The Short Way to Tipperary

WC 1733

The Short Way to Tipperary

By Jack Rawlins

A funny thing happened to me on the way to Tipperary. Not “Ha, Ha” funny--bizarre funny. I’m a single, thirty-year old personal trainer. Most of my clients are lovely rich bored ladies who will never be satisfied with their hair or their bodies. I don’t do hair, but I do sculpt bodies. I’m well paid and happy with my work, but I may soon change my vocation.

Most of my clients are in the Dublin area; however I’m happy to follow the money wherever it takes me. Last Sunday it was taking me to a 3:00 PM appointment with a lady in Tipperary.


As you may know, it's a long way to Tipperary. Of course, that all depends on where you start. But I'm an impatient man and to me, Dublin to Tipperary was a long, long way to go. So Saturday night while I shared a pint with my good friend Seamus, I asked, “Do you know a shortcut?” Of course he did. Seamus knows everything. Well, he thinks he knows everything. Yet, give the rascal his rep; he does know more about the byways of Ireland than the mapmakers.

"Why, Sean,” he says, "Of course I do. Most of the way, though, the roads have no signs, so you'll have to follow my directions carefully. In fact," he said as he slipped me a napkin and a pen, “you’d better write this down.”

The next morning I left Dublin at 10:00 AM. At 10:20 the only thing I knew was that I was still in Ireland. It’s funny, but the night before Seamus’ directions were crystal clear. Now they were worst than murky.

“Turn right where the old Celtic church used to be:” Well I don't know where it used to be.

“Turn left where you see the men working in the fields.” It's a bloody holiday. No one is working in the fields.

“Look for a green hill to your right.” All the hills are green.

“When you come to a fork in the road, be sure you take the right one.” The one to the right or the right one which could be left?

Soon I don't even know which direction I'm heading. Now it's against my worse judgment and a long standing male tradition to never ask directions. Anyway, I can’t call and ask for directions because you have to tell someone where you are before they can help. Now does that make sense? If I knew where I was, I wouldn’t have to ask.

So I broke tradition. The first house I spotted was a majestic white manse lazing on the crest of a steep hill. A long, straight driveway bordered by ancient boxwoods beckoned me to the front door.

When I rang, a drop-dead redhead with a three-foot pony tail and a halter top that barely reined in its heavy load opened the door. She smiled and said, “You’re here about the position?”

“No. I’m here for some directions, “I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, “she says. “Then you are you here for treatment.”

“Treatment? What kind of treatment? Where am I?

"You are at the Tipperary Clinic."

"And what kind of clinic might that be?" I asked.

"This is a rural retreat for the sexually dysfunctional. We provide counseling and physical therapy.”

“Say what?" I gasped.

"Yes. We help those with hang ups who can't get it up and those who are always up and can't get it down."

"It sounds like interesting work."

"Yes. It gives me a lot of pleasure."

“And you are? “ I asked.

“I am Dr. Lotta Innuendo, clinical director."

Now I'm starting to think Seamus is really a great guy. I’ve heard a hundred jokes about salesmen who get to spend the night with a farmer's daughter. Never have I heard about a lucky personal trainer who stumbled into a sex clinic in the countryside. Yet, this is too good to be true. So immediately I think this has got to be a scam of some kind.

"Are you sure this isn't a whorehouse?" I asked which was as stupid a thing as I could have said.

"Oh, my!” she huffed. “You have a foul mouth. This is a clinic. C.L.I.N.I.C.K. Clinic! "

“Clinic with a ‘K’?”

“Yes, that’s our little inside whimsy for kinky. Many of our clients are into kinky.”

So I figure it’s time to start over. "Sorry. It just seems like such a nice place to run a whore…ah, clinic...with a ‘K’.”

“Sir, we take sex very seriously here. You think it’s funny?”

“No. No.” I apologized. “I never laugh when I do it. I’m real serious about it, too.”

Now I realize that every time I open my mouth I say something stupid. So I shut up.
We’re still standing in the open doorway and I wait a long while for her to say something, or slam the door in my face, or maybe do both at the same time.

Instead, she surprises me with a warm smile and says, “Well, sir, if you tell me your name and where you are going, perhaps I can help you?”

