April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. --William Shakespeare

Yes, spring certainly is revitalizing. The sun is out but there's a chill in the air, and it makes you just want to run outside to play and come back hours later smelling of dirt. Makes you feel like a kid again. Let's all take a deep breath together. Ready?

iiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnn...and ouuuuuuuttttttt. That felt good. Do you feel good? I do. I feel great. I'm glad we took that moment together. Happy spring, you guys. Thanks for sharing that with me.

Now, what was I going to write about? Oh yeah. Let's draw some dicks.

I, myself, do not recall ever attempting to draw a penis. I'm not very artistic, although I will, on occasion, admire someone else's drawing of a penis. Am I an expert? Far from it. I'm not here to instruct, but rather to explore, analyze, and hopefully...(humble face)...inspire.

The first thing you must consider when delving into the topic of dick art is how your post title will look on your blog friends' sidebars. It's hard to believe, but there are bloggers out there who might not appreciate your artistic spirit livening up their blogrolls:

Roseann's Musings, Ramblings, Ponderings, and Thoughts

Health Care Reform? Oh, brother...

Confessions of a Loling Blogger

Teh unicorns are made of win!

Getting Snarky with God

Rest in Peace, Mr. Fluffyknickers

Photos from Heaven

Raindrops dangling from flower petals, part 7

Steam Me Up, Kid

I draw dicks and balls real good

I know, you're thinking, "That penis at the bottom really spruces up the joint! I'd be honored to promote that blog post on my sidebar!" and I would second that sentiment, and that, my friendish, is why we're both here right now. Exploding fistbump.

But, out of respect, consider hiding your dick post behind a "title beard", such as a googled quote about springtime by some dead pretentious schmo. Bonus points if it includes the word "hath".

I would be remiss if I didn't give credit to Sarah P at Naked Cupcakes, who if you aren't reading yet, you should be, because she's fucking hilarious. She sent me a lovely card in the mail recently which was the inspiration for this post. She writes:

Dear Becky,

I love dicks. I draw them all day and all night. Dicks dicks dicks. Eat em up yum. Dicks on the brain. Can't get enough. But recently, I've developed doubts about my dicks. I need your help. Tell me honestly, do my balls look right? Love, Sarah P

Sarah P, I completely understand your artistic choices with regard to balls. We are all well aware that balls don't come individually wrapped in separate little cherry-like scrotums. But what choice do we have, as artists, and as women who love our men. Sometimes, the truth hurts.

What would you have us do, men??

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE US DO??

See what I mean? You done good, Sarah. Long live cherryballs.

But you got me to thinking, Sarah. How important are balls in penis art? I believe inclusion of balls should be examined on a case-by-case basis. For example, I came upon this chalk illustration on the playground recently:

See? No balls. But what does "Happy Birthday Giant Cock Friend" (chalk on asphalt, 2009) have that most other dick drawings don't have? Friendship. And cake. How important are balls when we have friendship and cake? That's a question for the ages, my friends.

Now that we've opened the door to various media, I realize that what I said before about not having much dick drawing experience, while true, did not take into account my expertise in the Pancake Arts.

In my experience, the best thing about pancake dicks is pretending you didn't intend to fashion the pancake in the shape of a dick at all. When my friends come to visit with their kids, I serve up my giant phallic flapjacks that are so obscenely long (thank you, 20" skillet) that half the shaft hangs off the side of the plate, syrup dribbling suggestively off the tip, and their kids go YUM!! and other appreciative words that are muffled on account of their mouths being crammed with buttery testicles, and my friends make angry faces at me and I go

Me: What? What's the problem?

Friend: You know what's the problem. Stop feeding my kids dick-shaped breakfast foods.

Me: Dick-shaped? What's wrong with you? For your information, these are elephant heads, sicko.

I'm sorry, I'm still not seeing it.

Kid 1: I love elephant pancakes!!

Kid 2: Mommy, his trunk is longer than my trunk! I want a longer trunk!

Me: Oh, you know what though? Yours is thicker. That's what counts.

Friend: I think maybe Auntie Becky needs to see a special doctor.

Kid 1: Look at me! I'm a sword swallower! *dangles wangcake above mouth*

Friend: I just died a little in my heart.

Me: Your kids sure do love elephants, huh. Where's my camera?

