Rylan, sit with your dear mother for just a minute. We need to have a little talk about what happened earlier today. First of all, I apologize for not knocking. You’re 15 now, and I should know better than to just burst into your room unannounced. That’s on me.
But we really need to discuss what I found splattered all over you and your television screen, which was an astounding amount of semen and Donald Duck, respectively.
I’m not upset about the mess you made. I know your body is going through “momentous biological changes” right now, and that you’re curious. What I’m worried about is the fact that you were jacking off to that cartoon waterfowl.
I mean, seriously, what is up with that? How could you possibly find it amusing to beat your meat to the sound of that hideous duck quacking away incomprehensibly at his flippant little nephews? Is it Donald’s little sailor outfit? Is it his near-constant rage at the injustices, both real and imagined, dished out by Chip and Dale? Is it his incessant scheming for money, attention, and fame? Wait, is it because his middle name is actually Fauntleroy?
You must have pressed pause and rubbed one out for a reason.
But I want you to pay attention to me, son, because I’m only going to say this one time. There is absolutely nothing funny about masturbating to Donald Duck cartoons. If you want to beat it with Bugs Bunny, or tug it to the Transformers, or pound it out to Popeye, I think I’d be okay with that. A young man has needs, and a mother has to understand and try to accept it. But that duck, I am here to tell you, should not be stirring a teenage boy’s loins one bit.
I blame myself, of course, for failing to provide you with more appropriate classic cartoon material for your masturbatory purposes. But this is a failing of nature too. You remember when your father and I split up five years ago? I lied to you at the time. It wasn’t that “the spark had gone out of our relationship.” It was that I caught him choking the chicken while watching Daffy Duck cartoons. And while Daffy’s not quite as bad as Donald, he’s still a cartoon duck, Rylan. He’s still got feathers, and he’s still a nasty piece of work.
I just don’t know what it is about these anatine cartoon characters that gets you Steinfeltzer men so rock hard. It is, perhaps, a sickness.
I have been trying to find a measured response to the horrors I saw in your room earlier today. First, I think we need to lay off the old Disney stuff. I can point you in the direction of some Warner Brothers material that will get your little soldier standing tall, I promise. The coyote wearing his ACME Batman outfit, for example, smashing into a wall of solid rock? Totally erotic. What about Yosemite Sam’s flowing mustache? H.O.T. Or maybe something from the Hanna-Barbera line. Velma and Daphne, maybe Fred, from Scooby-Doo? That’s the combination of brains and brawn that I would think a boy your age needs to really get himself off, instead of that nosy, quacking little shit for brains.
Rylan, I think we can reach a mutual understanding of what cartoons are spank-worthy, and which are not. I am here to help you in any way I can during this hard transition to adulthood.
Now, go on. Get downstairs, fire up YouTube, and get busy exploring the amazingly wide, deeply erotic world of cartoons that don’t feature a crabby-ass duck. And don’t ever let me catch you going to town with Donald again. I won’t have it in my house.
Also, after I wash your sheets, I’m going to take a little nap with the bedroom door closed. There’s a chance I’ll watch Animaniacs with the volume turned up very high, so don’t be alarmed at the noise. Wakko’s accent always reminds me of an old crush I used to have on a young, virile Ringo Starr.
