Once upon a time there was a monster, who like any other monster felt he was something special. And indeed he was, as he was blessed with a magic wand of disproportionate dimensions which men envy and lust for. He lived a happy life, this monster; brandishing and flaunting his wand every time opportunities arise, offering it for men to stare, ogle, touch, grapple, and sigh over.
But alas! Even monsters have to age eventually; and this one did not manage to do so very gracefully. The wand that was his pride and joy began to lose potency, its strength diminishing away as each day went by. It started failing to function even when the occasion called for it. It drooped sadly, an unfortunate looking, uselessly vulgar thing.
The monster, of course, went into a state of panic. And in his manic fury and terrible helplessness, he started to think, “I feel bad about myself. I feel bad about myself and I don’t like it.” He cried and moaned and stamped his feet and patted his balding head and rubbed his thickening belly and pinched his hanging man-boobs, searching for inspiration, when suddenly, “Ah! I know! In order to make me feel about myself, I’ll make others feel bad about themselves!” So he carried out his devious albeit wholly predictable and unoriginal plan. He became, for lack of a better term, a raging bitter bitch, honing whatever’s left of his wit that hadn’t turned to blubber into something resembling repartee.
And so he went about on his days, until one day he stepped out of his territory for a visit to a foreign land and he encountered an exotic looking creature, wild beyond belief and intricately complex: a younger monster-to-be with unpredictable potentials. Of course they shared a night together, with their monster souls calling out to one another such was the inevitability. Words were spoken and touches exchanged, kisses freely given and always returned. And for those hours spent together, the old monster remembered his past, glorious self. But like every other night, it ended and became just another fleeting and too often forgotten piece of memory. So they went their separate ways, each remembering the night as he wished, as all monsters and mortals do.
Had the story ended here, it would’ve been bittersweet. Unfortunately happy endings in monsterdom rarely come to be.
The old monster went back to his world. Time passed. He started shaping up, turning lard into considerable muscle and generally feeling pretty good about himself due to the attention he was finally getting again. He had completely forgotten about the night. The younger monster-to-be, however, didn’t. And over IM (yes, even monsters use instant messengers to communicate like everyone else) he happily and chirpily and gleefully recounted tales of his own exploits to his supposed mentor, each crazier and sweeter and more daring than before that it didn’t take long before the old monster started feeling threatened. “What’s this?” he asked his monster self. “Is my reign coming to an end? Is this young upstart thinking he can be better than me?”
So he did what he could and tried to crush the little monster. After all, better to nip a problem in the bud, no? He said hurtful things and made snide comments, exploiting every inferiority the younger monster had. Well, the little monster might be younger, but he was a monster after all. And monsters are not known to take shit from anyone. Still, though he may be younger, he was more mature and therefore chose to walk away instead of playing the old monster’s tired and boring game. And as he turned and sauntered, leaped and danced away, the little monster said a little monster prayer:
“Dear Monster God, please protect the old monster with his graying hair and flabby ass. Let someone finally, truly love him for who and what he is. And ps. Cure him of his chronic limpdickosis. Amen.”