Dillinger & Holmes

When the Smithsonian’s Board of Directors learned about the Mormon’s tardy petition, they immediately made a phone call and offered them the Dillinger dick as a consolation prize. To their total chagrin the Mormon’s turned it down. “It’s not that we wanted ‘a’ dick,” a high mucky-muck in the church told him, “We wanted THAT dick. You can fool some of the people all of the time, and you can fool all of the people some of time, but it would be hard to fool the Holmes family. They own the entire collection of their son’s movies and watch them over and over again. You think we can fool them into believing that Dillinger’s dinky dong belonged to THEIR son?”

In the long run, however, everything turned out right. Three days after they had declined the Dillinger dick the high mucky-muck sent the Smithsonian a letter, “With our huge database of names and lineages we can supply you with the name of Richard Dillinger that lives in Knucklenutt, Alabama. He was the grandson of Walter Dillinger (deceased), who was John’s younger brother. There are other Dillinger’s out there but he’s the only one we can verify as actually being related to John. A lot of the Dillinger’s changed their name after John had become famous. Just like you didn’t see anybody with the surname of Hitler after WWII you didn’t see many Dillinger’s around during the mid 1930’s either. To complicate matters even further, once John had been shot down and the rumor about the size of his dick began to circulate, a lot of NON-Dillinger’s had THEIR names changed TO Dillinger. We have no proof whether it did or did not do any of them any good, but most of them thought that it would make it easier for them to get laid.

“It was awfully hard for us to tell who was who when we began creating our file on Dillinger’s,” the mucky-muck continued. “Some of the ones who were weren’t, and some of the ones who weren’t were, and to muddy the waters even more, enough time had past that some of the second generation were’s (the son’s and daughters of the were’s who became weren’ts) had forgotten they really were were’s, and the newer were’s, the one’s who had been weren’ts, weren’t about to confess that they were really weren’t were’s for fear that people would think they had small penises. By the time we came along and tried to make sense of it all it was a holy mess. We know of at least four amateur genealogists that committed suicide prior to our taking on the task.”

Once the verification that Richard really was a second generation nephew of John Dillinger had been completed the Smithsonian’s typed up a short letter of explanation and made arrangements with UPS to ship the dick to Richard. The day it was shipped they all celebrated. The whole thing was now out of sight and out of mind. For all they knew – or cared – a UPS employee could take it home with him and feed it to his dog. They had tried to do the best they could do, and if that wasn’t enough then screw it!

Bartholomew Tightbottom filled me in on the Mormon Church involvement in all this so I can’t verify that part of it’s true, but as far as the dick itself is concerned I can assure you it’s true. In the first place my husband, Dick Johnson, was a security guard at the Smithsonian Institute during the mid forties and he was responsible for escorting qualified researchers to and from the file cabinet that housed the bottle that contained Dillinger’s dick and he was required to stay with them during their experiments or measurements. With the exception of John Dillinger himself, my husband was more familiar with the dick than any one else on the planet. He left the employment of the Smithsonian in 1949 when he enrolled in college, and he is now one of the most respected Dickologists in the world.

Richard Dillinger was always called Dickie by everyone who knew him, and once he’d had received his uncle’s dick they began referring to him as “Little” Dickie. During the four days I was in Turtleturd County to cover Little Dickie’s trial (Richard’s) I interviewed not only him but many other Turdturtles, which is what they call themselves, and ALL 17 of the residents of Knucklenutt. Everyone I interviewed had seen “Big” Dickie many, many times since Little Dickie had it prominently displayed right next to the cash register in his store. There is no question in my mind whatsoever that Big Dickie was in fact the same dickie (Ooops, I mean the same dick) that had been in the Smithsonian since many of the people I talked to even remember the original label that was on the bottle as well as the new label which mentioned the Smithsonian..

So, Angel, does that answer your questions? The museum did have the appendage but they don’t have it any more. They sent it to Richard Dillinger in Knucklenutt, Alabama. Richard kept it for some time, but being the Knucklenutt he is, he lost it. No one knows where it is now.

If I can be of further assistance, please be sure to contact me.

