Stories from the Shitter — Wilford Brimley’s Diabetes Totem

Wilford Brimley broke a sacred oath when he went from peddling Quaker Oats to immediately having diabetes and warning against the disease on TV. All of his goodwill toward the Quaker products was blown away with admitting to his diagnosis. He might as well have said that Quaker Oats are the cause of diabetes. Unfortunately, the money hungry loveable old coot of TV and cinema didn’t realize how bad he had fucked up. The Quaker Oats icon is based off of a real man, a very old man. Nobody knows the exact year of his birth, but it’s rumored he was on the Mayflower itself before becoming endowed with his curse like gift.

A young man at the time, Mr. Quaker Oats and several of the Mayflower men were on a hunting expedition to feed the small colony when they accidently shot a local native girl hiding in the brush. Nearby, a powerful old medicine man, who was the girl’s grandfather, came up to the now captured and fear filled male colonists. The other natives demanded blood, flaying and burning of the flesh. The wise old man looked into the group of white men and knew immediately who the triggerman was. He limped to the young man, began shaking his maraca like totem and began a song. He touched his own face then the young man’s face. He then reached into his buckskin pants, pulled out a massive, wrinkled cock and stoked his hand along the wretched length of it. He then yelled something to the other natives. The young braves pulled the white man’s britches down, exposing his own not bad but certainly not in the same league of the old shaman’s womb stretcher. Mumbling a series of repeated words, he ran his old mummy stick of a hand on the terrified young colonist’s manhood. As he did, the young man’s cock shriveled up until it looked like something from an Egyptian tomb. The old medicine man laughed as he stroked his own giant member which became younger with each stroke along with the rest of his body, the ravages of time going away with each genie in a lamp like rub until a virile young man stood before them. He went to the young colonist with the elderly cock and motioned over to a native girl who spoke the white man’s words.

He said to him something in his native language, and the young girl spoke in English: “I give this curse to you. Should you want to become whole again, you must take it from another man and say the words ‘From you to me and from me to you’ over and over again. Aging and any disease will flow like a river into him and his youth and health into you. Should you take the man’s entire life, his manhood shall hold the curse to further take from another and should be removed, unless someone else gets ahold of it.” The once old but now young man began laughing.

Mr. Oats (who wasn’t a Quaker or even a puritan) was released with the others. They went back toward the colony empty handed but were still a day’s walk away. The other three men looked at the cursed man with a foreboding sense of unease. Later that night, he tried to take a piss, an easy thing for a young man, but it felt wrong like he had to go but couldn’t. Not only was his dick elderly, its plumbing and works were as well, and he could feel his youth draining away from him. He had no choice. The first two men were easy quick kills with his blade but getting control of the other to get his pants down and begin the ritual was harder than he thought. By morning, the other three men were dead, and Mr. Oats was even younger than his 25 years. The murders wouldn’t be a problem. Men disappeared while hunting all of the time. Explaining a withered, old penis in his game bag would be, so he had to keep it hid, as with all of the others over the centuries including that of the traitorous Wilford Brimley.

You see, the Quaker Oats icon is indeed a secret shareholder behind the product line, one of the founders who started the company in the late 19th Century. He’s been in the shadows of the conglomeration for nearly two hundred years, and he wasn’t about to let an old fucker like Brimley go turncoat and rob from him. By simply waltzing into a Utah hospital one August evening, he took the remainder of Brimley’s meager time on this planet with one swift wave of his hand; the old man’s burnt 7/11 hot dog of a crank fell from his body immediately and was collected up for Mr. Oats’ trophy case.

Unpleasantly plump.