This is what I was greeted with upon checking my e-mail this morning:
"Small member? Order male enhancement meds today"
"Women want you to have a bigger tool"
And finally, the one that made me cringe slightly:
"Add 4-6 inches to your pen1s in 6 weeks!"
4-6 inches? ...In 6 weeks? What?!
So I asked myself: "Self? Do you really want to be toting around a 10-12 inch man-handle everywhere you go, in addition to having to explain to potential lovers that you are a freak of nature and that you might actually rupture their spleen during lovemaking?"
I considered the question. Long and hard.
And um...no. I don't feel like having to roll my penis into a coil just so I can fit into my pants. I really don't feel like dealing with the stares from awestruck onlookers in the locker room, and I *really* don't feel like enduring the inevitable pain of my poor boy branch banging against my knees when I go for a run.
In an ideal world, my penis would magically appear when it's time to be used. At all other times maybe it would hide in a secret sheath somewhere, so I don't have to awkwardly adjust myself on airplane seats or when crossing my legs. But...that's just not reality.
Far from it.
Women won't ever know the joys of having to constantly port around their externally mounted reproductive bits. In fact, they get to wear things like yoga pants and 'boy shorts' without ever having to worry about their 'twig and berries' getting CRUSHED.
Count your blessings, ladies.
And don't give me this BS about having to deal with boobs. Those things are made mostly of fat. They don't contain hypersensitive nodules thick with nerves that run into your gut. In fact, they secrete milk sometimes. It's like you have a fucking SNACK BAR on your chest.
In summary, no, spam e-mail senders. I'm quite happy with my modestly apportioned package and I don't wish to become even more miserable than whatever merciless god created me to be.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Hey infant - thanks for VOMITING on me
There I was, sitting on the tarmac at the Phoenix airport, happily reading my issue of Sexy Cyborgs Weekly when a young mother and her VERY small child approach me.
"That's my seat," she said (the mother, not the baby) "24A."
I acknowledged her and stood up to accommodate her passage into the window seat that she and her tiny human-ling were assigned. The two of them smelled a bit like baby powder (understandable) and synthetic motor oil (not very understandable) but I thought nothing of it.
The child was a boy from what I could gather. I am not very good at discerning the gender of babies, but the creature was wearing a blue baby-suit-thing so I suppose it was an educated guess. He only had two teeth - the lower, central two.
I have to admit, he was kind of cute in that "I'm-a-baby-it's-impossible-to-not-love-me-because-I-have-not-been-calloused-by-the-evils-of-the-world" way.
So I asked, "What's his name?"
"Jacob," she replied, "he's 4 months tomorrow." And with that comment, the young mother promptly whipped out her left breast and introduced it to the child's yawning little mouth. I was like whoah.
Boobs on a plane.
BAWWWWW how adorable. 4 months. I wish I could remember what life was like at 4 months, considering the simple pleasures of eating pureed peaches all the time and occasionally getting to work a nipple with my gums in a public place. But no such luck. My first memory is of going to the emergency room with a life-threatening case of chickenpox. FML.
Anyway, as the tiny carbon-based bundle of joy was snacking on his mother's mammary glands I thought briefly about Lamborghinis. Just because, well, Lamborghinis are awesome. That thought quickly turned to one of me dieing in a blazing inferno as the airplane's engines roared to life and we lifted off from Phoenix.
I always have visions of agonizing death when flying. It's part of the charm of air travel for me.
About half an hour into the flight I was awoken by little Jacob pulling at my hair. His mother was asleep and Jacob was feeling froggy, apparently. So, I humored him. I let his tiny fingers wrap around my thumb and we played tug-of-war for a bit until something absolutely traumatic happened.
Jacob looked me dead in the eyes, threw back his head, and projectile vomited all over my freshly-pressed dress shirt.
I now had a yellow-white streak of breast-milk-and-stomach-acid solution slowly coursing down my chest, seeping into my undershirt and creating a generally unpleasant scenario for not just me, but for all passengers within a 20 foot radius. The smell was dry heave inducing.
I was now faced with a difficult decision. Do I wake the mother up and let her know that her demon-child assaulted me with an eruption of her breast milk? Or do I not bother, and retreat into the rear lavatory to 'freshen up' a bit?
I opted for the latter. The mother looked quite exhausted and after all - Mother's Day was in 2 days.
