misfit-marjorie-1

Q: The fuck is your name Marjorie?

A: So here’s what happened.

It was February 2016, and the Misfits were scrambling to throw together a skit to perform during LUEY Weekend. Our original concept had gone over so poorly that (I am not making this up) we were forced to issue a formal apology before it was even written, and we were at a loss as to what we could put on instead.

At the last possible minute, one of the guys sent out a group text that said, “I’ve got it! We’ll do The Penis Monologues! Everyone write a 90-second speech about your penis!” All of the other Misfits were like, “Hooray!” whereas I was like, “Oh, you mean something similar to what some sexist douche-nugget probably came up with immediately following the premiere of The Vagina Monologues 20 years ago? Awesome. Make room in the trophy case for our Tony Award.” And then I had an anxiety attack and refused to participate.

I should mention at this point that I have a panic disorder. It’s usually manageable, but every once in awhile something unexpectedly sets it off, and I have no choice but to ride out the waves of irrational dread and hope the fight-or-flight reflex ebbs quickly. In this case, the thought of standing in front of a large audience and sharing an unprepared anecdote about my junk pushed me over the edge.  This was naked-at-school-without-my-homework territory, and it honestly would’ve been easier to quit and walk away from the club than associate myself with what I knew was going to be a train wreck of biblical proportions.

Our president, bless him, did his best to calm me down, while I did my best to drown him out with threats and obscenities. And I don’t remember what he said that caused the turn, but in the midst of suffocating with fear, I had this sudden moment of clarity and realized that I could maybe feasibly definitely contribute to the event.

“Give me five minutes,” I told him. “Then check your email.”

Ten minutes later, he texted back one word: “Brilliant.”

On the day of the show, we strode purposely onto the stage and lined up single-file while our treasurer addressed the gathered crowd: “And now, Misfits Houston present… The Penis Monologues.” One by one, each Misfit stepped forward to tell his cock tale, all of which were collectively very well-received. Aftershocks of panic were still rattling through me, but I was starting to believe that I could do this and not die. I was wishing to hell I’d thought to print out a copy of my monologue instead of trying to recite it from memory, but I was also pretty sure I wasn’t going to burst into tears or spontaneously combust.

Eventually, it was my turn. I moved to the front of the line, took a deep, cleansing breath, raised the microphone to my mouth and said, “I gather from your comments there are a couple of other things you don’t know about my dick, Marjorie.”

A beat, followed by several delighted gasps. And as recognition dawned on the rest of the audience, I launched into Julia Sugarbaker’s iconic “Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” speech… about my penis.

It was at that moment, explaining to a packed house of leatherfolk that my dick was not just any Miss Georgia, that my voice finally grew stronger than my mental illness.

Misfit nicknames are awarded when a club member does something so hilarious or horrifying (or both) in the public arena that it becomes an unforgettable part of community legend and lore. It was in keeping with this tradition that Marjorie was born, and any chance of my future career in politics destroyed.

The End.

Epilogue: Evidence? Why, yes, of course there’s evidence. I hope you get as big of a kick out of it as my brothers did.