My point is, when considering dick art, free your mind. The age of the pen-on-spiral doodling horny virgin teen has come to an end. We are entering a renaissance of dick art, with the introduction of photoshop and paint programs. But before we look ahead, we must look back, because those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, and I think we can all agree that human civilization has endured enough of those nubby little cherubic wangs. I'm looking at you, Baroque period. Never again.

So here we go, a look back. I've worked really hard on this. It was difficult, because as you can probably guess by now I have trouble staying focused sometimes, especially when it comes to stuff like history, but I think I did a good job. I hope it's not too cerebral. I really want you to like it. So nervous!!! Squeee!!

And now, I humbly present, my blog thesis...

The Complete World History of Dicks in Art

Part 1

Early Dick Art: Stuff in Europe

The DaVinci Choad

Quick side note:

Something I won't eat because it looks like Marilyn Manson's penis.

Oh my God, this one's even worse.

It looks like a zombie rising from the grave, boner first.

Hahaha!! Epic ham fail lol!!

Intermission:

Storm Troopers riding dogs!

Conclusion: Modern Dick Art

The Birth of Photoshop

Totally brought it full circle.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, why. Why write about dick art? It's vulgar and pointless, and adds nothing to the blogosphere. And maybe you're right.

I will admit, I had my doubts too. But yesterday morning, as I sat in bed thinking about whether this topic was worth the time and effort, I received a sign from God on my closet door.

Yes, that's right. It's a pregnant woman with a giant dangly cock. Now, I'm not saying this shadow is something akin to a visit from the angel Gabriel or that I am some kind of modern-day Mary chosen by God to bring forth unto you the gift of the penii, but I do happen to be a mother of dog, and I am a virgin (airways frequent flyer) so, I mean, come on.

Or I guess it could have been the pregnant naked tranny standing over by my window when I took this photo. But I like the chosen by God thing better. Let's go with that.

Nana, Smasher of Dreams

Once again, Nana has failed me.

I arrived at her house and followed the smell of baby powder and Ensure up the stairs, past the motorized stair-seat, hung a right at the wheelchair and followed the sounds of oxygen tank. And what I discovered when I peeked around the La-Z-Boy was that the past couple months of year 102 have not treated her too kindly. Ahmahgah. WhahappatoNana. 

I put my hand on hers and bent down to look into her eyes and whispered, "Hi Nana! It's me Becky!

Her Nigerian nurse rubbed her arm vigorously then and shouted, "LOOK WHO IT IS COME TO SEE YOU, NANA!! LOOK WHO IT IS!! IT IS BECKY!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA! LOOK WHO COME TO SEE YOU TODAY!!"

(Holy shit, lady. Let her sleep. It's cool. I'll catch up with her another time.)

But she continued, screaming now. "NANA YOU HAVE A SURPRISE VISITOR!! GUESS WHO IT IS!! OPEN YOUR EYES AND SEE FOR YOURSELF!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA!! WOOWOOOWOOO!! (clapclapclap) SAY HELLO TO YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER BECKY!! SHE COME TO SAY MERRY CHRISTMAS TODAY!! YAYAYAYAWHOOOO!! (clapclapclap)"

Blog sidebar: Cmere a sec. Now before you go thinking negatively of Nana's Nigerian nurse for all the screaming, let me assure you that she's a good egg. For example, despite the fact that she's very proper and reserved, she uses the word "pussy" all the time to refer to her ladycrotch, because (I can only assume) some evil, mischievous person provided her with the wrong term when she was learning English. (Not me.) (For real, not me.) And she pronounces it "Poo-see" which is so oily and suggestive I can't help but shudder with glee.

Also, Nana's Nigerian nurse has a special friendship with my little dog Juanita. Here are some things I have heard her saying to Juanita when she thought nobody was listening:

"Oh, Juanita. You are so small, but you have the heart of a lion. You can move mountains, and you will one day. I am sure of it."

"Juanita, would you like to go to see the Miley Cyrus movie with me? We will sit in the front row together. We will have a wonderful time."

"Oh Juanita, we are both single ladies. Will you do the single ladies dance with me? (tambourine hands) All the single ladies. All the single ladies dance with their hands up. Go to the club! Let us put a ring on it!"

See? I told you. She's a good egg. Now, back to Nana...  

"NANA LOOK WITH YOUR EYES!! THERE YOU GO NANA!! OPEN YOUR EYES!!"

And she did! Her eyes scanned from left to right and landed on me, and then, hold on, here it comes...I think...I think she's gonna do it...yes here it comes...