So, I got up out of my seat and trudged back to the lavatory, through no less than 20 aisles of passengers...almost ALL of whom were looking at me like I was a homeless mutant with an incurable, contagious disease. I just smiled politely and tried in vain to cover with my hands the disgusting scar of baby yak criss-crossing my chest.
Eventually I made it back to my seat to find that the mother was now awake, and the baby was soundly asleep. They had swapped out. *I*, on the other hand, was wearing a shirt half-soaked in water, with a look of defeat on my face.
The mother looked at me quizzically, as if to say, "WTF is wrong with you stay away from me" and I guess that's understandable.
She had no clue that her son barfed all over my work clothes.
The rest of the flight went well enough. I made it through my trip without much incident, and on my return flight I remember thinking, "That baby is going to grow into a boy and then into a man...he is going to go to college and make a bunch of friends, and he'll likely live a generally good life."
"But there's no way in hell he's going to remember losing his lunch all over a stranger on a goddamned plane flight from Phoenix to Denver."
"That's my seat," she said (the mother, not the baby) "24A."
I acknowledged her and stood up to accommodate her passage into the window seat that she and her tiny human-ling were assigned. The two of them smelled a bit like baby powder (understandable) and synthetic motor oil (not very understandable) but I thought nothing of it.
The child was a boy from what I could gather. I am not very good at discerning the gender of babies, but the creature was wearing a blue baby-suit-thing so I suppose it was an educated guess. He only had two teeth - the lower, central two.
I have to admit, he was kind of cute in that "I'm-a-baby-it's-impossible-to-not-love-me-because-I-have-not-been-calloused-by-the-evils-of-the-world" way.
So I asked, "What's his name?"
"Jacob," she replied, "he's 4 months tomorrow." And with that comment, the young mother promptly whipped out her left breast and introduced it to the child's yawning little mouth. I was like whoah.
Boobs on a plane.
BAWWWWW how adorable. 4 months. I wish I could remember what life was like at 4 months, considering the simple pleasures of eating pureed peaches all the time and occasionally getting to work a nipple with my gums in a public place. But no such luck. My first memory is of going to the emergency room with a life-threatening case of chickenpox. FML.
Anyway, as the tiny carbon-based bundle of joy was snacking on his mother's mammary glands I thought briefly about Lamborghinis. Just because, well, Lamborghinis are awesome. That thought quickly turned to one of me dieing in a blazing inferno as the airplane's engines roared to life and we lifted off from Phoenix.
I always have visions of agonizing death when flying. It's part of the charm of air travel for me.
About half an hour into the flight I was awoken by little Jacob pulling at my hair. His mother was asleep and Jacob was feeling froggy, apparently. So, I humored him. I let his tiny fingers wrap around my thumb and we played tug-of-war for a bit until something absolutely traumatic happened.
Jacob looked me dead in the eyes, threw back his head, and projectile vomited all over my freshly-pressed dress shirt.
I now had a yellow-white streak of breast-milk-and-stomach-acid solution slowly coursing down my chest, seeping into my undershirt and creating a generally unpleasant scenario for not just me, but for all passengers within a 20 foot radius. The smell was dry heave inducing.
I was now faced with a difficult decision. Do I wake the mother up and let her know that her demon-child assaulted me with an eruption of her breast milk? Or do I not bother, and retreat into the rear lavatory to 'freshen up' a bit?
I opted for the latter. The mother looked quite exhausted and after all - Mother's Day was in 2 days.
So, I got up out of my seat and trudged back to the lavatory, through no less than 20 aisles of passengers...almost ALL of whom were looking at me like I was a homeless mutant with an incurable, contagious disease. I just smiled politely and tried in vain to cover with my hands the disgusting scar of baby yak criss-crossing my chest.
Eventually I made it back to my seat to find that the mother was now awake, and the baby was soundly asleep. They had swapped out. *I*, on the other hand, was wearing a shirt half-soaked in water, with a look of defeat on my face.
The mother looked at me quizzically, as if to say, "WTF is wrong with you stay away from me" and I guess that's understandable.
She had no clue that her son barfed all over my work clothes.
The rest of the flight went well enough. I made it through my trip without much incident, and on my return flight I remember thinking, "That baby is going to grow into a boy and then into a man...he is going to go to college and make a bunch of friends, and he'll likely live a generally good life."
"But there's no way in hell he's going to remember losing his lunch all over a stranger on a goddamned plane flight from Phoenix to Denver."
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