Sunday, July 06, 2014

The Diaries of Tom Hayden

In the 20th century, Tom Hayden was briefly a celebrity.  By the 21st century, he was a nobody. Following his 2019 death at a men's group meeting on how to tap out your ex-wives (his refusal to yield to others in the circle led them to bludgeon him to death with various phallic devices), it was discovered that Tom Hayden had been a life long diarist.  Below, we provide excerpts from Diary IV: The Dildo Homilies -- a volume best described as Manscaping For Those Too Lazy To Try.

November 3, 2008
Dear Diary,

Last night I dreamt a horse race.  In one lane was an old, white nag, destined for the glue factory.  It's name was McCaine.  In the other lane, a sleek and shiny black horse named Obama.  I rode this horse.  I was the jockey.  I dug my heels into Obama's side and yelled at the top of my lungs, "Oh-bama! Oh-bama!"  I bounced up and down as Oh-bama took the lead and maintained it.  When Oh-bama crossed the finish line, I woke up gasping, covered in sweat and other things.  I have not had a wet dream since a concert during the year of our country's bicentennial.  When Hall and Oates sang "Sarah Smile," I lost it.   I felt like that when Oh-bama crossed the finish line.
I hope this is a sign.  Dear Lord Che, please let it be a sign.

February 5, 2009
Dear Diary,
I have been far too busy to write of late.
Most of January was spent making purchases for the end of the month.  I bought my Obama commemorative platters, my commemorative t-shirt, poster and BVDs.  The BVDs are so cute!!!! On the back, next to a little elephant, is says "Kiss it."  :D  I just love them and wish I could show them off.  Of course, the last half of the month was me watching the inauguration.  First live, then over and over.  I Tivoed it.  A part of me wishes I had been invited but then I would not have had my vivid dreams of the various balls.  I was a hit at every one in my dreams.  I was repeatedly asked to dance and told how smart I looked in my new Billie Jean King hair do.  I did look smart.  Yes, they are only dreams but I was looking good.
My joy was interrupted by this gift.


It came in a box and I don't remember ordering it.  My first thought was: Dick Goodwin!
He's always been such a prankster and such a drunk.  I haven't seen Dick in years.  The last time we were together we got into a bitter argument over who was the bigger drunk.  I insisted I was.  Doris tried to smooth it over by suggesting that, historically, President Ulysses S. Grant could probably outdrink us both.  I was in a particularly nasty mood so I shot back, "Oh, good one, Doris! Who'd you rip off for that insight?  Lynne McTaggart or Hank Searl?"  Well Doris never could take a joke so it was no surprise that she and Dick stormed out.
And now this gift.
I didn't want to be rude, so when I saw it had a wall mount feature I put it in the shower.  Figured I could hang a towel on it or something.  I'm calling it "The Obama."

February 11, 2009
Dear Diary,
I was doing an interview with People You Forgot And Why magazine.  I thought it was going very well.  And then the reporter needed to use the bathroom.  He came out with a curious look on his face, grabbed his iPhone and went back to the bathroom.  Then he left.  I walked out after him saying I had scheduled a full hour for him. "That won't be necessary," he replied, "I have everything I need."
I don't get it.
Did I fart during the interview?

Febrary 22, 2009
Dear Diary,
I am hopping mad and pissed.  I made the cover of People You Forgot And Why -- but the article is all about my bathroom.  Here, let me quote the article:

Why does Tom Hayden, former radical and part-time astrologist, have a dildo in his bathroom?  Specifically, why does he have one mounted on the shower wall?  And does he have a name for it?

Of course I do.   And if he'd bothered to ask me, he would known that.
Instead, the article is a vile and tawdry look at rumors of my past affairs, attempting to hook me up even going so far as to suggest I had a three-way with Bayard Rustin and Langston Hughes. Please. Those two couldn't stand each other.  I had to see them both on the sly.  A three-way would have been soooooooooooo much easier, soooooooooooooooooo much easier.

February 25, 2009.
Dear Diary,
Everyone has seen the cover of this week's People You Forgot And Why.  My phone won't stop ringing.  It's so bad that even I'm starting to get sick of my ring tone (Falco's "Der Kommissar").  I am loving the attention and thinking this could finally be my comeback.  I've even dusted off my notes for The Port Hueneme Statement -- my long planned sequel to The Port Huron Statement. And if it's a success, I could do additional Port statements, be sort of the Anthony Bourdain of the semi-political set, you know?
But I've got to get rid of the dildo.  Everyone asks.  Every phone call brings it up.

March 19, 2009
Dear Diary,
It's true what they say.  If you name an animal, you will keep it.  So if you find a stray, don't name it while you look for its rightful owner.
I learned that the hard way.
For weeks, I tried to get rid of the dildo.  I'd grip it firmly in my left hand, lightly running my thumb along the glans, and prepared to pull it off the shower wall.
But then I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Not to The Obama.
If only I hadn't named it.
If only.

April 7, 2009
Dear Diary,
I am consumed by The Obama.
I go into the shower at regular intervals throughout the day to ask The Obama what I should do. Sometimes, I'm already in the bathroom.  But I'll still seek out the wisdom of The Obama.
"Oh Great and Might Obama," I will says, "please tell me, should I flush or leave it be?"
Some days, I feel it feeds me an answer.
Most days, I feel it mocks me.
Staring back at me in silence with it's single eye, it mocks me.
It is at those moments that I sob, "Yes, yes!  I am a Tom Hayden Democrat!"
And, knowing I repulse The Obama, I feel strangely turned on.

May 14, 2009
Dear Diary,
I dreamt last night that I was riding The Oh-Bama.
We were in a meadow and I was gripping The Oh-Bama tightly as he whinnied and threw his head back.  I then slipped off his sweaty back.  From the ground, I looked up and saw The Oh-Bama aim a hoof at my chest.  Repeatedly, he struck me.
I moaned.
I groaned.
I shivered.
And I shrunk and continued shrinking as I called out his name.
I awoke in the shower, my butt cheeks parted, The Obama firmly inside me.
And I had only one question: What did my dream mean?

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