Compiled, Translated, Edited and Curated by Urist McAuthor
There is such a thing as too much attention paid to a penis. A man’s love muscle is certainly something to be envied in a Freudian kind of way. So certainly I understand the inclination to stare. But sometimes there can be too much attention paid to a penis. Sometimes it ruins conversations. Sometimes it makes business meetings a bit too stimulating. Sometimes it can bring tears of wonder to the eyes of a crowd. There is a certain majesty inherent in the modern schlong, I do not dispute that, but that wonderful fact should not invite invasive attention; far too much attention to be paid to one penis. There are times in the life of every lone trouser snake when it needs to sit in peace and solitude. There are moments when even the most vivacious wiener requires a modicum of personal space. Most definitely does a dong determine the distinctive direction of a social situation on occasion. And outcomes, being what they may, might require action on the part of the penile entity. However, when a lonely preference is expressed, please don’t pay so much attention to my penis.
It is my current, long held, strongly maintained, and viciously defended opinion (which I am intensely attached to) that exercise should serve one purpose and one purpose only. If I, one day, find myself hanging off a cliff by my finger tips, I do not want to die. I want my body to simply flex once and flow from its precarious position back on to the top of the ledge to the astonishment of my band of followers. Their expressions would reflect their astonishment because they will have already resigned themselves to my inevitable demise at the hands of gravity. My face will shine gloriously in pride, and most devastating will be my wrath as I punish the doubters. May all the worthless exercises in the world be forever at the farthest nether regions of my routine (I am looking at you kegels). For when the day of reckoning comes I shall be ready.
On the Subject of Laundry
A recent night saw me schlepping my moldering clothing bag down the street like some sort of vestment Atlas. The green mesh bag was filled to the brim with two and a half weeks of clothes. Rain storms, house parties, and sweaty exercise were all converging in the olfactory centers of my brain stirring in me, for the most part, intense annoyance. Annoyance at the distance to the laundromat, annoyance at the darkness obscuring my vision, annoyance at the passersby who shot me meaningful glances about the epic size of my burden, but mostly annoyance at the stench. Then I realized, that smell, that moldering, sweaty, acrid rain smell represented the culmination of my life for the past weeks. All I had striven for, all I had accomplished, all the people I had influenced were represented in the cumbersome mass that I held propped on my shoulder. How unfitting then that I did not love that representation regardless of its origin. I should value my life. I should remember and rejoice in my accomplishments. I should breathe in the fresh meaning of my self worth symbolized in the assortment of soiled vestments. Unfortunately, it still smelled like shit.