The Sorrows of Young Big Dog

Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

Thank you for returning my porn watching jacket to me. No other article of clothing holds such importance for my daily routine, perhaps other than my masturbation scarf. I write to you now in a state of distress. Since my return to Florida, the land of abounding insanity, much has changed. The beauty of it's nature and the savageness of it's heat have begun to encompass me and they threaten to eclipse all that I am. Whether by some ancient curse upon the land or the bath salts in the water I cannot be certain, but my perversions have been stirred anew. Just the other day I chanced upon a young woman playing Settlers of Catan with her friends. A brilliant strategist, the maiden had gained total control of the game. I watched as she built road upon road enveloping her foes in a cloacal autobahn. Already titillated, I was then brought to the brink by a stunning trade wherein she exchanged one wool for three wood. In turn, I exchanged one facade of human dignity for one wood and I masturbated furiously. I already regret telling you that.

-Big Dog


Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

My search for a job is over! Though I regretfully leave behind my tenure at #funemployment, I have great hopes for my new position. I am now the head H.R. guy at a porn production company called General Genitals. My duties include reading resumes, interviewing new actors and actresses, and solving sexual harassment disputes within the company (these generally involve wayward ejaculate). I read a resume of some interest the other day that I will reproduce for you here:

Qualifications -

Fun loving, Great interpersonal skills, 7 inch asshole dilation,  Problem solving, 15 words per minute while using butt to type, Squirt at a velocity of 12 fps (enough to kill a cat...this has been tested)

Experience -

• Head Guzzler for Cum Guzzlers I-III and V-VII 
• Fluffer for Big Bears Don't Cry
• Crowned "bleacher fellatio queen" at nephew's 6th grade dance

An impressive candidate to be sure, though it is rather troubling that she did not participate in Cum Guzzlers IV. I wonder what happened? Yet, despite my success, my thoughts often drift to you and in these moments I feel a terrible rending of my soul. It is as if my heart were made of sugar and I was stuck in a room with a bunch of cranky hypoglycemics. It is for you alone that I endure this miserable life.

- Big Dog


Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

Things have taken a turn for the worse. My boss, famed as the Vince McMahon of perversity, has taken an interest in my dog. He says that if I want to keep my job I must relinquish my dog to him. It feels as if I am somehow living in a first draft of Indecent Proposal if it were written by a dog. I have asked Charlton Barkley's opinion on this a number of times, but he merely stares back at me. His silence belies a terrible secret. This is the hardest pain to abide.

-Not So Big Dog


Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

I have become woebegone to the point of disturbing the people around me. The other day a woman crop-dusted me with a megaphone in order to cheer me up. People are actually altering their daily routines to arrest my melancholy! I fear lest these gestures become increasingly grand. If someone were to organize a flash mob for my sake or get me a speaking role on Mad Men, I just might kill myself.

- Big Dog


Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

Will my sorrows know no end? I feel like a dying swan in puberty, my swan song marred by the cracking of my voice, punctuated by the occasional bursting of my pimples, and confused by my constant erection. There is an unrelenting sickness of the soul within me, much like gonorrhea. Would you blame a man on his deathbed for taking his own life?

- Big Dog


Dearest Baberham Lincoln,

Today I lost all my money. As is my wont, I spent the afternoon watching and betting on child boxing. The five to seven age group is my favorite. Similar to college sports, these kids don't play for money; they play for pride...and candy. I wagered my upcoming paycheck on a certain Samantha Velasquez, a hard-hitting six year old who had cut weight to contend in the ultra-ultra-ultra light weight division. She put up a fight, scrapping, juking, and tattletaling her opponent to tears. Nevertheless, she went down in the 8th round to an obscene uppercut. Watching her fall, I too fell into the irrevocable realization that I cannot endure this life any longer. I shall carry the memory of your sweet tush with me as I pass into the void. Goodbye.

- Big Dog

In Praise of Blue Balls

In a candid interview over some scones which he described as "insipid pustules of dust," celebrated author and noted Anglophile Henry James commented on the nature of a very peculiar and masculine physical phenomenon. "Sometime during my mid-thirties I was working on a novel of great scope but little swag. I was painfully aware of its deficiencies at the time, yet I could not bring myself to edit it. I would write endlessly, grinding out sentence after sentence, chaffing under the weight of my paragraphs, and humping my typewriter. After some such session, I would find myself afflicted in mind, body, and spirit by a certain malady, an unrelenting ache transfixed deep within my person. It was around this same time that I took up with a comely lass. Smart as a whip and exceptionally beautiful, this maiden was nevertheless a rather garish prude and would flaunt her continence as if it were an exposed nip. However, in our dalliance we were given to moments of intimacy that might besmirch the purity of a such an avowed Victorian. Yet, whenever we stood on the brink of coitus (and what a brink it was!) she would become profoundly demure and delicately usher me away from her gaping ax wound. Instead we would return to furious dry humping, persecuting our genitals with a grinding worthy of tectonic plates. When it was all said and done, I would be stricken with a pain eerily similar to those moments after my paroxysmal bouts of writing, though slightly more akin to having an egg beater churn up my balls. I do not doubt that these irritations spring from a similar place, an abyssal void of unfulfilled fruition. Though the pain is great, it is only in these moments that I am truly inspired. In fact, the majority of my oeuvre has been written under the auspices of these balls of blue. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see a young woman about sitting on my cock for the next three hours."

