Chapter One: DEATH FINDS A PHALLUS

I could see them in the distance. They were fighting.

Sparks flew into the evening air. I stopped, scratched my itchy ass and began to move closer. The two fighters were still a few rooftops away and I wanted to see this battle up close. I’d never seen a live sword fight before, and even from this distance the sight was entrancing.

I was walking among the rooftops for my own security, I wondered why these combatants were dueling up in my domain. Well, it wasn’t really my domain, but I walked the rooftops most mornings and nights, avoiding some of the tougher residents on my block. They didn’t seem to like me and I quickly found out that I was allergic to punches. I suppose had I been taller everything would have been easier. An extra foot and I’d be 6’6″ or is it 6″6′, I don’t know. At that height my 200 pound frame would be normal and I wouldn’t be constantly out of breath.

I guess I don't really live in that great an area of town.

I was now two rooftops away and could feel the energy of the fighters coursing through the air. Both men had long, slender swords. Neither of them talked, except for the occasional grunt when their swords hit each other hard. My heart was throbbing and pulsing like crazy. I didn’t even know who to cheer for.

If it had been two women fighting I would have sided with the hottest one, but these were dudes and I wasn’t strong enough to accept that a dude could be hot. The men never noticed me. Their bodies moved as if they were in a big, gay, musical dance. I quietly moved up to the rooftop adjacent to the two men and hid behind an exhaust vent. I could smell sweat mixed with exhaust fumes and some other scent whose name was on the tip of my tongue.

It was then that I saw that the men weren’t always holding their swords and yet somehow the swords stayed upright. I looked closer and realized the truth:

Those weren’t swords; they were dongs.

I had heard rumors at school and on the internet about cockfights but never believed them. My cheeks blushed as I realized that these guys were better endowed than a bailed out bank. It was like watching a car accident, you wanted to look away and yet you couldn’t help but look at the dongs- I mean, the severed arms.

The whirling motion of their cock battle made it hard to see where one dong ended and the other began. The red-haired fighter was on the offensive, thrusting furiously and forcing the dark-haired fighter dangerously close to the edge of the rooftop.

IT WAS JUST LIKE THIS

“I’ve got you now!” said the offensive cocker (I was later told is the proper term for a cock fighter) as he raised his gleaming metallic phallus for a kill stroke.

“Kill me and you’ll never learn the secret!” said the defensive cocker.

“What secret? I wasn’t sent here to gather secrets.”

“That’s because Lord Steele doesn’t want you to find out, lest you try to overthrow him.”

“That’s just bullsh-!”

The red-haired cocker was interrupted by a quick thrust from the dark-haired cocker who spun away from the roof’s edge and flopped around until he was back in the middle. I decided then to root for the dark haired man.

The red-haired cocker charged and slashed. The dark-haired cocker dodged to the right and spun around, delivering a roundhouse phallus slap to his dongponent’s face. The mushroom shadow on his face already forming, the red-haired cocker yelled out a primal scream that sounded more bestial than human.

The fight raged on, thrusts and parries coming frequently. The red-haired man jumped back from the action and tried to spin his dong around for a side swipe. The dark-haired cocker saw this used his arm as a shield. The sound of an arm bone snapping echoed into the sky.

“You Goddamn cockblocker!” shouted the red-haired man.

The dark-haired man winced for only a moment before recovering. “Try that again and you’ll be back to having just two legs,” he said.

The red-haired devil of a man came charging, yelling profanities as he went. The dark-haired cockmaster jumped into the air, far higher than a normal human should be able to, and landed his mighty weapon on the red-haired assailant’s shoulder, splitting it open.

The red-haired cocker fell down, splayed against the rooftop like a rag doll on top of a broom.
The dark-haired cocker made a motion as if he were going to turn his back to the red-haired man, but didn’t. Turning your back on an opponent is a really stupid thing for a hero to do. He went towards the fallen man and stabbed him in the face with his meat sword. The large metallic dong went right through the man’s head exiting out the other side.

“I guess you could say… you’re a dickhead.” said the dark-haired champion. He looked around as if wanting to have an audience for that quip.

I wanted him to get the laugh he deserved SO BAD.

I was nervous now. If I didn’t do anything soon the man would likely run off; I highly doubt he wanted to explain a dead man on the roof top with a penis the size of a python.

The man tensed up and looked like he was concentrating extremely hard, then I noticed that his weapon was shrinking! It slithered back into his pants, normal sized. The man pulled a small shiny patch out of his pants pocket and put it in the crotch area, covering the large hole that had been there during the fight.

He smiled.

Then he slipped on a banana peel and cracked his skull.

“Nooooooooo!” I cried, I don’t know why.

I ran over to the man who was now breathing heavily. “Who… are… what are…” said the man in gasps.

“I’m Jesse,” I said. I took off my jacket and placed it under the man’s head. “You’re going to be okay,” I told him. But he wasn’t, I could see blood pouring out of his wound.

“I’m dying,” he said.

“Yeah, sucks to be you,” I said. I realized I can really be an asshole at times. The man didn’t seem to care, he laughed instead. He tried to lean up to see me better but his head fell back after a few seconds of effort.

