Dog Training The American Male Part 32

SHOCKING THURSDAY.

Nancy Beach stood at the podium, looking out at a mult.i.tude of women, the small auditorium filled to capacity.

"Good afternoon ladies . . . and gentleman," she nodded to Pete Soderblom, who was seated next to Olivia Cabot in the third row, "and welcome to this special afternoon edition of W.O.M.B.-Women Overcoming Male Bondage. Before we begin, let's stand in unity and recite our pledge."

Five hundred and seventeen women stood. "Knowledge is power. With power I enlighten my soul. With knowledge I begin my rebirth, emanc.i.p.ating myself from my male bondage." Palms over their faces, the women slowly pushed their noses through their separating hands, their heads birthed from their imaginary v.a.g.i.n.as.

"And we are reborn in unity, leaning forward out of society's womb . . . excellent. Ladies, today's agenda is packed with excitement, including the debut of a new line of Y-training apparel from Wanda Jackson, owner of the s.e.x Emporium. But before we begin, I'd like to discuss a hormone responsible for every conflict since Cain slew his brother Abel . . . a hormone that has led to our near-financial collapse, drug wars, political corruption, gang violence, the poisoning of the environment, the energy crises . . . a hormone called testosterone. It's testosterone that fuels the male ego; it's what caused Neanderthals to club their mates and the sole reason the Catholic Church and Congress are nothing but old boys' clubs reeking in scandal.

"Ladies, it's not enough that our gender 'Lean In' when it comes to opportunities at the workplace, in order to truly change society we must become masters of testosterone . . . not by being more aggressive but by reconditioning the male ego by redirecting testosterone the way a judo wrestler uses his opponent's force against him. This afternoon, I'm going to provide you with a few tools to become judo masters, but before I do, I'd like to introduce you to someone who is very important to the success of my radio show, our station's programming director, Mr. Peter Soderblom."

The crowd applauded politely. Pete waved from his seat.

"Pete, can you join me at the dais for a moment? I have a small gift of appreciation I'd like to present to you."

Pete glanced at Olivia, who shrugged. With a hop in his step, he joined Nancy at her podium. "Morning, ladies. By the way, I never clubbed my wife. Slipped her a roofie just kidding."

Pete snorted a laugh, and then stopped when he saw the women's expressions of disgust.

"Peter, for being such an inspiring Y in my life, I'd like to give you this specially-handcrafted dive watch, with my grat.i.tude." She handed her programming director the watch.

"Thanks. I don't really dive, but-"

"Go on, put it on."

Pete adjusted the watch to fit his left wrist. "It's nice. Got some weight to it." He waved to the crowd, and then headed back to his seat.

"Pete, before you go, I need a volunteer to play the role of my significant Y in a quick W.O.M.B. exercise. Since you're the only male present-"

"What about Juan Carlos?" Lynnie yelled out from the first row, pointing to the slight five foot, four inch Mexican. "And here's some good news, ladies, this baby-making machine is still on the market. Check out the size of his fingers."

Nancy ground her teeth. "Thanks, Lynnie, but for this exercise I really wanted Pete."

"Ah, go on; let the little guy handle it." Pete headed back to his seat.

"Stay!"

As if struck by an invisible bolt of lightning, Peter Soderblom flailed wildly in the aisle, his blonde hair standing on end.

The female audience gasped, confused yet engrossed.

"What . . . the . . . h.e.l.l?"

Nancy feigned innocence, the palm control concealed in her left hand. "My goodness, are you alright?"

"Felt like I stepped on a live wire."

"Well, thank you for agreeing to help us out. Ladies, can we give our volunteer a warm round of applause?"

The audience clapped. Pete waved, unsure.

Nancy pointed to Trish, who was supervising the set-up of a small round table, checkered table cloth, and chairs. Two chairs, side by side, had already been placed to the left of the podium. "Ladies, in this first exercise, Peter will play my husband, the two of us en route to a local restaurant for dinner. First we'll pretend to be in the car," she pointed to the two chairs facing the audience, "then we'll enter the restaurant-the outside door represented by those two orange cones, at which time we'll seat ourselves at the table. Ready, Pete?"

"Seems kind of stupid, but whatever."

Nancy led him to the two side-by-side chairs. "Here's our family car. Pete, you're driving so you sit in this seat on the left . . . go on, sit down. Now I'll sit next to you, and you pretend to drive."

The program director rolled his eyes, his hands maneuvering an invisible steering wheel. "Do I need to make engine noises? Rrrm . . .rrrm."

"And we've arrived. My husband parks the car . . . he shuts off the engine-shut it off, and we exit the vehicle to walk to the entrance of the restaurant."

Pete stood. He pretended to close the car door, then walked over to the orange cones, leaving Nancy seated in the vehicle.

ZAP!.

Pete's limbs flailed wildly as he fell backwards on his b.u.t.tocks.

The women whooped and hollered.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"Honey, you forgot to open my car door for me. Can you do that now, please?"

"Huh?"

"The car door." She nodded to her invisible pa.s.senger door.

Still a bit woozy, Peter pretended to open the door for Nancy while his eyes searched the floor by the podium for a loose wire.

"Thank you, honey. Shall we go inside and eat?" Nancy led him to the orange-cones, waiting for him to open the invisible door.

