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She threw herself down wailing help-help on the footpath outside the Sydney hypnotist’s rooms because she was so prone to being hypnotised she couldn’t even get herself through his front door. And there she was. The utterly-distressed mother of the son with the brainy penis. So brainy, it now had so many tickets on itself that all it did was big note itself at her son’s expense. And it didn’t matter if the brainy penis did finally get her son out of the room he had been born, raised and educated in for the last thirty-five years without ever going out of the front door. It was the way it had tickets on itself as being the most educated penis going around – how, for example, it kept spinning her son around like a whirling Dervish in front of women, How, in any society, it demanded centre stage for its crusade for education for its fellow penisuses or, as it by-the-textbook preferred, she groaned, peni. How it flushed anger if it wasn’t called Doctor right to its squinted eye. Now it was filling any head left in her son with its fifth Batchelor’s degree and fourth Masters and second PhD, as though that was unusual for a penis. And oh, it might have quietened down a bit over the years after having learnt how to bite its own bum, but it was still destroying her boy by such things as parking itself out on the university’s main lawn as an ahead-of-its-time flagpole and demanding greater recognition for penisocity studies to be hoisted there.