Should you feel like a bit of a dickhead reading this, then please spare a thought for the dickhead writing it.
Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 King Missile “Detachable Penis”
 Mad Child “Dickhead”
 ZZ Top “Tube Snake Boogie”
 Peter Gabriel “Sledgehammer”
Guess what? I just farted. Sorry, couldn’t resist. Please don’t go. Come back. I promise I’ll try harder. Now you’ve farted. So it’s okay for the goose but not the gander then? That fucking reeks, REEKS I TELL YOU! Actually it’s kind of growing on me. Okay I’m willing to let that one slide but only if we refocus dagnabbit. It’s alright for you lot with better things to do but this is as good as it gets for me, the highlight of my day no less. Lounging about and shooting the shit is all I’ve got and now you want to take it away from me. Is that it? Oh I get it, I misread the signals didn’t I? My this is embarrassing. Can we just start over and forget this first stanza ever existed? You want continuity, fine I’ll hang this out but I’m not best pleased about it, just so we’re clear. Dear lord, when is my time? My addled brain and I can’t be left unattended any longer surely. Can’t you just beam me up now? I’ve done my bit down here. Clearly I haven’t and that means there’s a little bit more to be done yet. The bottom line is that you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable. I’m like a boil. A really angry boil set to burst all over you. Not really. I’m more of your happy tumor. You know that, I’m as harmless as piss water and just as sterile. Are we moving on yet? Come on Keeper, just hit ENTER a few times and let’s all save some face.
Thank fuck for that, I’m all for a dash of discomfort but only if I can suck my thumb the whole time. At least now we can get back to the real reason we’re here. Any ideas what that was? Something about dickheads right? I’ve got to level with you, that’s all I had. Why so glum? I’m here aren’t I? It’s not like I’m going to cease blathering incoherently so we could yet salvage some dignity from this whole sorry affair. I guess I just hoped you’d bring something to the table for once. While not suggesting that you’re lazy, pull your bloody finger out for chrissakes and don’t you give me that look. You know the one, the “so this is what it feels like to have your feelings grazed” kind of vacant stare. I’m a dickhead, got it. But am I a dickhead? I mean, let’s imagine that there are forty men around me as I speak, each of whom is categorically a dickhead. Wouldn’t I stand out at all? How about if I sport a Marx Brothers disguise or raise aloft my left arm and excitedly repeat “pick me, pick me” until I get a nosebleed? There has to be some way to rise to the top of this scoundrel’s broth. Maybe I don’t want to be a dickhead, did you ever think about that? I’ve done it again haven’t I? Bollocks. Third time lucky perhaps? I swear I’ll hit my groove the very moment Stella gives it back. Rotten skank has had it since the nineties. She must think I’m some kind of dickhead.
Okay I’m focused now so here goes. How many of us can claim to know a real live dickhead? Just to be clear, a dickhead can be either sex, any ethnicity or age, and isn’t always easy to spot with the naked eye. We can go half our lives investing in one such dickhead, only to learn their true identity when it’s too late to do anything about it. Consequently we end up closing out our lives with said dickhead and, in extreme cases, the last thing we see before embarking on our eternal sleep… is a dickhead. Of course, if we too are dickheads, then there’s something deeply poetic about that and I guess that two dickheads together kind of cancel each other out. Three dickheads, on the other hand, well that’s just trouble. Nobody likes a mob, particularly when it’s a mob of dickheads. I try and limit things to one dickhead at a time just so I can give them my full and undivided attention. Should another dickhead cut in, then I’m only too happy to fade back into the shadows and let the pair get on with it. You see, I hear that it rubs off and the last thing I need right now is to graduate into a fully fledged dickhead. That would be a dick move and I’m sure there are far better ways to get ahead. Okay you’ve got me, I am something of a dickhead. You got a problem with that?
Anyhoots, whether or not I’m a dickhead is irrelevant right now, as the Behold! series is all about construction and my plan is to build the ultimate in dickheads, using the very best in dickhead technology, the finest quality dickhead parts, and every last tool I acquired during Dickhead 101 (or Dickhead 99 as it’s more commonly known). My aim is to produce a true one-off; a dickhead so comprehensive that all other dickheads worldwide will aspire to the same level of dickfulness. This particular dickhead could lead a small militia of like-minded dickheads into battle and make them all look like pricks. Indeed, it would be his pleasure and theirs too as a dickhead can never be discouraged. If that sounds faintly like praise then think again as an incorrigible dickhead is the very worst kind of dickhead. Once delusion sets in, a dickhead is more than content just to run with it, see where it will lead, and nary a backward glance they will take. This is a truly terrifying proposition, a dickhead with momentum, like a Trojan horse filled to the hooves with dicks. So why do I wish to add to the dickhead tally by throwing another one out there into our ever ballooning population? I dunno actually. Curious I suppose.