These "balls of blue" to which Henry James so fondly referred are or course the modern "blue balls," and their reputation has suffered much since his time. Owing to the quotidian complaints of teenagers and other deranged types, blue balls have become synonymous with sexual frustration. In so far as they are a product of an absence of male sexual release this may be true, but such a perspective fails to capture the essence of this miraculous testicular holocaust. The lack of a defined physiological purpose other than a general prohibition against the wanton smashing of genitals belies a deeper meaning and function for blue balls, a meaning which defies physiological explanation and ultimately points to a supernatural or divine emanation. James' perspicacity touched on this. Moved by Mr. James and my own experiences with blue balls, I set out on what would end up being a life altering journey in search of the true meaning behind blue balls.

Though no evidence whatsoever exists to corroborate my claims of divine or supernatural origin, many have speculated on the issue. Dr. Vincent Blackforth, a leading expert on vicissitudes of the male member, declined to speak to me. However, his secretary, one Danny Danberg, had much to say on the matter. Citing his experiences with his current and previous boyfriends, Mr. Danberg conjectured that blue balls are "probably just God's way of saying 'get a room!'" Though enlightening, Danny's explanation failed to convince this ball hog. Looking for a secular perspective, I turned to my psychologist, Brenda. Drawing from her psychoanalytic and circus backgrounds, Brenda postulated the existence of a collective unconscious of ball pain. There, within the nebulous plane of shared memory, "thousands of carnies eat hard boiled eggs and dance to the rhythmic slapping of balls. The ring leader, a pudendal psychopomp in the form of a pizza with a dick in the center and nipples for toppings, orchestrates a massive war, pitting side against side, gonad against gonad. Thus aligned, both sides rush at one another clashing in a sea of testicles, much like the infamous "wall of death" at a slayer concert."

After speaking with Brenda at some length I was still no closer to the truth. Furthermore,  I realized it best to end our professional relationship and seek a psychologist that was over 13 years old. With no leads to speak of, I resorted to a new low; I went to the library. There among the throngs of perverts and milquetoast-er-strudels, I scoured dusty tomes for any hint of an answer. Eventually, I came upon a reference in a medieval manuscript to a certain Umayyad Caliph who was said to be afflicted by constant blue balls. According to the source, this ruler had achieved some kind of divine awareness after spending 45 days and nights grinding with his multitudinous harem. The trail went cold from here, however, as I could find no further reference to this testicular tyrant. I decided then and there that the only course of action left to me was to travel to Spain to hunt for anything pertaining to this forgotten Caliph.

Arriving in Granada, I made my way to the Spanish countryside in search of some record of this man. Hobnobbing with Andalusian locals across the scorched landscape, I spoke of "el rey de los huevos azules." Perhaps it was my garbled Spanish or my constant recitation of the word "huevos," but each time I was received with indifference and hostility. At wit's end and nearly destitute, I took to mixing sangria and Xanax during the siesta. Two days before my return home I found myself lying down face first at a local tavern. Wallowing in my misery and a stupor of collegiate proportions, a beautiful woman picked me up off the floor.  She sauntered to the jukebox and put on the R. Kelly song "Bump N' Grind" (incidentally every jukebox in Spain has the entire R. Kelley discography on it). What ensued would have put the combined booty dancing of every high school prom for the last 15 years to shame. Needless to say, my genitals looked like bloody grits after the affair. The pain was excruciating and the woman gone without a trace.

Sitting in the squalid tavern and fastening the remains of my balls to my pubis, I became aware of a faint illumination off in the distance. I stepped out of the bar and began to walk, with each step my mind grew clearer, my soul calmer, and my tweets wittier. I came upon a hill with a cave set into it. On closer inspection the light was a pale blue color and seemed to be emanating from two orbs within the cave. With trepidation and wonder I entered.

The blue orbs which had drawn me hence danced around the blackness of the cave. I reached out to touch them but then they withdrew further into the darkness, leading me deeper and deeper. For an eternity I followed them, my mind spinning with thoughts both serene and terrible. At long last the orbs stopped, perching themselves upon the blanched bones of the lost Caliph. With one arm raised and the other touching the butt of a skeleton bent over in front of him, the Caliph stood locked into an eternal booty dance. Watching them and taking notes on how I might best improve my own booty dancing technique, the cave flashed with a blinding light.

4000 miles away and 11 days later I awoke. To this day I am uncertain of what transpired. All that was left to me was a strange dream filled with booties of varying thickness and a disembodied voice. The voice spoke of immortality, nirvana, and it's favorite episode of Seinfeld. Whether it was the voice of the Caliph, Henry James, God, or some other schmuck, I do not know. Regardless, it was the blue balls that brought me there and it is through them that I shall return. Until then...happy grinding.