The Cock and Balls of Karlheinz Kunkel

As with many teenage boys, drawing a penis and testicles on whichever surface opportunely presented itself was a staple pastime for Karlheinz Kunkel. But whilst the pork swords his friends drew were full of character – all smiley faces and flaccidity – Karlheinz’s crotch cannons were always a bit more menacing. Fully erect and throbbing. Veins; there were always veins. “Sociologically speaking, I wonder that you are trying to assert your dominance over me,” said Hunfrid, the owner of the textbook Karlheinz had just cockadoodled in maths class. Karlheinz wasn’t sure how to react. He’d never really thought about how or why his pecker pictures were so different to everyone else’s. He looked around the classroom. The tallywhacker Jurgy had sketched was wearing a top hat and carrying a cane. Johan’s chubby fun stick had an afro and a lovely big grin. But Karlheinz’s latest offering was anything but friendly. It was Stalinesque; a skyscraper among Wendy houses; a Panzer tank among tuk-tuks. As Karlheinz’s best friend, Berty felt it was his duty to say something. “Your vagina miners are getting out of hand, Karlheinz. People are starting to talk. Perhaps you could tone it down a bit?” Karlheinz had been expecting an intervention for a while. He was an artist. A pioneer. He knew his Sperminator scribbles were ahead of their time. He knew Rumpleforeskin and Captain Cocktapus would be too much for the mollycoddled ‘Sergeant Stiffy’ generation that surrounded him. He knew this conversation was coming but, when it came, it still hurt. With tears on the edge of escape, Karlheinz got up from his chair. He walked proudly and purposefully towards the blackboard at the front of the classroom. He picked up a piece of chalk and began to draw. Professor Fritzel stepped back – he knew this moment was bigger than Pythagoras. A lot has been said about what happened next. Some say Karlheinz drew for fifteen hours straight (others say he stopped when the school-bell sounded for home time, then came back the next day to finish). But, what isn’t disputed is the breathtaking beauty of what Karlheinz produced. A masterpiece among members. The magnum opus of clam hammers. It was magnificent, yet humble. Firm, but fair. Quietly intimidating. Powerful, yet gentle. It was everything you’d never expect from a chalk drawing of a cock and two balls. And although it only had one eye, that eye looked into your soul. What Karlheinz did that day lived long in the memory of all who attended Dumme-Geschichte High School for Boys. The story was passed down from generation to generation until, suddenly, just like that, it was completely forgotten – the day Jakob Schafer shat in a teacher’s cup.