Sincerely,

Lulu Loveless,

Staff Writer of the National Enquire

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Text of my letter to Lulu Loveless (8-11-93)

Dear Lulu. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Unfortunately, though, it brings up more questions than it answered. I read your article about “Little Dickie” Dillinger being arrested for stealing a phone book, and that “Big Dick” was still missing. Has it ever been found?. Why was Dickie arrested? Why did Dickie steal a phone book, of all things? Aren’t phone books free? I assume that “Big Dick” refers to Dillinger’s dick, but what has that got to do with “Little Dickie” being convicted of stealing a phone book? I thought phone books were free.

I know that you have better things to do than to write a long letter to a ditzy chick like me, but being an ardent student of Dickology I just have to know the rest.

Thank you in advance,

Angel Schnauttwaffle

P.S. I took a class in Dickology from Professor Richard Johnson. He was a truly great man. Is this your husband?????

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Text of Lulu Loveless’ letter (8/21/93)

Dear Angel,

I take mouse in hand to write you a follow up to my first letter. Yes, Professor Johnson is my husband. We met in 1984 when I contacted him in regards to a gossip piece I was writing about John Holmes. We were married six month’s later in a beautiful ceremony at the Chapel of the Wildwoods on the strip in Vegas. Despite the difference in our ages (I’m 45 years of age and Dick turned 85 June of this year) we still have “whoopee” every four or five weeks. I guess a lot about Dickology pays off in the long run, right? Ha Ha Ha. I asked Richard the other night if he remembered you from class and unfortunately he didn’t. The only ‘Angel’ that he could remember was, in his words, a foul mouthed girl who didn’t believe a word he said. At 85 it’s a wonder that he can remember anyone, much less one of his students, but perhaps if you sent a photograph it would jog his memory. Anyway, enough of this chit-chat. Let’s get around to facts, shall we?

Richard Dillinger (AKA Dickie) was born in 1945 and he moved to Knucklenutt with his father Hiram in 1948. When Hiram died from ringworm in 1967 Dickie inherited the business that his father had built up. It was a fairly large building that served as the gas station/market/general store/barber shop/bar/fix-it-up shop and post office for the citizens of Knucklenutt. It was located on secondary road off of the county highway that led to the Interstate some thirty miles away, which was the perfect location for a multi-business establishment like his to flourish. He was the only employee, of course, which made some days a little more hectic than others, but all in all he seemed to manage them all OK. Although there weren’t there weren’t any ponds in the area, Dickie could be best described as an average sized frog in a small pond. He was the typical Knucklenutter, which meant that questions about the world outside Knucklenutt rarely crossed his mind. With the exception of Christmas and Halloween the only holiday they knew about was Sadie Hawkins Day and that was more than enough for them.

On the day the dick was delivered, however, Dickie’s life changed forever. His first thought after opening the package was ‘Who in the world would send me a bottle with a dick in it?” but after reading the enclosed letter from the Smithsonian he was confused. He vaguely remembered his daddy saying something about an uncle that was the ‘black sheep in the family’ but Dickie had thought that meant they were somehow related to darkies. If that was true then why was the dick in the bottle white?

Dickie put the ‘Closed until later’ sign in the window and hurried over to Charlie’s house with the bottle tucked under his arm. Everyone in Knucklenutt knew that Charlie was the smartest damn man in the Turtleturd County – not only had he graduated from school but had also taken a few college classes! - if anybody could make sense of all this it’d be Charlie. Charlie was asleep in his rocking chair when Dickie walked in, but once he was awake he put on his reading glasses and read the note. “Well I’ll be darned,” he said. “I knew you was a Dillinger but I never knew you was related to the bank robber. Dickie, your pappy’s pappy was the brother of the most famous gangsters that ever gangstered. Not only was he famous but it looks like his dick was famous too. That thing that you got in the bottle is a part of your great-uncle’ and was sent to you by the Smithsonian Institute which is a real famous museum. It’s so famous that it’s right next door to the president’s house.

Dickie thanked Charlie for the information and then proudly walked back to the store with the bottle tucked under his arm again. He set it on the counter next to Tic Tac display and wrote a small note that said ‘John Dillinger’s dick - Pleeze don’t touch!’

