Witt and Wisdom

Turgid

I think it's important to note that even though there are annoying distractions going on in our world (such as war and bombings and terrorism), there are still trained and skilled professionals that are deeply concerned about your penis.   Well, unless you're a woman.  Then I'm not sure if anyone is really worried about your penis.

According to this article, the scientific community is preparing newer, faster and longer-lasting methods to keep you harder than calculus.  In the future, through the evolution of modern medicine, men will just walk around with a raging hard-on 24 hours a day.  So, not much different than the present, really.

The thing that cracks me up about this story is the names under which these new drugs are being marketed.  God bless marketing people for taking six-figure salaries and coming up with names like "Levitra". 

An excerpt from the staff (HA!) meeting on naming:

Marketing Idiot #1:  Ladies and gentlemen, we are tasked today with coming up with a name for our client's incredible new drug.
Marketing Idiot #2:  Uhhh...whatzit do?
Marketing Idiot #3:  I like ham. (drool)
MI#1:  This new drug is for the male downstairs region.  Our client is looking to "raise expectations" (air quotes) for men, if you know what I mean.
MI#2:  Um, no.  I don't.
MI#3:  (drool).
MI#1:  Don't make me spell it out people.  I'm talking about enhancing the dangle-down.  Making the noodle naughty.  Putting the jack back in the rabbit.
MI#2:  I like pasgetti.
MI#3: BUNNIES!!
MI#1:  Jesus Christ, I'm talking about giving guys boners here.
MI#2:  Ooohhhhhhh.
MI#3:  Not bunnies?
MI#1:  Now, we need a name that says "power" and "strength" and "erect!" (extreme air quotes).
MI#2:  How about "Erect - The Pill for Erections"
MI#1:  I like that.  It's a good start.
MI#3:  How about "Boner - The Pill For When You Can't Get It Up"
MI#1:  Subtle.  I like that.
MI#2:  I like: "Cocky - For A Big Cock"
MI#1:  That's genius.  But I'm looking for something that conveys more of a "magical" feel. 
MI#2:  Maybe, "David Cockerfield's Wangtastic Hard-On Pill"?
MI#1:  Just now, I fell in love with you.
MI#3:  Magicians scare me.
MI#1:  Trevor makes a good point.  Magicians are scary.  What else is magical?
MI#2:  "Hairy Putter and The Rock-Hard Bone"?
MI#1:  I love that like my grandmother, but it sounds too much like a porno movie.  What else?  Come on people, it's close to 3:00 here - I've got a 3:30 tee time...
MI#3:  I like tea.
MI#2:  I always like it when magicians pull stuff out of hats.  How about "Abracockdabra - For When You Need to Pull a Huge Dick Out of Thin Air!"
MI#1:  I like how you worked "pull" and "dick" into the tag there...
MI#3:  I like the floaty ladies.  Magic guys make people float.  Up in the air.  Floaty!
MI#1:  I see where you're going...and we're working...we're working...what's like floating...?
MI#2:  Isn't it called "leveltration"?
MI#1:  Well, technically, it's called "levitation".  Let's run with that...
MI#3:  "Levitration" is too long for me to remember...how about just "Levitra"?
MI#1:  Well again, technically, it's "levitation", not "leviTRAtion".  But I'm really tired and it's late.  Levitra it is.  Here's a bonus check Trevor.  I guess you could call it a "boner check".
MI#3:  I don't get it.

Do Or Do Not Do

Five more days until I turn 32. 

In my weeklong effort to try to convey the wisdom of my years, I thought it might be a good idea to share the secrets for a healthy and successful love life, as I know them.

I’ve found a good pick-up line to be:  “Excuse me, I know this is crazy, but I’ll be mad at myself tomorrow if I don’t at least come over here to tell you that your eyes are probably the most beautiful that I’ve ever seen.  You don’t even need to say anything; I just wanted you to know.”

On the other hand, a bad pick-up line is:  “You don’t look like a fuckin’ prude like the rest of the bitches here. Ever had your ankles hooked around the headrest of a ’91 Camaro?”

When looking to “close the deal” at the end of the night, a good effort may be:  “I’d love to spend the night with you, even if it’s just to wake up next to you in the morning.”

Conversely, one may not be as successful with: “If you ain’t humpin’ my kielbasa in ten minutes, I’m gonna go jerk off."

Hello? It’s For You…

I’m getting pretty goddamn sick of these TV ads for all of the shit that cell phones can do now.  Get over yourselves.  It’s a phone.  The following features are required:

Buttons to dial. 
Place where noise goes in. 
Place where noise comes out. 
Done. 