“I… I…” he sputtered. “That man I killed, he was part of an evil clan of cockfighters.”

“Cockfighters?”

“Yes, that is what we are called. What other name would you give to guys who fight with their schlongs?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I thought hard for a moment. “Dick fencers? Dongbatants?”

The man sighed.

“Never mind that. I’m dying and I need your help.”

“What could I possibly do to help?”

“You must take my power and use it for good”

Thoughts started flooding into my mind like sperm into a pornstar’s face. Take his power? Would that mean I would have a mighty long dong? I liked the idea, but then there was all the talk about fighting evil cockfighters.

This was one of the images that flooded my mind. I don't know why.

“I can’t,” I said at last.

“You must, otherwise the world will be destroyed.”

“Oh sure, I don’t do this and the whole world gets destroyed. You’re the one who tripped on a damn banana peel.”

“I know, I, Falush Bonerty, have failed. My dishonor is complete. But there is still hope. Take my power and my apartment.”

“Apartment!” I replied. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” (I was really sick of living with my parents.)

“What do I have to do?” I asked.

Falush grunted and reached for his crotch plate, removing it. His normal sized dong sprang out and almost touched me. I jumped back.

Falush squeezed his eyes and concentrated hard and the normal dong turned into the mighty meat sword once again. This time it did hit me and knocked me on top of Falush.

(If you’ve ever been dying and had a 200 pound man-child fall on you I can assure you it’s not fun, because that’s what Falush told me immediately after I got off him.)

“Now I must invoke the spirits of manhood.” said Falush, straining with each word.

“What do I do?” I asked again.

“You must suckle the weapon.”

I threw up on Falush, which he also did not like.

“I was joking, you dumbass,” he said. “Just hold my hand and repeat after me.”

I grabbed his hand. He started to chant.

“Sacktu Ballsada Dickto.”

I repeated the words with him. He kept saying them, and although his voice was weakening, the words seemed to grow stronger. In a swift movement, Falush took my hand and placed it on his junk. He screamed out “SACKTU BALLSADA DICKTO ERECTORALI!” and his hand and his sword went limp.

The power flowing through my junk at that moment was indescribable.

I felt a surge of power running through my veins. My groin started to hurt as if something was crushing my manliness. I realized I was growing, down there, in my penile area.

I struggled to pry off my jeans (Goddamn button fly.) My pants fell down to my ankles. A mighty meat serpent coiled around my leg. It went from a peachy pink to a shiny gray.

I felt like a man with a cannon between his legs. Nothing was going to stop me. I gazed at my mighty cock sword for 2 hours. It got very cold up on the rooftop and my manhood began to shrivel.

“Shit, shrinkage,” I thought to myself. I wanted to preserve this moment but it was going away. I threw my jeans atop my bulge trying to keep it warm, but it was no use. After a minute I was back to normal (well, normal for me.) It got the job done is what I’m saying.

I felt a tingling sensation in my hand, the hand, I realized, that had held onto Falush’s dong. I looked at my hand and it was burning. Steam rose from it and I swished it away with my other hand. There were tiny words on my hand, as if they had been burned in with silver. I didn’t know then but know now that Farush had used dongscription to write some final instructions on my hand. It was a list.

It read:
1) Apartment: 4004 Wellingston Apt 503

2) Password: ferretfarts89

3) Stay aroused.

4) Don’t tell anyone your secret.

5) (Unless it’s for sexual conquest.)

6) Choose a name.

…and that was all that was written.

The apartment was on the other side of town, I wouldn’t be able to make it there on this night. But I wanted to pick my name right away. I rubbed my balls for a while, thinking of various names with puns and dozens of different ways to say penis.

Then it came to me and slapped me like a $20 transsexual hooker (see Chapter 3 for an explanation!)

I stood on the edge and thought of Lindsay Lohan, not skinny, drug addict Lindsay, but big boobed barely legal Lindsay.

The surge in my loins warmed up my body and I sprang to life, larger than life really. I opened my mouth and shouted

“I AM IRONCOCK MCLONGSHAFT!”

Then I went home and looked at porn.

The patron saint of getting bombed in Beantown.

Wait, what? Drunk? Brawling? Are these the things we want to associate with the great island nation of Ireland? Apparently, the answer is yes. The drunken, brawling stereotype of Irishmen has long been perpetuated in literature, song, film and television. But where does it come from?

While there’s no hard evidence pointing to where exactly the stereotype originated, we can still take a look and come to a pretty strong conclusion about why the Irish have been portrayed as thugs and drunks for so many years. And who better to help guide you toward drunken, fist swinging enlightenment than a bona-fide Irishman, right? An Irish American who loves his beer and whose ancestors came over from Cork more than a century ago!

(Just so we’re all on the same page, I’m talking about myself.)

As it turns out, the rise of the drunk, brawling Irish stereotype occurred primarily on American soil when wave after wave of Irish immigrants arrived in New York. They were looking for a new start, with hopes of escaping not only their British oppressors, but also the poverty and famine that was prevalent on the Emerald Isle (and subsequently were heard to utter, “Bollocks!” as soon as they discovered that NYC was every bit as bad as where they’d come from.)

