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Dos Factotum » Archive » The Amorous Young Boy and His Sexy Mule: A Ring Review

The Amorous Young Boy and His Sexy Mule: A Ring Review

July 2nd, 2008


This titanium wedding ring with 14k gold accents from Just Men’s Rings reminds me of an old story I once heard from a Romanian nun. She was nearly senile at the time, so the story and its themes only make sense after the third or fourth time you read it. Here goes:

Outside of Bucharest, in a hamlet known to the locals as Kimz (but known to cartographers as Kymz), lived a young boy and his mule. Years ago, when the young boy was even younger, his parents went out for some milk and gasoline, and never came back, so he was left to raise the mule by himself. He didn’t mind this, as his parents were terribly cruel. They would often douse him in maple syrup and watch as the horse flies swarmed and gnawed at his sticky body.

One day, while the boy was taking a bath with the mule, he realized how handsome it was. Its body was lean but not scrawny; its face was perfectly proportioned, like that of an ancient Greek statue. Its hooves were smooth and blacker than any black object the boy had seen before. He suddenly became aroused. He wasn’t sure if what he felt was true love but it was the closest he’d ever been to feeling such a feeling, so he considered it so.

“I love you this much,” he said, and extended his hands as far apart as possible.

“Why don’t you prove it?” the mule said.

“How do I do that?” the boy asked. He’d never before had to prove his love to a human, let alone a mule.

“I like jewelry.”

And with that, the boy got out of the tub and ran to the town’s jewelry store.

“I need a ring,” he said, wheezing. He was in such a hurry that he’d forgotten his pants.

The jeweler was an old nonpracticing Jew named Henry Slobken. He disliked most people in Kimz, especially the young amorous boys who would run naked into his shop shortly after falling in what they foolishly thought was love.

“No, you don’t,” Henry said. “Now go home and learn a trade. Stop worrying yourself with love.”

The boy didn’t know how to respond, so he spilled his heart: “This mule, see, I love it. It likes jewelry. It talks to me, see. I need to buy it something. Anything. It won’t know the cheap stuff from the expensive stuff. Please help me out.”

Henry had never loved a mule before, but he had had feelings for a white tiger cub who lived at the zoo. He’d visit that cub three times a week and wink at it and blow it kisses. That is, until the zookeepers started to get worried and blacklisted him. But a mule? How could this boy love a mule? White tiger cubs are majestic; mules are mule-y.

“No dice,” Henry said.

“Please!”

“No.”

The boy, now on the verge of tears, thought to himself for a second.

“OK, what if I took the most expensive ring and promised to work it off for the rest of my life?”

Henry thought it over. I really could use some long-term help, he reasoned. And the rest of his life is a long term.

“Fine,” Henry said, and he reached into the ring drawer and pulled out a titanium wedding ring with 14k gold accents.

The boy let out a loud “Oooh” and then an “Aaah”and then an “Oh my.”

“Here’s the deal,” Henry said. “Go ahead and take this ring to your mule. Do whatever it is you want to do with it. Just wash your hands afterwards. But everyday, starting tomorrow, you will work for me. You will arrive on time and leave when I leave. You will get no breaks. And if I ever see that mule in here, I’ll take the ring away and probably murder you. Got it?”

“Got it,” the boy said. He took the ring and started back to the farm, head held high.

He came home to a Godawful scene: a man and woman, perhaps in their mid-40s, had tied the mule up in chains and covered him in maple syrup. Horse flies, fruit bats and even a few gypsy kids from the nearby colony were gnawing at the mule. They gnawed at its lean body. They gnawed at its sculpted face. They even gnawed at those sexy black hooves. The boy, now bawling, ran up to the mule and untied it, but it was no use. It had expired from all the gnawing.

The boy held its sticky corpse and cursed God so loud that even the patients at the Bucharest Clinic for the Partially Deaf could hear him. He turned to the adults.

“Why did you do this? Who are you?”

“We’re your parents,” the woman said. The boy could smell the mead sweating out of her pores. The man was also drunk on mead. He was rather tall, but not tall enough to cause people to remember him by his extraordinary height.

“Where have you been?” The boy had never before been so confused and saddened at the same time.

“Oh, just two towns over, in Yeppel,” the man said. This was a lie. They’d both been in prison for drowning the boy’s older sister, who he’d never met.

“Why are you here now? Why did you kill my mule?”

“We’d heard that a boy in Kimz had fallen in love with a mule,” his mother said. “Your father was like, ‘You know what, I bet that’s our amorous son.’ So we came back to the farm and asked the mule what the deal was. It said that you were in fact in love with it and that you’d gone into town to buy it some jewelry. Is this true?”

“Yes,” the boy whimpered.

“Well,” his father said, “we couldn’t have that. How embarrassing! So we bought a year’s supply of syrup and, well, you’re pretty familiar with how it goes. We didn’t mean to kill it, really. Blame it on the bats if you want.”

The boy fell to the ground. He cursed God yet again and threw the titanium wedding ring with 14k gold accents at his parents. His father caught it and said, “Thanks, champ. I’ve been meaning to get your mother a new wedding ring. She lost hers at a street fair in Yeppel.” (It was traded for Percocet in prison.) “Here you go, honey,” and he slipped it on her finger. They embraced and tongue-kissed as ferociously as they did on the day they met.

The next morning the sad young boy walked to the jewelery shop to begin his joyless life of indentured servitude.

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