As word of the pickled dick spread to towns as far away as Tickleberry Springs and Bumpbottom Hollow Dickie’s business picked up, and before long not only was he the richest man in Knucklenutt but the most famous as well. At one point there was even talk of changing the name of the town from Knucklenutt to Pickledick’s Corner, but all name changes had to approved by the County Commissioner (according to Charlie) and no one in Knucklenutt (including Charlie himself) knew where to get in touch with him. The result was that Knucklenutt stayed Knucklenutt and life went on. The only thing that really changed was that people started to call Dickie ‘Little Dickie’ so they could distinguish whether a person was referring to the owner of the store or the display that was on the counter.

Some years later, I think it was in 1994, someone swiped the shrine of ‘Big Dick’ right from under Little Dickie’s nose. The day had been a slow one and Little Dickie had fallen asleep on the chair behind the counter. His friend Elmer was in charge of making contact with the police in Turtleturd Creek whenever a crime was committed in Knucklenutt and within two hours the police car arrived. Little Dickie recognized the officer as Maynard Scrubbs who had responded to both of the calls that Elmer had made that summer. The first had been back in May when Lulu Mae Tinkle had called to complain that someone was outside the outhouse while she was taking her evening poop, and the second time was when Zeke Wattelman accidentally blew up his yard when he poured gasoline down a couple of gopher holes and then tossed in a match. As far as Little Dickie knew Maynard’s record was 50/50 since they had found three dead gophers in the collapsed gopher tunnels but never caught the pervert that had literally scared the shit out of Lulu Mae.

Little Dickie answered all the questions Maynard asked him, and when the questioning finally ended he was surprised that there wasn’t anything that that they could do. Had Little Dickie been awake while the robbery was committed he would probably know whoever did it, but by being asleep there was no one he accuse. Maynard sympathized with Little Dickie’s predicament, but he couldn’t just go around arresting everyone that MIGHT have stole it, could he? The best thing for Dickie to do, Maynard said, was to keep his ears and eyes open all the time. If he were to overhear someone bragging about a pickled dick he should have Elmer call him immediately. There weren’t all that many pickled dicks in the county – five or six at the most – and odds were strong that if any new one turned up it would probably turn out to be Big Dick. He should also call immediately if he saw someone walking by with his dick sticking out of his pants. When Little Dickie asked what that had to do with them finding his great uncles dick, Maynard answered that if a guy’s got the nerve to walk around town with his dick sticking out the front of his pants he’s probably the same kind of guy that would have the nerve to terrify Lulu Mae while she was sitting in the outhouse, and any guy who would get a kick out of hearing Lulu dump her load would be the kind of guy that would steal a pickled dick.

It made sense to Little Dickie so he began doing what Maynard asked even before he’d left. He no longer looked eye to eye at the men he saw when he walked into town or when they came by to buy gas or groceries or have their cars fixed or toasters cleaned. His habit of always looking at their zippers began to annoy some of his customers and it wasn’t long before his business started to fall off. Even some of his closest friends began avoiding him. Even Maynard himself avoided Little Dickie when he was summoned to Knucklenutt on November 1st to investigate the strange case of the artificially soap flavored M & M’s that appeared in many of the Halloweener’s buckets.Most everybody realized that looking at a man’s zipper it wasn’t a ‘sexual’ thing with Little Dickie but it discomforted them nonetheless. At Christmas time Dickie only got two presents and three Christmas cards in return for his nine presents and twenty seven cards.

After the lopsided difference of gifts and cards given opposed to the gifts and cards received, Little Dickie changed his habits and stopped looking at men’s zippers. He made a New Year’s Resolution that he would find other ways to get his treasured display back. He offered a fifty dollar reward (a huge sum by Knucklenutt standards) for “information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person responsible for stealing my dick” but no one came forth with information. He also made an appearance on “Unsolved Mysteries” but since the network refused to let him use the word ‘dick’ none of the viewers could understand what he was missing. Despite his earlier resolve it seemed that everything he did was in vein.(sic)

Once the good citizens of Knucklenutt realized that he was no longer staring at their zippers his businesses began to rebound. The sale of gas and groceries went up as well as his bar business. There was laughter in the bar again and it seemed that that everyone who had a toaster was bringing it in for its annual tune up. The only part of his enterprises that didn’t show a return to its pre-zipper staring level was the barber shop. The only explanation he could think of that would cause this anomaly was that they couldn’t see where his eyes were while he cut their hair.

