Miscellany

THE ENZYTE DIARIES

By Byron Ghede

A long time ago, before science was invented (c. 1980), a young man having difficulties "down there" (euphemism had just been invented and, along with bowler hats and muttonchops, was considered the fashion of the day) had little recourse in polite society: he could weep silently in his darkened manor and vow to usurp the cruel God who'd so afflicted him, as did William Randolph Hearst; or he could visit the local shaman, an Aboriginal shackled in the town square for just such a delicate occasion.

The shaman performed many healing rituals for the townsfolk, who rewarded him with a brand-new chain every four score and seven. For "The Wilting," as it was called back then, the shaman would often advise the afflicted youth to eat goat excrement, as the goat is the most virile of all Nature's creatures. (Often referred to as "The Ron Jeremy of the Woods," the goat is not much of a looker, but unfailingly scores primo tail.)

It was a benighted time, ruled by superstition and capricious fate, poor in knowledge.

Thank God we've gotten beyond all that. These days, if a man (hypothetically) has doubts about the fortitude of his staff, he need only consult the twin oracles - gruff-but-sensitive Mike Ditka or cadaverous Bob Dole - both of whom wield an apothecary of magical pixie fruit sure to put the iron back in your shaft. (Ye, verily, their laboratories would make an alchemist weep!)

"Viagra! Cialis! Levitra!" they incant, grinning lecherously and speaking the hidden trinity - "Tadalafil, verdenafil, sildenafil!" And by Odin's Beard, manhood again rises over what moments before was a barren, useless realm.

All well and good, but listen, would you want to put that stuff in your body? Not me, man - all my clothes are made out of hemp and I don't trust anything made in a laboratory. Hell loooo - Sandoz-CIA connection? Am I the only one seeing this?

That's why I was intrigued to hear about Enzyte, whose wickedly naughty commercials promote as "The Once-A-Day Tablet for Natural Male Enhancement." Now, I don't need any "enhancing" - Mother Nature did just fine by Old Pape Ghede, if you know what I'm saying - but I was open enough to check out their webpage. (Thanks, Al Gore!)

I was surprised by what I found. Turns out Enyte's not just another pastime of the AARP generation, something to keep them frisky during Jeopardy! as they wait for the cold hand of the reaper. It's for guys like me! Young guys who don't have any trouble raisin' the old smokestack but just want to reinforce it - you know, it's kinda like Sammy Sosa corking his bat: the raw talent's there, but a little extra edge never hurt a man's cocksmithery.

Enzyte promised me fuller, thicker erections and featured pictures of race cars and women. If these little pills will make me as firm and tumescent as a race car, I thought, then sign me up! Thank Science, for an unbiased source cluing me in to the life I'd been missing!

Day 1:

Tablets arrive today, to heraldry and a great voice of thunder, "Surely a great revelation is at hand!" And it was, said my mailman, handing me the package while unsuccessfully trying to avert his eyes from my oiled, glistening body. (With any new endeavor I like to "grease up" beforehand.)

I down the first pill.

Nothing happens.

Day 2:

Does it look fuller, thicker today? I can't tell. maybe from a different angle? Would a mirror help? I also made some tracings - ha ha, with five of them it looks like a turkey! Gobble gobble, it's coming to get you! Happy Thanksgiving!

Again the mailman ignores me.

Day 3:

At night I dream. I am there when God speaks the Word of Creation; it is my seed that fertilizes the Void. I am the Prime Mover. Aeons pass. My weenis is the universal constant, the Rock of Gibraltar . Time flows like an ocean around it - it is the Alpha and the Omega. It is the nails in Christ's hands; the magic bullet in Dallas ; the policeman's truncheon as it collides with Rodney King. In the beginning and the end and the time beyond beginnings and endings, It is.

Day 7:

Been staring at my penis for four days. Boss tells me to put it away. This angers my penis. "Shh, shh. The bad man is gone now," I coo. It is growing. I can feel it. My faith is strong.

Day 10:

Fired. One of the secretaries came up behind me and asked what I was doing. Startled, I whipped around in my chair. My club-like member caught her full in the face, nearly breaking her nose. My boss says the company will keep it quiet if I just go now. I barely hear him. Does It look fuller?

Day 11 :

Spent most of the day in apartment with shades drawn. Single unshaded bulb casts wang-shadow over kitchen table. I imagine myself as the Washington Monument , standing vigil against Freedom's enemies. Girlfriend calls - I let the machine get it. I have no use for her.

Day 12:

Heard the voices again last night. They're telling me I'm not hard enough, not long enough, not crafty enough. Cotton wads didn't help, so this morning I dug out my cochleae with a corkscrew. I know the medical term because my LBJ has been on the Internet doing research. For what, I don't know. In my head, Uncle Jimmy and his twin cousins still rave about "the coming trans-human."

Note from the editor: After several days with no updates from Byron, the editors of Deek went to his apartment. Trash-strewn, with charcoal phalli on every wall, it smelled of sour milk and bird's nests. Scrawled on the television, in what appeared to be semen, was the following message, "Are my methods unsound? Or are they so sound you can't handle it? '3 months of continuous, daily use for results' they say - ha! I am transcending! Goodbye, cruel, flaccid world. Don't try to find me."