Jesus' General

Why it's a bad idea to put a cucumber near your grenades or I'm normal, dammit

Tonight, I celebrated the new year by going to a church sponsored party with Mrs. Gen. Christian. I didn't want to go, but the mrs. insisted. She assured me that I didn't have to dance with her--she knows that I'm against it. She said we could bring my neighbor Chuey along to be her dancing partner. That surprised me because she spends a good part of every night at his house tending him while he's been recovering from a very protracted illness. I guess he's feeling better.

Anyway, she said I had to come because I needed to be her "beard." Well, I'd never heard that term before but it sounded very manly, like something you'd call a bodyguard. I thought that perhaps she was afraid someone would attack her. I don't know why she'd think that. The guests would all be church people. Still, she was my damsel in distress, so I said I'd go.

After putting on my best leisure suit, the powder blue polyester one my mama gave me for passing the GED in 1976, I went to the kitchen and got a big old cucumber in case I became hungry later--sometimes the red punch and green jello salad they serve at these church functions just ain't enough. The cucumber wouldn't go all the way into my pocket, so I just stuffed it into the crotchal area of my pants. That way, I wouldn't embarrass my wife by bringing my own food to the party. She hates it when I do that.

The party was fine for awhile. Mrs. Gen. Christian and Chuey danced a bunch until he started feeling sick and my better half had to take him to a dark room to tend to him--she's a good compassionate Christian woman.

My other neighbor, Mike, arrived about that time. I hate that guy, but everybody else at the church loves him. They just don't know him like I do. They don't see him washing his car in his driveway every Saturday wearing nothing but very tight shorts like those Frenchies where in their bicycle races. He doesn't taunt them with his bulge. He doesn't put thoughts about unnatural acts into their heads. They don't see him for what he is, a servant of Satan.

Mike started dancing right away, and you'd have thought by people's reaction that he was John Travolta or something. Everybody just stopped and started to clap in time to the music as they watched him whirl across the floor, his bulge leading the way like it was a guide dog in a sausage factory. It was sickening.

I had to do something, so I decided to go against my beliefs and start dancing too. I was doing pretty well until I tried this kind of leaping move. Just as my trailing foot left the ground, my cucumber shifted and distracted me, causing me to slip when I landed. I came down hard on my backside, or more accurately, on the cucumber which had worked it's way underneath my little soldier's two grenades. Needless to say, the floor drove the cucumber hard into my grenades. I thought they were going to explode. The pain was excruciating. I passed out immediately.

As I was coming to, I heard a voice saying, "His pant's are too tight. They're cutting off his circulation. Soon, before I could react, someone undid my pants a pulled them off. Then there was laughter. "Look," someone said, "he stuffed his pants with a cucumber." Then a woman's voice exclaimed, "well, I can see why!"

It was humiliating. Not because there is anything wrong with my size, because there isn't. It's the perception that matters. Television shows and movies put out by the Godless media have convinced women that men should be bigger down there. They seem to think normal is small. Heck, they even think three inches is small. It's all part of the liberals' plan to use their media to emasculate real men like myself.

Well, I'm feeling pretty bad right now. I hope the gun shop is open tomorrow. I've been eyeing that new .50 caliber rifle they have. Gosh that thing is huge. I'll feel a lot better if I can take it home.