Lately, people have been asking me the same questions over and over. “What’s freedom?” they say hysterically, all up in my face. “What does it mean ‘to be free’? Can anyone ever be truly free? In order to co-exist, we have to make compromises, right?”
They expect me to get angry and start running my mouth off. They see me as a stereotype. A thick-headed ignoramus. A moronic reactionary.
Fortunately, I’m nothing of the sort.
The ensuing conversation ALWAYS leaves them shocked and embarrassed. It’s a healthy dialogue, which proves I’m a kind soul, a poet, and an aesthete.
I begin by smiling and calmly responding with a question of my own:
“You know that milky, cheesy substance that grows underneath the foreskin of a man’s cock?”
If they’re a man, they nod. If they’re a woman, they squeeze their husband’s hand and nod with closed eyes.
“Could you imagine going a day without smelling it?”
I remove my gloves and graze my nose with my hand. The whites of my eyes gaze back at them as my pupils roll into the back of my head.
“No,” I say, smiling warmly.
After rustling my hands back and forth inside my jeans aggressively, I hold out my hand. “Would you like a whiff?” I ask bluntly.
They refuse and start talking about death and disease and things of that nature.
I wave them off. “You can’t tell a man how to live no more than you can tell a man how to make smegma. Man will never be free until the last king is smothered with the smegma of a true patriot.”
I look again at my hand – sweaty and covered in residue.
“You see that?” I say. “That’s freedom.”