Pathopoeia

Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc.

I was all right for a week, I could still take a leak, then it hit me. I’d caught the clap from Naomi. I felt like my weiner was a flame thrower, streaming fire. I started crying! I felt like I was channeling Roy Orbison. But his woe was about love lost, mine was about my penile inferno.

I was all right for awhile, but it was morning and I had to pee again. I whipped it out and let it flow. My hooter had turned into an erupting volcano. Again, I was writhing in pain, and I was crying again. I held Vesuvius in the palm of my hand, I could hardly stand, and I was crying.

I went to the pet store and bought some “Icht Away,” bright blue tablets that are supposed to be dropped in fish tanks to kill pet fish skin disease. The pills can do this because they are composed of tetracycline—the same compound that kills clap, for a lot less money than what CVS sells. Using them, you also evade the expense of visiting a doctor! I bought two bottles.

I don’t how it happened—well, maybe I do. I was stoned on my ass and mixed my Viagra up with my Icht Away. I took around ten blue Viagra pills.

I was sitting there thinking lewd thoughts about Naomi. We were twirling tongues, making a slurping sound together. Suddenly, there was a tearing sound. My giant Johnson had torn out of my pants and was standing there 20” tall, ready for action. My usual stiffy was only 5”.

I was horrified. Peeing napalm was bad enough, but having an orgasm with a giant dick will kill me. Oh my God! The PAIN—just thinking about it started me crying! I called Naomi and told her I had the clap and a 20” hard-on. She laughed: “Nicky, you’re having another one of your fu*king three-day mescalito adventures. Take a walk and get the shit out of your head.” I protested, “But, the pain is real! I can’t walk with my womper the size of a baseball bat!”

She hung up.

I called 911. I was transported to the “Pay-Pal Hospital Emergency Room” where they pumped my stomach and prescribed medication for the clap, all, for the low, low price of $900.00.

I was crying.