not a way to hide; it’s how we dominate, and our asceticism is evidence of our self-domination – even our inner urges bow to our high-mindedness; and why are you using introvert like a dirty word? We’re introverted, because the most elite person there is to talk to is ourselves! What would you have us do? Go mingle with the idiots? Sure, we’d like to get out there more, but at what cost?! Think of our dignity, won’t you?! Dammit, fine. In the interest of demonstrating that exactly none of our suffering is the fault of some kind of psychological shortcoming, we’ll entertain your little theory, Jolande.

First of all let’s tackle this notion that intellectual asceticism is a tool elites use to hide from the outer world. Think of a professor who spends all his time locked away in his study, depriving himself of worldly pleasure in pursuit of knowledge. Sounds like a hero, right? Well, according to Jolande his discipline is just a perverse kind of distraction from the wasteland of his mundane existence, like an elite version of scrolling Facebook. If his explorations take place only in the context of his study, he doesn’t live a full life; he’s just smart-scrolling, placing his books between him and his unconscious as he simultaneously denies the outer world. Without the normal exterior stuff – work, family, social relationships, all that noise, the rich inner adventure isn’t available to him, and he remains psychologically stunted, which over time will cause real problems. His exterior inertia and the resulting inability to take direction from his inner self might even make his Great Man sick or disoriented, maybe manifesting in some physical form or other, like say . . . vertigo? Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up! Don’t be trying your pseudo science voodoo bullshit on us like that, Jolande. You can’t prove or disprove any of this, ok? Yes, elites’ work life may be dissatisfying at times, and yes, our social spheres may not be as developed as we would like; sometimes, our tendencies toward introversion may even cause us to feel a little isolated, but our Great Man is not sick! Just look how well he’s been doing with the kids!

That’s right, I’m setting my elite modesty aside for a minute, and pulling out the big guns in the face of this unfair judgment. I’ll just say it: I’ve been doing a good job with the kids. The Great Man has been showing up big time lately. My nighttime reading bond with Cartter has strengthened in the face of apparent peril. The Ursula Leguin that we’d been reading descended into pitch darkness in The Tombs of Atuan that both scared him and went over his head, and the first chapter of The Hobbit was a miss. I was beginning to fear that our time together lying in bed and reading was a thing of the past, that he had gotten too big for me, but his utter fascination with Madeleine L’Engle’s masterpiece A Wrinkle in Time has me thinking that maybe we have years to go before this nightly ritual has run its course. Even better, Scotty has joined us for a couple of sessions, and he’s actually been still and listened. Maybe it’s because he’s sick, but part of me wants to believe that he’s actually maturing and that he’s ready to put the baby books behind him and join Cartter and me in a rich world of children’s literature. I’ve been running bedtime like an all pro, handling separate showers simultaneously, keeping the halflings calm throughout their routine, doing it all from start to finish. This isn’t sick Great Man stuff I’m talking about; it’s patience and acceptance; it’s full engagement in my outer surroundings and attunement to the cues from within; and the kids are feeling it. They come to me after their showers to be blow-dried (another ritual I thought had met its end); Scotty lies calmly and smiles while I sing him his “go to sleep” song; and Cartter relaxes for a mini back rub before the lights go out and we all say goodnight. It’s not just bedtime either. Cartter’s put his promise to never play basketball way behind him. He loves shooting around and is taking my encouragement to heart: That’s it! Bang it off the glass! The three of us went to my dad’s on Sunday, stayed for over three hours, and they didn’t fight once! We rode home in silence! Actual silence! In the car! And when they whined about the steak being too tough for dinner later that night, I made them eggs and toast! No fighting! Tell me my Great Man’s sick. Go on. I’m telling you my Great Man is dominating parenthood, and this past weekend is proof. We didn’t turn the TV on once, and the kids were entertained the whole time. What you don’t believe me?