An artist's representation of the first time the Irish realized how royally they'd been fucked over. Historians would later mistake it for an unfunny political cartoon.

Unfortunately for the Irish settlers (not to be confused with Irish Setters, which are beautiful but annoying dogs), life in America sucked in many of the same ways that it sucked in Ireland, and in some cases it sucked a whole lot harder. If Irish immigrants weren’t tricked into signing up to go fight in the Civil War as soon as they got off the boat, they were being hated on by all races and nationalities wherever they went.

Many people refused to hire the Irish, and the overall hatred was fierce. Along with the Chinese and the blacks, the Irish just could not catch a break back in the 1840’s and 1850’s. They were viewed as unsophisticated and unskilled. Since no one was hiring the Irish, they were forced to take jobs performing manual labor that paid little and required little intelligence, further perpetuating the belief that the Irish were dopes who could barely out think a gorilla. (In fairness, this is often the case.)

"Aah, like we'd want tah werk at yer jerk store anyhoo, ya cunt."

Soon not only their neighbors, but even the media began to shape the stereotype of the drunken Irish brawler. Now of course, it wasn’t without reason. There is some evidence that suggests the Irish were naturally more prone to violence than their American neighbors. History shows that violence often erupted between Irish neighborhoods and their neighbors of varying ethnic groups, but the same level of violence was almost non-existent between those other groups. In most cases, the Irish were the instigators. Kind of like Woody Woodpecker, only with much coarser language.

That's more like it.

Additionally, tired of being pissed on by pretty much everyone else, the Irish began forming gangs to take care of themselves, and soon the belief sprang up that all Irish were mob controlled and involved in these increasingly violent gangs, even if it wasn’t the case. Come on, didn’t you see Gangs of New York?

In the years since the media first birthed the drunken, brawling Irish stereotype, little has been done to stop it, or even change it. Instead, among Irish Americans it’s pretty much been embraced. If you don’t believe it, just look at Notre Dame. Do you think there would be a little uproar if they were called the Notre Dame Fighting Jews, and instead of an angry leprechaun as the mascot, it was a banker? And that’s not just because it’d be strange for a Catholic university to have a Jewish mascot, either.

They're in line for the big game against USC.

Instead, the view of the Irish being drunken brawlers has been gradually accepted, if not entirely accurate. I say not entirely accurate, because as mentioned with the rise of Irish gangs in Hell’s Kitchen (not the Gordon Ramsay show, the actual section of New York), there are things that support the stereotype. For example, a recent study concluded that of all European countries, the Irish spend a higher percentage of income on alcohol than any other country. Out of the entire household spending, 4.1% goes to alcohol. That’s more than three times the alcohol spending of any other country in the European Union. That’s a gansey-load of spirits!

Let me put it this way: even if you were to take every single bottle on these shelves and pour them into a bathtub, you still wouldn't have a gansey-load. But you'd have a pretty good evening ahead of you, all the same.

In addition, the 4.1% committed to alcohol is twice as much as the average Irish family spends on education and health. So if nothing else, we know that the Irish at least have their priorities straight.

So what does any of this mean?

Absolutely nothing. We can pretend to know why certain ethnicities are known for certain traits, and it’s clear that to an extent, those stereotypes are perpetuated by real life examples. I mean, they have to be grounded in at least some fact, right? You know, apart from the so-called “Irish Curse” myth. That’s just bullshit. At the end of the day, how the hell can you scientifically judge an entire population as being drunken, fighting bastards? That’s better left to people who aren’t sporting lab coats. You know, people like you and me.

Well, maybe not Malcolm.

Oh, and definitely not Dan.

The jury is still out on Erica and Michael.

The fallout, of course, is that due to these longstanding Irish stereotypes, days like St. Patrick’s Day completely lose their meaning, instead replaced by a rowdy spirit and some good old fashioned drunken chicanery, reflecting the stereotypes themselves. The ironic part is that, up until as recently as the 1970’s, alcohol was strictly forbidden on March 17 in Ireland.

The day itself was considered a religious holiday, remembering a man who was kidnapped from his home in Wales and sold into slavery in Ireland, only to later escape and come back bigger and badder than ever, toting machine guns and taking down the slave ring that wanted to see him dead. Okay, I made that last part up. He actually just returned to Ireland as a missionary, minus the over-the-top bloodshed and cheesy one-liners.

"And Patrick said to the snakes, 'Come then, ye benighted serpents, and meet a friend of mine. Her name's Delilah, and she loves to dance.'"

Let’s be honest; it’s just a hell of a lot more fun to get hammered and belt out Irish ditties with your favorite lads and lasses, drinking green beer colored by God knows what and pretending to like corned beef and cabbage. And remember, when you’re out at some “authentic Irish pub” with a generic Irish name:

Some may say the glass is half empty,
Some may say the glass is half full.
But the Irish will forever say,
“Are you gonna drink that?”

I bet this place rocks! SHAM-rocks, that is! Ha ha! Thanks, you've all been great.

(Here and here are a couple of my sources, if you’re interested in further reading on how the drinkin’-est, fightin’-est race on the planet got its reputation.)