|08-23-2000, 02:27 PM||Topic Starter|
Gannon got raped!!!
Join Date: Aug 2000
Location: Wichita, KS.
Casino cash: $5200
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but you may have heard the penis called many things: the flesh crank, one-eyed monster, peacemaker, schwantz, third leg, rumpleforeskin. Or if you're like me, you've simply heard it called "the munchkin log."
I love my penis. Not "love" as in, "I love THE SOPRANOS," but "love" as in "I love air." Dick, prick, prong, dong. Call it what
you will, it is my locus, my focus, my wand of hocus pocus, the petals on my crocus--be careful! It might soak us! See? What other organ can make a man leap into giddy rhyme like that? None. Because for a man, the penis is the wellspring of his joy. Remember, two thirds of happiness is "piness."
Mankind has always been obsessed with the penis. Sigmund Freud is the father of modern penis thought. He invented the phrase "phallic symbol." Before Freud, people would look at a tower or a pine tree and say, "I love it. I wish I knew why."
Guys, enjoy your penis while you can, because eventually, you'll summon it to the center ring and it will remain docile in its
cage. Any guy who thinks lost erections are the only penile dysfunctions coming down the pike hasn't stood at a urinal in a
public restroom next to some old guy who's shaking it like he's rolling dice to spare the life of a loved one.
I felt pretty good when they said the average penis is about six inches. Then I found out that in coming up with that figure, they factored in women. Among just men, it turns out the average penis is 16 inches long. Ouch.
But size is less important to women than we tend to think it is. As visually stimulating as it may be, I don't think the average
gal wants to risk pelvic injury with some two-liter Pepsi bottle-sized freak whose idea of foreplay is hooking up an extra
quart of blood to his arm so he can get hard without passing out. So if women don't care, why do guys obsess about size? The fact
is, guys like easily quantifiable measurements like length or girth, while women treasure more abstract qualities, like
emotional maturity or kindness. Admittedly, I'm generalizing here. Some guys do value maturity and kindness. They're called
"guys with tiny ***** ."
I guess it's not surprising, but penis enlargement surgery is rapidly growing in popularity. For about $6000, you can gain
about an inch in length. That seems ridiculous to me. I mean, for $5 you can just get condoms with vertical stripes.
My advice, if you're considering penile lengthening, is this:
Take your time, and put some thought into it. Pick a reputable doctor from the ads in the sports section of your town's
second-best newspaper. On the off chance you think your penis is too big, you needn't suffer. Just grow your pubic hair extra long
and bushy so that your penis looks smaller. I rub a bottle of Rogaine into my pubic hair every night and now my genitals look
like Gene Shalit smoking a Tiparillo.
Honestly, I usually don't talk about this because I don't like to brag, but I have four penises. One for each season of the year. Sometimes to make things exciting I whip the salmon-colored one out before Labor Day. It's so wrong, but it really drives my wife crazy!
The happiest I ever was with my penis was in the years leading up to the 11th grade, when I had the misfortune of having gym class
with Duncan Loomis.
Duncan Loomis was a pimply kid about 5-6, 137 pounds--37 pounds of which was pure cock. Now, Duncan Loomis was a lousy athlete,
so he'd spend the entire gym class asking, "Is it time to hit the
showers now, Coach?" Because the showers is where Duncan Loomis was the king. Trust me, I had the locker next to his, and when he
took off his jock strap--which, by the way, his mother had reinforced with the webbing used on outdoor patio furniture--I
swear to God there was an audible whoosh as he flopped it out and a discernible gust of wind capable of blowing all our hair back.
And quite frankly, when you stood him next to me, we were like a before-and-never advertisement. Then he'd wrap a towel around his waist in such a way that his massive tool was nudging through the opening like an elephant's trunk searching out peanuts from the back of a circus tent, and saunter through the locker room like Gulliver surveying the sad crop of Lilliputian nubs on the poor cursed mortals before him as he laughed and started bellowing, "Behold the glory of Duncan Loomis!"
By the way, I saw Duncan Loomis at my last high school reunion, and his wife had a tired smile and a funny walk.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.