It was almost the end of spring (June 27th to be exact) when the idea first crossed his mind. An out-of-state car had driven up to the gas pump and honked its horn, and when little Dickie went to fill the tank he noticed a sticker on the back bumper that read “Where the hell is Skanky Mountain?” Dickie knew exactly where it was, so when he was finished filling the tank and began washing the windshield he said “You go down to the end of this here road and then turn left. Drive up that road until you come to come to Homer’s pig farm and then turn right. Follow that road for about two miles and you’ll see the sign. Look to your left and you’ll see it.”

The response he received for his instructions was “Huh?”

“That’s where Skanky Mountain is,” Little Dickie replied. “I seen you sticker.”

“Oh, that,” the driver said. “We just bought it up the road a ways where we stopped for lunch. Now that we’re in hillbilly country we decided to blend in. What’s at Skanky Mountain, anyway?”

“Ain’t nothin’ at Skanky Mountain.. It’s just a big ol’ hill covered with weeds. There’s a tree on top of it, though.”

“Sounds charming,” the driver’s wife said. Little Dickie thought she sounded bored and tired.. As they drove off Little Dickie went back inside and put the gas money in the cash register. The very moment that the cash register opened with a “Ka-CHING” sound, Little Dickie’s minds “Ka-CHINGed” as well.

Five days later Little Dickie was the proud owner of 20,000 bumper stickers that read “Where’s my Dick?” in large letters. Below the message, in smaller letters, it said ‘Contact Dickie Dillinger, Knucklenutt, Alabama’ and below that “555-9003’.

The morning after receiving the shipment, he set up a display for his bumper stickers in the empty space next to the Tic Tac display. After opening the door for business he sat back and waited for the first customer to walk into the store. Purchased in bulk, the cost of each bumper sticker came out to less than ten cents a piece. If he sold all 20,000 at one dollar each he would be in a position where he absolutely could not lose; if he found Big Dick he would be invest the profits in mullet futures, and if he didn’t find Big Dick he would have the resources to offer a big hairy reward for its return. He couldn’t lose.

Because Knucklenutt was very small community sales were at first slow. Two days passed before Homer Goofus, a friend of Little Dickie’s who knew the whole story of the missing dick, bought the first one. “You don’t even own a car,” Little Dickie pointed out after taking Homer’s dollar bill and putting it in the cash register. By the end of the end of the week he had sold two more. Little Dickie was beginning to get worried.

“You’re a real dumb shit,” Calvin Clitbonker said as he bought third and last of the three stickers. “You only got 19,997 more to go before you run out, you know. Don’t you think its time to order more so you can avoid an out-of-stock condition?” Little Dickie didn’t say anything to him, not even a “thank you for buying my stupid bumper sticker.” Deep in his gut Little Dickie was afraid that he might have ordered a few too many.

As word spread of his new display, business picked up dramatically. He had sold twenty by the end of the week. Nearly all the people in Knucklenutt had bought one, and some had even bought two or three, the ‘extras’ being for friends out of state. “It’s not everyday you see a bumper sticker that says “Where’s my Dick?” you know,” Otis Spewworthy said as he purchased four of them. By month’s end Little Dickey had sold a total of sixty three,

The next month he sold only thirty seven, and the month after that only twenty. Little Dickey punched in the numbers on his calculator and was absolutely shocked when then answer came back that with the rate sales were going he would sell his last bumper sticker on April 23, 2046. If he were to take into consideration the dramatic decline in sales in the last two months it didn’t look good for his meeting that deadline. His first thought was to purchase some bumper stickers to drum up interest in the “Where’s my Dick?” bumper stickers but even he wasn’t dumb enough to consider that option for long. Besides, he didn’t have enough money to buy more bumper stickers until he sold the bumper stickers he had, and once he’d done that he wouldn’t have the need to order the new ones.

The only answer that made sense was the one that he finally put into operation. That night, under cover of darkness, Little Dickie slipped out of his house and walked the deserted streets of Knucklenutt ripping off every bumper sticker he could find. Logic told him that if they had liked it enough to buy in the first place, they would certainly want to replace it now that it was gone. By the end of the week sales had, as predicted, increased, but there was so much talk of ‘tar and feathering’ the culprit that Little Dickie put an end to his nightly exercise. The following week sales took another nose dive and Little Dickie only sold four.