Good news? I’m gonna call it ‘The half-full dribble-cup‘ As opposed to a pessimist’s saying ‘half-empty’.
Yeah, there’s gotta be an up-side to suffering through an unbelievable international embarrassment of a major US candidate. And now that half the K-12 and ‘PG’ world has listened to ‘pussy-grabbing’ , ‘divine fucking-rights of gas-bag kings’, and a defense of non-consensual fondling, there seems like no better time than now for me to ‘sneak thru a fellow motorist’s toll-booth coin’ and recount two short penile-themed stories.
1) Yesterday, to my horror, I lost the main button on my ‘holy shorts’, a gift from that dear, dear woman, Beth (Seedsower) from Xanga. A lady we all instantly wanted to kiss at first sight, but had the decency to gauge her receptivity to such. In those forgotten days.
So, what to do, button-less? I mean, who am I, Betty Crocker? (oops, that’s cooking, but whatevah)
So I remembered the fabled coin-ops rumoured to exist there on freeway rest-stops beside the ‘Coffee-on-the-Road’ machines, the ‘Select a Tasty-Cake of your dreams’ robots, (hardly ever had my dream in stock,) and, pointedly, the ‘Your Wife Away From Home’ models.
Two(2) quarters, press the ‘choice’ buttons for ‘Delicate’, ‘Heavy Duty’ ‘Light’ or ‘Dark’ (-complected??) and insert…
Um, yeah. Insert what? Into a cylindrical ‘orifice’, at waist level?
I’ll just say that the majority of ‘schlimmazal’ dummies who thrust their throbbing expectant members into the hole and hit “OK” probably didn’t stick around to warn others. Having a button sewn onto the end of your dick is kinda dramatic, no?
And so I am actually searching for one of those automats as we speak. To finally, (perhaps for the company’s first time), ‘Use as Directed. The button I need to match the shorts is khaki-colored. But then, so is my wife. Oughta work out ok, but I’ll be in touch.The End.
2) Of course there are lots of guys who gaze upon their phalluses with a kind of existential disappointment. ‘Bigger is Better’?
One fellow finally went to his doctor, sheepishly admitting that his ‘endowment’ left something to be desired. The Doctor kindly advised a solution: ‘Twice a day, for three weeks, rub lard on it.’ he explained. The fellow, glad to hear of a solution, dutifully followed the instructions… for two weeks, by which time it became obvious that rather than growing longer, his ‘disappearing manhood’ was now barely capable of poking through his fly to even piss. Back with the Doctor, he angrily complained about his failed experience.
The doctor patiently asked what brand of lard he’d used, whereupon the patient cited a known trade-name. The doc’s reaction:
“Oy, that’s not lard, guy, that’s ‘shortening!!’
History does not recall what happened next; perhaps he ran for President?
At any rate, I leave it to my thousands of readers to determine whether I’m crossed the ‘good-taste’ line here. But I almost suspect that that line has now been erased/ JS