You’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve done my homework and the results were borderline fascinating. While the meaning of the term dickhead – an insulting term of address for people who are stupid or irritating or ridiculous – pretty much hits the nail on the head in as ho-hum a manner as expected, the synonyms did a rather marvellous job of tickling me pink. There were two results – mother fucker and bastard – and I know which one of the three I’d rather be called. Assuming the title of dickhead is one thing, but being classed a motherfucker, bastard, or heaven forbid an amalgamation of the two seems far more chilling a proposition. I had my car hijacked once at a local gas station and, as he revved up my engine and shot off into the sunset like nitro semen, I didn’t wave my fist and scream “you dickhead”. No I called him a motherfucker and, during quiet reflection later, downgraded to bastard. Can you see what I’m driving at here? To me it’s more of a term of endearment than anything else and my chosen dickhead is therefore going to reflect that. So I guess I’d better get cracking right?
Okay so the very first item I need to supply my candidate is head-gear and, after careful deliberation, I think I have come up with the ideal piece of kit. Have you ever seen those hats with the beer cans perched either side that provide light refreshment? Well instead of two cans of Castlemaine XXXX as feeders, I’ve opted for a tipple known as Salty Sailor Spunk which will keep my dickhead topped up with all the necessary nutrients to go about his business in as dickish a manner as possible. It may appear vaguely ridiculous on first inspection (second and third too) but it’s not without its benefits. The first is identity as it really does do precisely what it states on the tin and will help my dickhead stand out effortlessly in a crowd. You see the thing about dickheads is that they’re not afraid to stand up and be counted and wear their one USP as a badge of honor. Secondly, this particular bonnet will be backed up with a full ten gallons of sperm, which means that he’ll never go thirsty as dehydration really is no laughing matter. Most critically it will keep him amused and, as any dickhead worthy of their salt will attest, this is key to excelling in such a role. Whether or not anyone else finds it funny in the slightest is irrelevant as they certainly won’t forget him in a hurry and this gives him purpose.
Next up is a bow tie and I have designed the Polkadot Pleasure Spinner with ridiculousness firmly in mind. Every time my dickhead feels happy, the whole world will know it, as this accessory is wired directly to his happy pheromones and rotates wildly once they become aroused. Some wear their hearts on their sleeves but my dickhead will secure his around his nape and wear it with a tremendous sense of misplaced pride. Should you prepare to step inside a crowded elevator and my dickhead already be there with neck gear in mid-pirouette than, chances are, somebody just dropped their guts and it may be time to take the stairs. In this respect, he is an ambassador for truth and can never be accused of acting underhand. Just so we’re clear, a bastard would wait until the door had shut to reveal this intelligence, whereas a motherfucker would then proceed to press all thirty-four of the floor buttons. While you may not feel particularly enthralled by the prospect of spending three uncomfortable minutes in the presence of a dickhead, at least you know where you stand.
Moving swiftly south to the feet, there could only be one choice for loafers and his size twenty-sixers have been custom-made to provide everything other than style, comfort, or anything whatsoever resembling ankle support. Walking in a straight line may prove troublesome and, should there be a discarded banana skin in the vicinity, then these babies will seek it out and embrace it wholeheartedly. You know when a grown man slips over in the high street, falling in a crumpled heap before you, and your first thought is “bet he feels like a dickhead”? Well this may be true but lest we not forget the gratification that comes from knowing exactly who you are in life. Nobody wishes to feel bereft of status and this need never be a problem for dickheads as their clown shoes act as a constant reminder that their sole purpose in life is to bemuse some and amuse all others. Depending on how dedicated a dickhead is to their cause, these colossal clodhoppers will remain on at all times, even bedtime, and they will polish them rigorously before setting out each morning just to ensure that they can see their stupid faces in them. Kind of like an on-board hand mirror if you like and that kind of industry is not to be sniffed at.
I pondered long and hard on how to dress my dickhead with all other essentials now taken care of and opted for a hazmat suit as protective gear is compulsory when your daily actions are odds on to land you in hot water. One of the downsides of being a dickhead is color-blindness, thus said armor will comprise blue and green, a pair I’m assured should ne’er be seen in close proximity to one another. To be fair, I never really agreed with that one. Dickheads don’t either as their obliviousness to hue is so comprehensive that aquamarine and maroon both classify as grey. As for grey, well that remains grey obviously, dickheads may be stupid but not foolish enough to make extra work for themselves. Keeping things simple is key here and this enables them to focus on the more important topics facing them such as where are the corners on a circle and why does the number eight wear a belt that’s clearly too tight. I had considered supplying my dickhead a tuxedo but a dickhead could never hope to understand the process of dry cleaning and veers towards harmful chemicals like a moth to a halogen. Safety first folks, especially for dickheads.
