The Unwinnable War

Jump to Comments

Boners.

I have absolutely no control, the relationship between my self and my penis is a bit of a dictatorship. I can no longer make rules against it. It becomes angry and goes the soft on it’s own volition. It’s interesting.

It’s unfair.

Our penises alone are what make us men, yet we cannot control our own.

They’re always eager to stand up and say to your classmates and coworkers, “Hello. How are you today? I’m doing absolutely grand as you can see my good friend. Cheerio!”

When I think of my penis having a personality and a voice, I like to think it’s British.

Hello Mr. Penis.

He’lo Miss. Top of the morning to ya. Would you like to join me a spot of tea and some biscuits (known as cookies here to you and me in the States). You’re lookin’ mighty well fit. Care to snag a shag behind the bush? I’ve got me raincoats in the boot of me trolley.

Though not genuine, my tallywacker is instantly a little more endearing with an English twist.

Then there is the drinking.

Oft referred to as Whiskey Dick, penises and alcohol, like oil and vinegar, do not mix. I won’t go in to details to spare my family but, there has been has been more than a couple alchohol-related deaths in my pants (or out of my pants if you want to get technical).

Alcohol + Penis = Breakdown.

On more than one occasion, I have become that guy who can put on the jumpsuit but never jump the plane. In a manner of speaking anyway. Planes weigh tons, I never do fat chicks, their too clingy, with all that sweat and all.

Nothin; says lovin’ like a floppy burrito in your pantalones. It happened once the first time I slept with a girl. How embarassing is that? What was really fun was seeing her the next day at work. This is what played out in my head when I saw her:

Hello. Did you have a limp time last night? Yeah, just hangin’ out with your girlfriends? Yeah. Talkin’ to me is like talking to your sister but at least your sister has a fully-functioning vagina. Jesus! How could I do this with a girl I was ever going to see again, much less, work with on a daily basis? I tell you… it’s the Whitmore luck.

Oh, Jesus. How do I dodge, how do I dodge?!

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. You tired?”

Shit. How could I ask the girl of which whose guts I was going to stir, “Are you tired?” (Did that make sense? No? Oh well.)

“Yeah I’m tired.”

Lying bitch. Don’t you remember I tried to get all Michael Jackson Beat It style with my wet noodle? “That’s good.” Jesus this is awkward. “Well, I’d like to hang out with you again sometime?” Jesus, I can’t believe I just asked the only witness of my most humbling incidents as a man out again.

“O.K.”

Holy Shit, she just said, “O.K.”

You see Boys and Girls, this Whitmore charm can get me anywhere I want. Well, apparently not anywhere. But close.

Long story short, we saw each other for a while after that. Just goes to show you. Women want to be held and men want to be erect… through the whole thing.

But really, this has probably been my most embarassing and chauvinistic thing I’ve published since I’ve been writing this blog.

Notice, I saw “published” and not written.

To man and his bread, may the brotherhood be with you.

Cheers, mate.

2 Comments

Filed under About Whatever