by Jack Bristow
“What’s the trouble?” Doctor Leonardo asked me.
I peered over towards the young, fresh-faced nurse
but the doctor had told me not to mind her. “Mr Hard-
dawn,” he gently rebuked me. “Nurse Heidi is skilled
and proficient enough in her profession to handle any
medical anomalies that may arise. Please. Take your
I looked over at nurse Heidi and she was staring
at me, smiling. Finally, I thought, What the hell? And
as I unbuckled the belt, my chino slacks went tumbling
to the floor.
Right then and there it was, or at least looked and
sounded like, Mickey Rooney. “Hey there!” He said
in a raspy, avuncular tone of voice to the doctor. Then
he had noticed nurse Heidi, and stood erect.
“Hey, you!” Now he was almost doubling, quadrupling
Nurse Heidi blushed.
“See what I have to contend with?” I told Doctor Leonardo.
“My sex-life is almost non-existent on account of this basek-
“Why’s that?” Doctor Leonardo asked.
I looked at Doctor Lenoardo, as though he were the biggest
dipshit on the face of the planet. “How many women do you
think would be attracted to you if you had Mickey Rooney
as the head of your penis?”
“Hey you!” Mickey reprimanded me hostiley. “Show
some respect! I’m an international, big-screen sensation!”
And then he winked his one-eye at nurse Heidi.
“Alright!” Dr. Leonardo was growing impatient with
the both of us. “This is quite strange, but I think I might
know how to help you,” he whispered lowly in my ear,
lest my cantankerous-but-lively little friend hear him.
“Your penis is somehow convinced that he is Mickey
Rooney. What I have to do is convince him that he
isn’t. That he is just a normal, nineteen-year-old, un-
“And just how,” I whispered back into Doctor Leonardo’s
hairy, wax-filled ear, “do we go about doing that?”
Doctor Leonardo grabbed the small pocket watch
from out of his white, doctor’s jacket pocket and
dangled it in front of my penis slowly, tantalizingly.
“Now,” he said, looking downward, not at me, but
at Mickey. The doctor was speaking in a very low,
serene voice. “Repeat after me.”
“After me,” my penis, obviously in some sort of
trance, had said.
“I am not the ninety-two-year-old academy-award
winning actor Mickey Rooney but a healthy, nineteen-
year-old penis.” A pause. And then the doctor continued.
“I am long, phallic and hard. I am very comfortable in
my own skin – that is to say, I will never again feel the
need to pretend I am something/somebody I am not.
That is to say,” the doctor knelt down toward my penis
and shouted directly into it: “I am not now, nor will I
ever be, nor have I ever been, Mickey Rooney!”
No response from Mickey. I was so happy – about to
shake the doctor’s hand. But he continued with the
hypnotherapy, waving the little gold-rimmed pocket
watch slowly and methodically in front of my genitilia.
“Now, just to prove to your owner that you
are sincere I am about to have you, only briefly,
act out as though you were a normal, farmhouse
rooster.” The Doctor moved the pocket watch
away from my member, and then he counted:
“one, two, three!”
Suddenly, my member had come to life! Strutting,
bawking, and walking around.
I sighed a sigh of relief.
No longer did my little friend believe he was Mickey
He was just an ordinary cock.