However, Cinderella isn’t quite ready to go to the ball just yet, as skin pigmentation is vital and I’ve selected a shade so pale and light-sensitive that he will burn up on impact in the slightest presence of solar rays. Thanks to the very best in Albino technology, my dickhead will make Steve Buscemi look like Don Cheadle and can combat any undesirable blistering with the semen siphoned through his head-gear. Naturally this may raise alert with some over whether or not my dickhead has seen a ghost but his transparent eyebrows will make it practically impossible for him to exhibit shock so this should alleviate any panic and keep things on a nice even keel for the most part. Meanwhile, it would be positively rude not to throw in a mustache and the Kenny Rogers Foundation has very kindly donated three weeks stubble growth in exchange for Dolly Parton’s Instagram login details. All’s fair in country and western after all.
My next consideration is build and here is where I get to use a little creative license as there exists no true template and, just like the cocks they’re modeled on, dickheads come in all different shapes and sizes. Thus I decided on a grower as opposed to the more fashionable shower and believe this will allow for a far greater feeling of accomplishment once the inevitable growth spurts start coming. Self-assurance is critical, even for dickheads, and it would be nigh-on impossible for others to have faith in his dickhead status if he cannot grasp his own endowments. I’ve known dickheads crash and burn through a lack of belief and feel loathed to watch him wilt in such a manner. Lest we not forget that I am effectively his father and therefore the only one capable of teaching him the ways of the world. Should he flourish then, as his sole guardian, it could prove decidedly lucrative. Of course, dickheads seldom amount to anything of great note, but President-Elect Donald Trump has recently reinstated my faith in the system so I refuse to give up hope. It’s funny, I never thought of myself as a role-model, but I guess that would make me an honorary dickhead for life. Charmed I’m sure.
One thing that no dickhead should ever be without is a megaphone as it can be exceedingly difficult making yourself heard and, if there’s one thing about dickheads never in dispute, then it would be their ability to entertain an audience. This would also prove incalculable for any seminars he was looking to run as others could no doubt benefit from his experience. If he proves he has the balls for it, then I’m only too happy to allow him to supervise a small dickhead sub-team, while I suss out how to bring these beauties to market. You see, that’s the ultimate aim here, to become the number one global manufacturer of dickheads and gradually faze out any normal people left knocking around. By this time next year, I plan to have at least one dickhead in every major city in the world and hopefully be retired or in a nursing home by 2020. That’s a lot of responsibility to place on the shoulders of one so relatively wet behind the ears which is why I have paid particular attention to the attributes.
Starting with the basics, it’s critical that my dickhead can laugh at his own jokes, twice as heartily when they’re at his sole expense. GSOH is pivotal to being able to work a room and thus deemed compulsory from the offset. Meanwhile, dickheads must be permitted to vent their frustration from time to time, release the valve so to speak, and I have already negotiated terms and conditions of ownership so as never to endanger another solitary soul through such outbursts, only himself. I’m not looking to be known as maniacal here as majority stakes disinterest me. Providing my dickhead range can support my lifestyle and that of around 3,000 mostly harmless minions, then that’s one off the bucket list and two suspicious steps closer to finally doing that parachute jump I’ve been threatening myself with since my early thirties. Besides, I find fits of rage rather ugly, and would say he’s got enough to contend with already on that front. Had I not mentioned that dickheads are hideous by default? Surely that can’t come as too much of a shock at this point? Here, take a look at the current poster boy for dickheads, Richard Head aka Bell End Fred and tell me Ryan Gosling should be looking over his shoulder anxiously anytime soon.
The sad thing is that he suffers from the most intense migraines. I’ve done my level best to address suchlike concerns and reckon it’s about time I let my dickhead loose on the general public and see how he copes with all the attention. He now has his clothing, personality, and enough distinguishing features to ensure that he is never accused of being nondescript. All that is left now is to offer my blessing to do whatever he pleases. In just a few minutes, I shall do precisely that, release him from captivity, and see how he integrates with society. Regrettably the statistics speak for themselves as only one in four dickheads ever makes this transition and there’s no guarantee that it won’t all end in tears. Whatever happens, I’m proud of my creation, and feel that I’ve given him every opportunity to stand tall and keep a stiff upper lip. You see, the world needs dickheads to thrive, as it takes all sorts for it to turn with anything like the right amount of traction. I know this as I am 33.3% dickhead myself and proud of this statistic as life is seldom boring. For the record, the other 66.6% is llama and they’re effectively dickheads in fleece.
Anyhoots, the next time you stumble across a dickhead on your daily travels, try not to judge them, as we all have feelings and deserve to feel accepted. I would advise keeping a safe distance at all times and recommend admiring him from afar as opposed to dashing in for a group hug as dickheads are easily confused and tend to shoot their load the very moment they feel under direct threat. There’s no need to treat him with respect as, chances are, he’ll misread this as kindness and then you’ll never get rid of him. But don’t dismiss him out of hand either as that would make you a bit of a dickhead too and you won’t find that funny once those tense nervous headaches commence. Above all else, just keep a watchful eye over my dickhead please, as I’d hate for him to come to a sticky end. After all, I am practically his father. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a real bastard of a headache brewing and have an Indian head massage booked for 2.30. He’s a real mother fucker if you’re late and has no time whatsoever for dickheads. Thank God for my llama disguise.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2017