This is a story I was working on a few weeks ago but had put down because I didn’t have the time to flesh it out. After reading fellow blogger Brian Spaeth’s latest post on his broken face, I decided to pick the story back up and post it here. Enjoy.
When I was little, my father was famous. He was the most well-known back of the head slapper in the neighborhood. And he was the house discipliner. He wasn’t scared of anyone, but we were scared of him. If you acted up, acted out of line, or acted the fool – whap! – my dad would smack you in the back of the head. He was like an old west gunslinger, hands in his pocket one moment, an unexpected whap!, and his hands right back where they began.
Over time I’ve noticed I’ve grown a lot like my dad. The hair on top is thinning, I waste my nights drinking and talking about the government, and I perfected the magic art of slapping the back of someone’s head. I became quite the master. I could slap someone without them even knowing it was me. Even when we were the only two people in the room. Left-handed, right-handed, it doesn’t matter. I was an ambidextrous head-slapper.
Unfortunately, however, my penchant for slapping heads became a bit of a problem. The urge was uncontrollable. I couldn’t pass a bald-headed person without giving their round, shiny dome a nice, hard whap!. One day, for example, I was stepping out of a public bathroom stall and absolutely could not control myself from smacking the head of a gentleman standing at a urinal. My hand hit the back of his head, his front of his head bounced off the wall in front of him, and he collapsed in a heap in front of me. That was last time I went out to my favorite pub.
I didn’t fare any better in other places either. While in church a few years ago, I smacked the back of the head of every person in an entire pew as they were bowed in prayer. Their painful yelps sounded like a choir of anguish. Needless to say, I was quickly banished from Father Carmine’s community of the faithful.
Desperate and alone, I went to the only place I knew that could offer solace: the local stripclub. An amazingly bad idea. Although I was able to restrain myself from smacking the back of the heads of the gentlemen tossing dollar bills to the dancers, I was quickly escorted out in a bouncer’s restricting embrace after I smacked the back of a stripper’s head as she hung upside down off a pole.
My passion to imitate my father’s disciplinary technique became my cross to bear. I didn’t know how to control myself. I finally sought psychiatric help.
After six months of deep, prolonged mental probing, I am proud to say that I am cured. I no longer have the urge to smack the back of anyone’s head.
A nice round ass, on the other hand …