But no.  Now phones are Portable Media Stations.

“Look, Becky!!  I took a pixilated picture of my vulva and I’m gonna send it to Jimmy so that he knows how much I wuuuv him!”

“Hey Tiffany!  Text message me the results of your herpes test!  I can hardly wait!”

“Amber!! Guess what?  I got the new ring tone!! Now everybody can know what an annoying twat I am, cuz 50 Cent plays every time someone calls!  What?  I know!  I am such a cockgobbler!”

“Holy fucktarts Biff!  You need to get this new phone with Voice Activated Dialing!  All I have to do is shout the name of my ex-girlfriend into the phone about 50 times and eventually it recognizes my voice and dials for me!!  What?  Yeah, it would be easier to just dial the number myself, but I can’t count past six!”

“Trevor, check this shit out!  I just got the new hands-free device!  Doesn’t it make me look like a pretentious fuck who actually has people to talk to!?  The best part is, I can now use my free hand to give you a reach around!”

How about applying some of this technology to more important parts of our daily lives?  I, for one, am looking for a customizable ring tone to play from my penis during climax.  Primarily, I want the start of You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi, which begins:

Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame
Darlin’ you give love
A bad name. 

That’d fucking rock.  Hard.

I’d download tons of Cocktones* to my “hard drive” in a hurry if this technology was available.   

C’mon Nokia.  Get with the fuckin’ program.

*I’m totally trademarking this, so don’t even think about stealing my fucking idea.

Family Ties

When I was about eleven or twelve years old, my mom decided to assemble the thousands of photos of our family memories into four massive albums.  There were so many hazy recollections that crystallized upon seeing a single photo, that it was nearly overwhelming.  I loved looking through the piles, because, generally, family photos capture happiness.  I had a very rich, fun and amusing upbringing, with a sister that is seven years my senior and a brother that is a year younger than her.  So, for those of you out there that are social scientists, yes, I was a “happy accident”.  But I never felt like it.  Well, almost never.   

As my mom was organizing and filing the immense collection of pictures, I remember looking through some of the old, grainy color photos, trying to resurrect the moments in my mind. 

There…was the picture of me, wadded up in a mammoth old tractor tire, as my sister and brother rolled me around.

There…was the photo of the three of us all dressed up, performing a newscast skit for my parents in our family room.

There…were the snapshots of every first day school for all three of us, from kindergarten forward. 

There…was…

“Hey mom, what’s this a picture of?” I inquired.

The Happy Place

This morning on the way into work, sitting in traffic once again, I was determined to maintain my good mood.  In the past, I’ve found that the best way to preserve a positive outlook is to retreat into a happy place in my mind, blocking out all external stress.

So I filled out a withdrawal slip from my memory bank and delved into my childhood for a calming influence.  One beautiful thought leapt immediately to the forefront.

Grimly Reaping

So, death is stalking me.  Which sucks.

I’m not sure how exactly I got on the Reaper’s "naughty" list, but He appears to have it in for me.  When I woke up yesterday, I cursed my sinuses for yet another night of fitful sleep brought on by the ever-present Atlanta pollen.  I may have said something to the effect of, “Jesus, I can't take this snot anymore! KILL ME NOW!!”

So I guess it could be argued that I brought this all on myself.

The Wiz Kid

I was recently reminded of an event in my life that the folds of my brain had chosen to compartmentalize and file under the heading of “Repress”.  I tell this story merely as a cautionary tale to the youngsters out there that may be tempted by the sweet nectar of the Vodka tree.  Drink not of its delicious fruit, ye carefree young innocents!  Vodka is the demon bitch that will love you and cradle you when you are faithful to her and her alone; but should you attempt a sordid ménage-a-trois by introducing that filthy whore Madam Beer to your partnership, Lady Vodka will lash out at you with vicious and unexpected horror. 

My tale is gruesome.  Be warned.

My Penis May Be a Terrorist

I have, for some time now, not trusted my penis.  It has that look.  Nervous.  Shifty.  From a very young age, I sensed that it was up to something sinister.  Now, my suspicions are beginning to grow (so to speak). 

I travel a lot for business and on nearly all of my jaunts around the country, I dutifully take my penis with me.  I am nothing if not loyal.  Until recently, my penis has been rather quiet on these trips, choosing to forego the sightseeing and fancy restaurants.  And I respected that.

On my latest trip to Boston, however, my penis was up every morning before I was, doing God-knows-what.  Also, I believe it may have been stealing money.  Cannot confirm. 

