I always wanted to be a dick
You’re too nice.
A Dick what?
Be one or have one? There’s a surprising difference.
Why a dick?
I thought it was ‘why a duck’.
I couldn’t be a tomboy because of obvious reasons (my brother’s name being Tom)
I certainly couldn’t be hairy. Just too gross. (Harry not withstanding)
So I became ‘beck’
Ain’t that special?
This very subject created havoc in my brain during my formative years.
In case you’re wondering about my behavior.
I thought it was viaduct
So Beck is halfway to being a Dick. Gotcha.
(Oh, I live under the wye-a-duct
Down by the winegar works.
They tie all the children to fences and logs.
They do this to keep them from biting the dogs. . . )
I don’t think I meet the halfway mark in the criteria of being a dick or having a dick.
Look, if I was born and became a Richard then I would’ve automatically have a dick. I think.
In my convoluted pea brain I feel like this is one of those things.
You know where ‘dick’ can mean lots of things. I’m thinking of different names as Peter, Willy, Goober (as in Goober Pyle, coz you know I loves me some Andy💘) Johnson, or Bob for that matter.
Some times I scare myself.
BTW, I’m not disparaging anyone named those names.
I know someone with all of those names.
Yes, even Goober. Altho’ he gets upset when we call him that
Son-of-a-wrek hated that as a nickname.
I never think about calling them their names.
These things only occur to me in my solitude when I’m pondering the universe quietly.
I’d be remiss in not posting the definitive work on this subject:
It was Thursday, and in the middle of the afternoon, and I was fed up with the week. That damn cop lieutenant screwed up my investigation of the Williams murder, and now, I don’t get paid. I was behind on my office rent, and I owed my secretary two C-notes, and she threatened to not show up next week, no matter how many promises I made her. I was almost out of cigarettes, and the bottle in my bottom drawer was almost dry. Could things get worse?
The office door opened. In walked a dame–only none like I’d ever seen. Statuesque, maybe six feet, and that’s not including the four-inch heels. Tailored suit, carefully made-up, wide-brimmed hat, tilted to one side, that showed one eye, and I could tell that that eye meant business, and business meant cash. I stood up.
“How can I help you, Miss …?”
“Beck. Just Beck.” Uninvited, she took a seat.
“Cigarette?” I offered, in spite of the fact that I had few.
“No, thank you. I’d rather get down to business, Mr. Spoons.”
“What business would that be?” I asked. I thought it might be something about a jilted lover, or some sort of infidelity, or maybe her kid got a girl in trouble. Boy, did I get a surprise.
“Mr. Spoons,” she said, getting up. “I’m given to understand that you are the best private investigator in town.”
“So some say,” I replied.
“So most say,” she said. “Mr. Spoons, I’ve made enquiries, and that’s what I’ve heard. So I have a proposition for you.”
A proposition? From this gorgeous knockout of a dame? I’m all ears.
“Mr. Spoons, I’ve recently lost a couple of associates. Lefty and Pancho. Good friends and they’ve served me well for many years. I have a feeling that I know what and who caused it.”
“Well, I can help you with that …”
“No, you misunderstand. Lefty and Pancho are gone. They’re history. I want to be able to do this myself. To understand what happened. I’m getting gobbeldygook from everybody involved. So I want you, with your private detective skills, to teach me.”
“Teach you to do what?”
“Mr. Spoons, did I not make myself clear? I want to investigate this myself, privately. In other words, I want you to teach me how to be a dick.”
[Hope I could make you smile with this, Beck.]
Hah! I was thinking earlier of the private dick.
Dickies, as in fake turtle neck tops.
And: spotted dick pudding. Chocolate chip cookies.
And, oddly, male and female plumbing parts.
Jeez. This thought process is taking me down a rabbit hole.
thx, @Spoons
I had some fun, Beck. Hope you did too.
Well, I sure did. Thanks!
Or @Why_A_Duck ?
That just ‘quacked’ me up.
When I was a kid in Green Bay, the Packers’ quarterback was a guy named Lynn Dickey, who was mostly famous for getting injured a lot.
I remember a bumper sticker that was common in Wisconsin in those days, which read, “They May Beat Our Packers, But They Can’t Lick our Dickey!”