I really hate to go all vulgar on you and use the word “dicks” in this epiphany, but I’ve scoured the english language and there simply is no substitute. Only the word “dicks” can accurately describe the population that has been unjustly discriminated against. It’s time for dicks to fight the power, and stand up for our rights.
Let’s start out the epiphany by clearly defining who are the dicks. We are not referring to the unfortunate souls named Richard, private detectives, or sporting goods stores.
These dicks are the legion of men who are crabby, pissed-off, not nice, selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, and generally despised by much of society. The people to whom the following phrase is generally reserved: “Geez, that guy is such a dick.”
Now this is a cozy little family blog. I know many parents read these epiphanies to their young at bedtime, so I’m sorry if you find the d-word offensive. However, moms and dads should take note: Your child may actually grow up to be a dick. They should know that someone stood up courageously in their defense.
Defending the dicks? Is that what I’d decided to do with my latest epiphany? Why did I do that? Because for years, dicks have been getting the shaft (no pun intended). They’ve been told that they’re crabby, pissed-off, not nice, selfish, self-centered and self-absorbed.
Truth be told, I’ve been told that. Which is why I decided to stop living the lie of being a “nice guy.” A few months ago, I finally came out: I am a dick.
Proof that I am a Dick
Many were shocked by my public admission, but I don’t think any were really surprised. Especially my wife. She told me she has long suspected I was a dick. Let me give you a few examples.
- I am a dick in the morning. In the morning, I wake up, grab my coffee, curse the Gods for disrupting my sleep, and sulk over my cereal bowl. She will stride into the kitchen, after getting all showered and cute and perky, and greet with me with a big smile. “Good morning!” she’ll say. I, in return, snarl, grunt and sulk deeper into the cereal bowl. She undoubtedly thinks, “What a dick.”
- I am a dick around other people. At any given community event, my wife knows several thousand people. She is beyond a social butterfly. She is a social Mothra, and we cannot leave until she has engaged in lengthy conversation with every life-form in attendance. After five hours of waiting for her to finish shaking hands and kissing babies, I retreat to the car. She and her thousands of friends undoubtedly think, “What a dick.”
- I am a dick because I get angry. While driving, a guy cut me off, swerving into my lane. Naturally, I pounded on the horn and shouted, “You dick!” My wife scowled at me for become irritated with another member of the human race. She and the dick in the other car undoubtedly were thinking, “What a dick.”
Do you see my plight? My wife, and all other nice people like her, are predisposed nice people. Their genetic make-up prevents them from being dicks (as well as their anatomy.)
But instead of recognizing our differences, our diversity, and accepting us as we are, people ostracize us dicks. They shout dickist epitaphs at us, such as: “You’re mean!” and “What’s your problem?” and naturally, “You are a crabby, pissed-off, not nice, selfish, self-centered and self-absorbed dick.”
Take a moment and listen to the world around you. How often do we vent such negative vibes at the dicks around us? It’s a constant. Every day, we’re angry with dicks, and we blame them for behaviors that are part of their DNA.
I was born to sulk in my cereal-bowl. I was made to go sit in the car and be anti-social. It is who I am, and I accept it. My fellow dicks accept it. But no one else does.
I realized it was time to do something, and stand up for my fellow dicks. I decided to end dick discrimination. Forever.
The Million Dick March
Because I am the epiphanal master and don’t do anything half-assed, I decided to rally all the dicks around me and stomp out the prejudice that has been dogging us all our lives. Knowing my fellow dicks would heed the call to rally and revolt, I made a simple post on Facebook: It was the upside-down smiley face, with the phrase below it: “Dare to be a dick.” Then I invited the dicks to meet me at my house for our first meeting.
Being dicks, no one wanted to meet at my house, as many complained it was “too far to drive” or that “my house smelled like a dying dog.” These are true complaints, and I accepted them. However, because I too am a dick, I told all these dicks to get screwed. Thus, my initial meeting was rather poorly attended.
Eventually, I realized that trying to get a bunch of dicks together was impossible. I didn’t even want to get together, and I was their leader.
I thus sent out notice that instead of meeting, we would march. We would convene on Washington, DC, and march, one million strong. Through the streets we’d go, although probably not arm-in-arm because most dicks don’t like touching or hugging or any of that crap. We also probably wouldn’t be singing in unison, because we don’t like to sing out loud, especially with other people using sweet voices. And we probably wouldn’t be marching carrying signs, because who the hell wants to go spend all that money on sign material.
With no organization whatsoever, the Million Dick March began on a cloudy morning in mid-March. And guess what? No one showed. I didn’t even show. Why should I? If those dicks weren’t going to be there, why should I?
Instead, I went to a bar in downtown DC, and ordered myself a nice draft of beer. I looked across the bar and saw not one, not two, be nearly four hundred men, all sulked over the beers, sullen and dick-like.
I ran out the door to the next tavern, and found hundreds more. Then I went to a nearby cafe, and found even more dicks. I realized what had happened.
While all of us were too crabby to get together and march, we were there. Just doing our own thing. We all had our reasons not to join the stupid march, and as dicks, we all respected each other’s space. And we knew enough to leave each other alone.
I beheld the brotherhood of dicks. We were there, silently feeding off our combined negativity. Our shared lack of cheerfulness. Our social sulk.
Seeing how our combined presence unnerved the bartender, whose cheerful smile soon turned to a frown, I realized the power of dicks. We may not be organized, but we are everywhere. We may not be organized, but we are ubiquitous.
Here, then, is the message not only for my wife, but for those who discriminate against Dicks: Watch yourself. Because if you think one dick is bad, imagine what happens if the word gets out that you are dissing us dicks.
We will mass in your house. We will complain about the food being cold, or that you’re chewing your gum too loud, or your coffee being too bitter. We will be dicks, and eventually, instead of getting mad at all of us, you will break down, weep, and perhaps even jump off a bridge.
Instead of getting mad at dicks, understand us. Respect our foul mouths and crabby ways. Otherwise, we’ll do more than march to Washington. We’ll spend time with you. And if you really piss us off, we’ll marry you.
I am a dick, world. Hear me roar.
Photo by soukup