*wink*

Booya. A wink from Nana is like a zerbert from God. 

Exhausted from all the activity, she fell back asleep.

So...standing there with my bag full of blogger names written on post-its and folded in quarters, I realized that, once again, Nana will not be able to pick a contest winner for me. And seeing as how she's never alone anymore, it's not even possible for me to attach a piece of double-sided tape to the tip of her index finger, hang her arm over the side of her chair, and dip her hand into my bag of names hoping one sticks. This is bullshit. 

So...contest winner is TBA, as soon as I come up with a plan B. 

In the meantime, I'm reposting below. I have to do it now because, well, you know...*taps watch* if you catch my drift. In other words, to quote a great poet and a master of metaphor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives, and Nana's just about out of sand." 

***

You've changed, Nana.

There, I've said it. You have this silent, haughty air about you lately. At first I thought it was a temporary ego thing after Willard Scott announced your 100th birthday on air, but a couple of years have passed and nothing's changed. It's so easy for people to get caught up in your grammy sweaters and your Captain Kangaroo 'do and think aw, she's so cute. But I'm not buying it anymore. Seriously, I'm so done.

I don't care how old you are. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. You're acting like a dick.

Don't give me that confused look. Alright, let me lay it all out on the table:

1) Listen up, you. I'm 34 years old. A five spot in a birthday card isn't gonna cut it anymore. I realize in your day five dollars would have bought you a log cabin, or a parasol, or whatever you people spent your money on before there was good stuff, but welcome to the future, Nana. Shit's expensive. And the way you so carelessly scrawl your name at the bottom of the card, I can't read a word of it. I don't care how bad your hand shakes, you better find a way to pull yourself together and eek out something resembling a legible signature. Put some effort into it. Take a pill, ask your home health care worker to hold your wrist steady, whatever you gotta do, just make it happen.

2) Is there something wrong with our air? It suits me just fine, same with everyone else you know. But apparently our stupid old atmosphere isn't up to your standards. Don't think it's gone unnoticed that you keep your own private stash (the good stuff, no doubt) in a tank nearby so you don't have to breathe the generic brand. We are literally not fit to breathe the same air, are we. This is elitism at its worst. It's AIR, Nana, it's free, and look around...it's freakin everywhere!

3) Sleeping 23 hours a day is for cats and hobos, so wake the hell up. Come on, up and at 'em! Days a wastin'! It's not like the other waking hour of your day is so exhausting. I mean, you have not one, but TWO people holding you by your armpits every time you go anywhere, so how tiring can your life possibly be? I wish I had it that good, I wish people would carry ME around everywhere by my armpits. I work hard, blogging and texting and thinking all the time, but I manage to walk to the bathroom from my seat in front of the tv and back like everyone else. People are starting to talk about how lazy you are, and frankly, I'm tired of defending you.

4) I, too, get tired of chewing sometimes. I know, food can be so damn chunky. But I get through it, and so should you. The fact that you demand that your food be pureed to a pulp is just such diva behavior. Listen Ms. Ross, use the teeth your periodontist gave you, open up, and get to work. Eat your eggplant parmesan whole and unblended like everyone else, because you're really no better than the rest of us.

5) My name is Becky. BECKY. Here, I'll help you out. You know a neat trick to remember it? It's the same as your name. Which is also BECKY. I know, it's tricky. But in any case my name's not "Howdi-li-do!," or "Don't you look festive today!" And winking at me with your twinkly eye and bright grandmotherly smile does not a greeting make.

6) Woman, we get it. You've been around for over a century, and in that time you have acquired an impressive collection of jewelry. But really, there is no need to flaunt it in our faces every day. What statement are you trying to make with this endless parade of bedazzled hummingbird broaches and gold rope chain necklaces adorned with cardinals, honeybees, and sparrows? Are you trying to make everyone jealous? Well, guess what. It worked. Happy?

7) The drama. Oh Lord, the drama you bring with you everywhere you go. These "Petite Mal Seizures" and "Temporary Comatose States" you seem to miraculously fade in and out of, it's barely funny anymore. You realize you almost ruined Thanksgiving when we had to remove you from the table and lay you out on the floor to check your breathing? There never was a bigger attention whore, ever. If I faked a coma or a seizure every time I felt neglected, I'd never get up. Deal with it.

Pull yourself together, Nana. Really. What would Jesus say?