I sense that you believe me to be paranoid.  But there is more…

On my way through security at Boston Logan International Airport and Rock Quarry, I was…sullied.  Allow me to first say that, having passed through security stations worldwide, I have learned to streamline myself for an easy checkpoint transition.  I have all leather shoes, a fashionably unresponsive belt buckle, a note for the metal plate in my head, all lint in my pockets has been shaken free of potential iron filings…I’d shave my body if I thought it would help (possibly even if it wouldn’t).  I’ve never had an issue.

So, after I removed my laptop from its case and had taken off my coat and had placed my suitcase, computer bag, laptop and coat securely on the special conveyor belt, I maintained my characteristic level of smug arrogance as a traveling professional.

“Hold on Mr. Security Man! I shall enter your gates of judgment momentarily!” I thought to myself, secure in the knowledge of the smooth, lead-free skin beneath my cotton fiber clothing.  "Ah yes! I am a modern day Marco Polo!  Scanning the globe in search of new and amazing conquests!  All hail and bow at the feet of the…"

Beep.

“Sir, could you step over to the side here, please?” said the vibrantly dull security denizen. Then, over his shoulder, “I NEED A MALE BODY SEARCH OVER HERE!”

Well, who doesn’t? 

“Sir, could you please have a seat over there?”      

Well, certainly.  I am Marco Polo.  My card.

“Please hold your feet straight out in front of you sir.” A new security expert now.  I glance his name badge. Carl. Of course.  I suspect he may be a foot fetishist.

“I need to wand your feet here…” Carl gestured. 

Wand.  Must…restrain…giggle…fit…

Right foot first.  Down over the knee, past the ol’ shin, rounding the top of the shoes, whip past the toes there, underneath…

Beep.

Well, shit.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to remove your shoes,” sighed Carl in a supremely indifferent fashion.

This is a problem.  Believe me when I tell you that when I have to take off my shoes in a public place, the terrorists have won.  Yet, off they go.

“Please stand up, sir,” he, again, sighed.  Completely bored with terrorists, Carl is.  “I just need to wand you here…”

We’ve done this joke Carl.

“Please put your arms out to your sides, sir.”

Jesus Christ Pose.  I’m feeling outshined.

Down the arms and back again.  Rings…Beep.  Watch…Beep. 

“That was yer watch,” states Carl.

Well, no shit, Carl.  If it had been a dildo, we all could’ve had a good laugh.

Down the back.  Quick brush down the front. 

Beep.

“Sir, I’m gonna need for you to unbuckle your belt completely and hold the ends to the sides.”

Uhhhh-huuuuh.  I have received upwards of $50 for this service in the past, so I make another quick check of his badge at this point to verify his credentials.  Seems real.  It’s goldish, anyway.

“All righty…there ya go,” I say graciously.

“Thank you, sir,” says Carl, still blasé. “I need to wand down the front of you again.”

Okay, everyone sure as fuck better stop using “wand” as a verb around me, already.

Beep.

“That’s the button on my jeans,” I say to Carl, by way of explanation.

“Do they button all the way down, then?” Carl asks, cocking an eyebrow, wanding me up and down the length of my zipper.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep-beep.  It’s a fucking Roadrunner cartoon down there.

“Well, no,” I answer.

Wand.  Beep.  Wand-wand.  Beep-beep. 

“Sir, I’m gonna need to feel this area,” he says.

Can you blow in my ear first, Carl?

“You need to do what, now?” I ask.

“I need to check this area,” he says calmly.

That “area”, Carl, is my penis.  Can we stop calling it my “area” and show it the respect that it deserves, please?  Althooough…“area” does kind of make it sound large.  “Area” it is, then.

I desperately wanted to squeal or turn my head and cough or say, “a little to the left, please, and faster” as he began feeling my “area”, but I know how airport security people have such a mild sense of humor about such things.  So I stay silent and think of baseball. 

“Okay, thank you sir,” Carl said, sated. 

No, thank you, Carl.  At least he didn’t look up and declare, “Nope! Nothing here!”

So I buckle my belt and look down at the charming sweat stains that my size 12 feet have stamped upon the black security mat.  Quick scan for comely flight attendants in the area.  None in sight.  Off I go to gather my shoes.  They lay motionless and lonely on the security conveyor.  Sharing in my humiliation, no doubt.

As of this writing, I am still on the airplane and have not gotten a chance to check my “area” more closely, so I have no idea what my penis is smuggling down there.  Toenail clippers? Stiletto?  Brass knuckle?  Difficult to say. 

I only know this:  I will be keeping an eye out (poor choice of words there) for suspicious activity from my penis.

I suggest you do the same.