Now, I take every opportunity to promote myself and my business: So I bubble, “My name is Sean MacAnanny. I’m a personal trainer from Dublin and I have an appointment with a client in Tipperary.”

“Oh, my, “she says. “ I was so hoping you were really here about the opening we have on our staff.”

Now, I’m anxious to get to Tipperary but not too anxious to leave this lovely lady. “And what might that position be, Mrs. Innuendo,” I ask.

“It’s miss, Sean. And please call me Lotta. Let me explain: We are in need of a new surrogate. The treatment of sexual dysfunctions is mostly talk therapy. But often we must rely on a surrogate to make things perfectly clear. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh my, yes! And why did the former surrogate leave? I asked.

“He died suddenly.”

“Of exhaustion?" I laughed.

“Sean, I’m afraid you wouldn’t fit in here too well.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Lotta, “I apologized. And I really was sorry. So I said, “Why don’t you show me around.”

“I will if you promise to approach our work seriously.”

Of course I promised. And the tour began.

En-route she introduced me to most of her staff: Jack Tar, a retired sailor who taught knot tying to those who were into bondage; Lilly Lolita who worked with geriatric clients; The occupational therapist Ronald Rorschach who taught pen and ink drawling; Chris Kringle who ran the “Lotions, Potions and Notions Shop; and Tammy Tumescence who was in charge of pre-screening potential surrogates to see if they measured up.

As we passed one closed door I heard shouts of “Lord, I’m coming. I’m coming,” and I asked Lotta if that was their chapel. “No, “she answered, that’s where our drama coach, Dr. Faux, teaches fake orgasms. They are so good for the male ego.”

When the tour was over she said, “If you can suppress your ornery wit, I’d like you to consider joining our staff. However, in your role as a surrogate I must warn, you’ll never know what you’re getting into—literally. Anonymity is very important. You’ll be working in the dark. You’ll be an undercover agent.

“I can see you’re in excellent physical condition, but you’ll have to be up to spec with Tammy’s benchmarks. The salary is excellent, and the fringe benefits obvious.”

Right then I made a quick decision. “Let’s find out if I’m qualified—immediately!”

Tammy was very professional and thorough. She checked my response time to pornography on a scale of one to ten from flaccid to throbbing to raging. She said surrogates must often be ready on a moment’s notice. She also checked the length, diameter and firmness of my accoutrement against her minimum and maximum benchmarks. Tammy used her own sense of esthetic values to rate overall appearance. from gross through pleasing to marvelous. Then she tied it all together with a psychological evaluation in her report for submission to the selection committee.

When I left the clinic, Lotta said they would let me know in a few days, but they still had to evaluate a number of other candidates. I’m not sure if what she said next was good news or bad news: “We’ll let you know,” she said, “but you are definitely on the short list.”

As I left, Lotta gave me a brochure with directions from the clinic to Dublin and Tipperary. I had only gone two miles when I came to a covered bridge with a wooden barricade. When I jumped out to check why it was blocked a big ugly giant came out from under the bridge. He waved a club at me and hollered in a gruff voice, “Stop! Give me your purse and I’ll let you pass.”

“What the hell’s going on? “was pretty plain, but I asked anyway.

“I’m a troll, dummy.” he growled. “Don’t you know about trolls?”

“I thought we only had leprechauns in Ireland,” I said. “Besides, I don’t carry a purse.”

“Do I look like one of the wee people?” he growled. “Give me your purse.”

Now I’m not about to debate ethnic heritage with this giant thug and his club. So I gave him my wallet and he let me pass. I felt bad about the wallet, but at least I was not beaten by this Cretan. However, what really burned my butt was when he said, “Didn’t you know this was a troll road?” And then he doubled over with laughter as I drove away.


With his painful attempted pun pounding in my head I headed on to Tipperary. As I drove and cooled down a few degrees, I reviewed the day. And you know, in retrospect, it wasn’t all that bad. Yes, I did get lost. Yes, I did get robbed by a monster would-be punster. And yet…and yet I may have chanced upon the ultimate career…a new career that would not only satisfy me, but also many others. That is, if I can measure up.

And the funniest, funny thing about all this? None of it would have happened (if it ever does) were it not for my friend, Seamus. It’s still too early to decide whether to thank him or kick his ass.

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