Google

5 dead soldiers standing in a row. Proudly. displaying their Coors red and white. Thats what dad used to call it when you line up your empties. And on my cell relationship request declined: wonder what the old man would have said about that?

Not much I suppose, scrolling my thumbs through the possibilities, striking no oil.

Gold in them thar prodigits hills there was not. So misery did what misery does best: it looked for company, finding it in the form of the Grinch.

Sort of green in the face he was, dead soldiers playing havoc with my spectrum of colours. None the less waving him over, pushing a full one in his direction.

Scooping the bottle in one hand he lifted it high to salute me. May you find less answers to a zillion questions and nice to meet you gurgling mouthfuls of beer.

It sort of floored me, it did, but Christmas eve in the , corner 42 and Broadway New York is a venue of quiet desperation. So my lips offered him a welcoming penumbra plus a reply: Thanks for joining me err?

Google, Mister Google.

My soldiers by now numbered more than a platoon, so I took it in my stride: You mean like an electronic Jesus who knows the answer to everything?

Confidentially leaning towards: Not quite, Brad, not quite. Even more, I know even more than He does. Where do you think the old Man gets all his answers from, sorting out the good guys from the baddies, come Christmas, eh?

The implication of this was way beyond human comprehension. So I just sat there, mulling, while some recessed part of my brain sounded the bugle for the battle of Agincourt to commence, across that bar room counter. We were the French cavalry.

Finally I managed to stammer: You mean to say you know even more than God?

Nonchalant his lisp: Brad, my newest friend, there are less things in heaven and on earth than you can google on your laptop.

Deep, it was deep. But with numerous soldiers slain my wits gathered well. So I threw him a curved ball: Ok, wise guy, what is the length of my di ck?

I tell you, Babe Ruth had nothing going for him compared to this google guy, for he hit that curved ball right out of the park, sending it into orbit: Exactly 2 and 1 quarter inches without blinking.

Myself? I was out for the count, sober as the pope, wet fish gaping on dry land.

Staring at my crotch, attempting to figure out the intricasies of my anatomy: flaccid appendage shrivelled in shame underneath folds of material. Perhaps I could talk myself out of this one? Worth a try, at least:

H..heh, no way buddy, no fking way NO Ffkin WAY the child hiding inside all of us flipping the switch to enter denial mode.

And Mister Google? Funny thing, thinking back about it all, but he had a sort of wan smile on his face, perhaps sad, when he spoke. However, in retrospect I might be imagining the latter, but that is what I wanted to believe at the time.

Timeously wiping his lips, Ok, here is the short version: If you google bonsai di ck there will be a million, 191 thousand, and 20 results. Look at number 114 thousand.

Knowing there will be a monster underneath that bed, ready to tear me apart I refused to enter, in the stead prostrating myself in keen despair. Not a single hill within sight to lift my eyes up to, grand old duke neither up, nor down. Oh yea, silence perturbed: beseeching my tormentor for succour, general Coors and his men having long since deserted.

So you want the long version, eh? Ok, remember that girl from Birmingham, the one you had an online affair with? No? The one calling herself handy.mandy? Ah, realization dawns! And you always wanted more and more and more, w*nking your weenie online till it was no more than a limp noodle?

Need I continue?

Completely annihilated I nodded my head, and Father forgive me, for I know not what I am doing.

Closing his right eye then, zeroing in on the target: Ok, if you care to open that page titled my life with bonsai.di ck? There in handy.mandy, who in real life is a guy by the way, reveals it all. Remember when the two of you eventually met? Remember how she never allowed you to fck her but always were willing to give you a hand-job? Oh boy, she is a graphic one! Describing in detail how, the first time she had difficulty finding your di ck! Tut-tut.

Changing tack then: Listen friend, cheer up, there are other girls on prodigits, you know. Right now there is one signing up. sweet.louise, from South Africa. And please excuse me for I have to go.

Not paying him any heed my thumbs tattooed its way towards emotional sanity. Gleefully twitching when sweet.louise immediately accepted, allowing me to strut into the adult discussion room, prancing with my newly acquired bragging rights.

With Mr Google gone our relationship blossomed. And it was only when I one night pinned Louise against the wall in the alley behind OMalleys that I found out that Louise in reality was Louis.