If the following story of our ride home from dinner on Friday night doesn’t demonstrate my total psychological maturity and the health of my innermost self, well then fuck you, because you’re a science-denying bigot. Take your scrolling to a QAnon site or something. Alright, so here goes. We’re riding up the bridge on our way back into Mount Pleasant from the Taco Boy on Morrison Drive downtown when Scotty says to his older brother, “Make me laugh really hard.” Cartter launches into his go-to stuff, lots of nonsensical jabber about poop and pee and butts, all to no avail. “That’s not making me laugh,” Scotty informs him. I don’t say so, but I agree that it isn’t funny. Cartter’s stories, crass as they may have been, were lacking the critical ingredient that renders any such effort irresistibly hilarious: penis, particularly penis of abnormal size. Should I do it? Yes, I decide. Now is my time to shine. No matter what the outcome, it’s better than the eventual fight that is in the very early stages of brewing in the backseat. Suddenly, I’m fully immersed in my character, a tough hombre with a country western accent, who saunters into Taco Boy and unfurls his dick from his pants, a dick that is so big that the tip of it drags along the floor. The hostess is shocked and impressed. The other diners are intimidated. The kids in the backseat are in hysterics. Eventually, the man with the huge dick ends up driving back into his bedroom community where he encounters some teenagers on a golf cart, which he tips over by “whacking” it with his enormous man meat. Then he proceeds to whack his annoying neighbor upside the head, laying him out with a mighty blow from his wiener and letting him know that that’s what he gets for being out front whooping like an idiot playing soccer like some pansy ass European. Needless to say the story was a hit. Not only did the man with the huge dick get us through the car ride home, he continued to bestow his blessings upon us throughout the weekend. Sunday at the old man’s, a fight seemingly on the immediate horizon, I whipped out the packed lunch, and as the boys crammed themselves next to each other in an armchair, Scotty asked his brother, “Remember the guy with the huge dick?” Laughter ensued in lieu of the screams of rage that had been threatening. Later that evening after I delivered the scrambled eggs that saved dinner from the children’s whining, I listened from the living room as they enjoyed their meal, Scotty chanting, “Dick – Dick – Dick. Costa – Rica – Dick,” and Cartter gleefully exclaiming, “Here’s a dick sandwich!” The hero was with us on Saturday morning when Cartter told me with a shining grin, “I’m gonna talk back to you and not do anything you say. I’m a bitch. B – I – C – H – Bitch” before obediently fetching my notepad and giggling to himself under his breath, “the guy with the huge dick.” You see, elite, it takes a mature man with a Great Man in full health to conjure such a spirit as the man with the huge dick to see his family through the weekend and avoid the pitfalls of the wasteland. My Great Man ain’t sick. I’m psychologically mature, ok? Not some vacillating wimp stuck on the threshold of manhood. So why the fuck am I getting these punishing headaches? Well, it just so happens that as I explained my unexplainable predicament to the people I encountered over the weekend, a pattern began to emerge, a pattern that appeared to be pointing to an answer.

First there was the doctor on Friday. “Do you get sensitive to sound? What’s that like?” she asked. “Well, I have young kids,” I answered, “and sometimes when they get revved up and yelling, it’s like someone is pounding my eardrums with a hammer.” Then there was Stratton over at my house for the Clemson game on Saturday, the kids rolling around on top of each other on the floor producing an amazingly sustained three part harmony between grunt, laugh, and yell before I succeeded in sending them away. I explained that I’ve been meditating (it’s solely an anthropological exercise I assure you) and that weekends present a challenge due to the children’s constant presence. “Well, maybe you could make them like part of the white noise,” he laughed. Looking into his smiling face as I channeled my inner Scotty, the answer rose to my lips and pitifully escaped: “I can’t.” Finally, at the old man’s house on Sunday, my father made it clear that he was dubious of the possibility that food sensitivity was at the root of these headaches. He was dubious that they were migraines at all. The boys were in the next room, using his stationary Schwinn Airdyne as a tandem bicycle and talking loudly to each other over the whir of the fan blades that create the contraption’s resistance. Dad narrowed his eyes and looked in their direction. The implication was clear. “It’s only 14 more years, and then they’ll be out of the house,” he said. Yes! That’s it! The kids are to blame! It’s not my fault! I’m not stalling on doing the things I want to do because I’m scared. There are just lots of things I can’t do right now. I can’t get a band together and hit the music scene; I have kids! I have to content myself playing alone in my living room. I can’t get out and make friends; I’d be a bad husband leaving my wife to take care of the kids in my absence! I can’t take on a different work situation that requires me to go be with other people all day; then I’d be missing out on time with the family! I’m not hiding from the world because of psychological immaturity. I’m just dealing with a lot right now, and it’s the kids’ fault! Ah, yes, that’s better. Intellectual asceticism? Fear of the world? Introversion?Whatever, it’s all just part of the sacrifice that we make for our elite halflings. Remember that, elite. The benefit of our dedication to parenthood is twofold: it’s creating a generation of super elites, and it excuses all our shortcomings in other areas. We have no choice but to put our heads down and soldier on. One day our progeny will move out, at which point I’m sure we’ll all feel terrific and free to resume living our lives for ourselves.