Feeling ridiculous, Pete feigned opening the door, the audience applauding.

The program director nodded, a stupid half-grin creasing his face.

"Oh look, honey, there's an open table." Nancy walked ahead of him to the table, and then waited by her chair.

Pete pulled his own chair out and sat.

ZAP!.

He went down again, moaning on the floor in pain.

"What did my husband forget to do, ladies?"

"PULL OUT YOUR WIFE'S CHAIR!"

Pete looked up, bewildered.

Nancy removed his dive watch and held it up to the audience. "Introducing the Y-training device-a combination electrical dog collar and men's dive watch. As you can see, the controls are easily concealed in the palm of my hand, and the electrical charge can't be traced back to the watch. I had the intensity set on high, but there are two lower settings. I'm also hoping to have a reward setting that reverberates the Y's genitalia."

The women stood and applauded, many yelling out, "Where can I buy one?"

"Sorry, ladies, this is just a prototype. I have to speak with someone about ma.s.s-producing them."

WANDA JACKSON TOOK over the lecture twenty minutes later, her five college-age female employees modeling a s.e.xy line of lingerie, corsets, and bustiers. No longer in pain, Peter Soderblom watched from the third row, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Olivia Cabot joined Nancy in the corridor outside the lecture hall. "Very impressive, Dr. Beach. You're original, creative, and your audience loves you. I'm renewing your show for two years, with a thirty percent b.u.mp in salary. We'll include a syndication clause-I think we can open markets in New York, Philly, and L.A."

"Oh my G.o.d." Nancy teared up.

"I also want to talk to you about setting up a partners.h.i.+p to manufacture those watches, along with an exclusive line of Y-training items."

"That would be amazing."

"The dive watch . . . may I?"

"Huh? Oh yes, of course." She handed Olivia the dive watch and its palm control.

"Simple, yet effective. We'll have to refine the design of course, make the watches more fas.h.i.+onable."

"Of course."

"I'm hosting a party tomorrow night on our yacht; why don't you join me as my guest."

"That would be amazing."

"Be at the Bridge Hotel dock in Boca at eight o'clock. It's black-tie."

"I'll be there, thank you so much."

"Oh, would you mind if I borrowed the watch for the weekend?" Olivia winked. "I have a new young stud that needs to be corralled."

Nancy smiled. "Keep it, it's yours. Give the young stud a jolt from me."

HELEN COPE ENTERED her husband's workplace-disturbed to find a pair of Miami Dolphin cheerleaders occupying the waiting room. Long-legged and well-endowed, bare-midriffs and skirts-a peroxide-blonde and an auburn-haired black girl.

Two twits twittering away on their iPhones.

Nurse Kim opened the door separating the waiting area from the exam rooms. "Tina Owens?"

The black cheerleader stood. "That's me. Only I'm just here for my Vanilla Swirl."

"Before you get your Gynnie Gusher Dr. Cope needs to examine you. Wait in Exam Room 3." The nurse held the door open for the patient, and then spotted Helen. "Hi, Mrs. C. Are you here socially or for an exam?"

"Exams I get at home. I brought the m.u.f.fin King his dinner, tonight's his late night." She held up the deli take-out bag.

"He's pretty busy; I can take that for you."

"That's all right; I'll just put it in his office fridge and be on my way." Helen entered the treatment area, pausing at the receptionist desk to say hi to the staff.

An elderly woman entered the waiting room and signed in at the front desk. "Edna Dombrowski. I have the four-fifteen."

The receptionist broke from her conversation with Helen. "I need your insurance card and a photo ID."

The sixty-three-year-old divorcee from New York extracted the items from her purse. "Nurse, how long do you think Dr. Cope will be? I have a dinner date in an hour-a realtor I met on J-Date."

"There are two patients ahead of you. Go on and have a seat, we'll call you back as soon as we can."

Helen finished her conversation with the receptionist, and then headed down the corridor for Vincent's office. She walked past several closed exam room doors-pausing as she heard a girl giggling inside Exam Room 4 . . . followed by her husband's voice.

"We never had cheerleaders who looked like you when I played college ball. If we had, I probably would have turned pro."

The door opened and Dr. Cope exited-leaving a gorgeous wavy-haired brunette on the table, her hiked-up dressing gown exposing a tanning-booth tan hairless v.a.g.i.n.a.

"Vincent Thaddeus Cope!"

Vin clutched his heart, dropping the patient file. "Jesus, Helen-are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"You were flirting."

"No, I was speaking to one of my patients."

"Then why are you so nervous?"

"I'm not nervous. I wasn't expecting you . . . standing there, lurking in the hallway."

They turned as Nurse Kim led the peroxide blonde into Exam Room 6, the twenty-three-year-old cheerleader winking at the red-faced gynecologist as she sauntered by.

Vin casually turned back to his wife, his mind racing for something to say that might to diffuse the situation. "What's in the bag? Dinner? Smells great. You smell great."

"Office. Now!"

He followed her into his private office. Closed the door behind him. "Don't get mad."

"Why should I be mad?"

"You shouldn't be mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Then why are we in my office?"

"I just wanted a moment alone with my husband . . . to give the man I love an early birthday present."