I was in a bar last week, sharing a newspaper with my old friend Jasper, who, after a long silence, stood atop his barstool and did what he always does when he’s feeling passionate: He looked me directly in the forehead, all bug-eyed with dilated pupils and a vacant expression and rambled at me as if we’d never met.
“Hey there, pal, if you’re like most men, you stay up all night, angry and distressed, tossing and turning, and wondering till dawn what you would ever do if you had to fistfight a gorilla, because you know you’d never win. They are very strong and have huge, furious molars, and even though they are vegetarians they are way meaner than you and could pummel you to death if you ever tried to steal their harem.
There is, however, my typical man, one fact that will put all of us men at ease when we confront this existential threat, and that is this: Gorilla dicks are way smaller than human dicks.
It’s weird to acknowledge, but it makes many men feel ecstatic to learn that a mighty silverback gorilla has—on average—a one-and-a-half-inch boner, whereas humans—never mind all of our back problems, birth-process issues, dependence on corrective lenses, our relatively sissy little jawbones, and our inability to digest most raw meat, grass, and lots of other stuff—never mind all that… We still have incredibly large dicks compared with other animals. And it’s weird that that gives us as much solace as it does, but it does.
And let me tell you this, young squire: Senior year of high school, I was making out in a car with a girl who’d never seen or touched my penis, and I learned from her later that in our cramped situation, my hip bone had been rubbing against her clitoris, which gave her an intense orgasm.
She told me later that she thought it had been my cock the whole time, but instead of feeling joy that I was able to give the love of my life an orgasm, I instead became obsessed with the question of why this woman thought I was the type of dude who would have a hip-bone sized cock.
So anyways, that’s what it’s like to be a guy.”
I said, “That’s a very interesting story, Jasper.”
And he continued:
“Why, a few years ago a beautiful lady and I were walking down the block from the Filthy Hubcap to a new hotspot called the Adjective Noun to see a Marilyn Monroe Look-Not-At-All-Alike Contest hosted by last year’s winner, former WWF wildman Hacksaw Jim Duggan, and on our way we passed a group of men headed in the opposite direction.
She said to me, ‘I always think it’s funny when guys check out my chest and then immediately look back up when they realize there’s not much going on down there.’
And of course I said to my lady, ‘The reason why they look up so fast isn’t because they think your breasts are too small, it’s because they don’t want you to know that they’re staring at your breasts.’”
At this point, Jasper stopped his story cold, as we both made an unsettling discovery:
When we’re looking at their breasts. It doesn’t matter if you look back up very quickly. They can see your eyes move.
Jasper turned into a cactus and somersaulted through windows.
I divined the ability to speak fluent Dutch, a language of which I had no prior knowledge. A language that consists entirely of barking only consonants at a blank wall while shaking and drooling.
So anyways, that’s what it’s like to be a guy. So we can all understand that it’s fun to hit and break things. It’s beautiful to hit and break things. But there is no beauty in hitting or breaking something that doesn’t want to be hit or broken.
If Keith Moon lights dynamite in his own drum set, the world becomes more beautiful.
If Julie from accounts payable lights dynamite in my drum set—just for fun—the world is a might-bit sucky.
Everybody knows that if you make a fist and press it gavel-side down against the window of a foggy car, and add little dots for toes, it looks just like a tiny foot, and then you can make it look like a baby has been walking all over the car.
Everybody knows this.
But did you know that if you pull your pants down, and press your naked junk against the window of a foggy car, you can go to jail?
Such was the fate of Ol’ Crawdaddy Philips. Finest candlestick maker in all of Silicon Valley. Moonlighted as a blacksmith and churned his own butter.
Funny thing was, Crawdaddy Philips got arrested for humping his own car—a janky old Rolls Royce with Yosemite Sam mudflaps and the trunk gutted out and converted into a pond for his vegan crocodile!
Cop said, “You’re comin’ with me Crawdaddy. I’m sick of your antics and I’m takin’ you to jail!”
What you have to understand though, is that jail in Silicon Valley isn’t the same as jail in America.
No, those young entrepreneurial upstarts petitioned their government in 2012, arguing that the whole jail project lacked potential optimization potential potential return potential overhead.
“There has to be a more efficient way to do time!” argued all the men who work at Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and Foursquare.
“Agreed!” shouted a lady who wasn’t there.
No. In Silicon Valley, criminals have the option of guinea-pigging the tech world’s most ambitious project: The Art Helmet.
The art helmet connects directly to your brain and seeks the purest forms of beauty and horror lurking inside, and it allows you to project your brain-art to an auditorium of spectators, each receiving your art through their own receptacle helmets. The idea is to remove the imperfections that arise from our archaic media: the botched brushstroke, the fumbled piano solo, etc.
And here the crowd had already gathered in the auditorium, wondering what sort of performance they could get from this small-time crook.
“Well,” said the officer backstage. “Here’s your art helmet. What type of art will you give them tonight? Something scary? Funny? Surreal?”
Crawdaddy Philips grinned and cackled, “I’ma gonna give ‘em a porno.”
And the cop protested. “You can’t do that! It’s the Art Helmet, not the Porn Helmet!”
“Listen here, copper. You hand over that art helmet to Ol’ Crawdaddy Philips, and I’ll make you some art that’ll get your dick so hard simile, simile, metaphor!”
Then he snatched the device and ran onstage to face 300 skeptical yuppies.
But Ol’ Crawdaddy got to work, and within five minutes the audience thinked the thought of a pretty lady with salt n’ pepper hair suckin’ some cock(s).
The audience was so moved by this blowjob that one might be tempted to think, upon hearing this completely true story, that this was a romantic, heartwarming, sweet blowjob.
Heartwarming blowjobs exist—certainly—but this was not that. This was a blowjob for voyeurs.
This was a blowjob for folks who dig a stream of mascara rolling over apple cheeks. It was the other kind of romance.
But just when these thoughts reached a peak, everyone was urged to think the thought of a lone tombstone atop a serene hill.
With their eyes they saw Crawdaddy Philips crying onstage as he gently willed them to think the thought that the inscription on the tombstone began, “Here lies Crawdaddy Margret.”
They joined him. Shedding tears, as they shared his heartbreak and celebration of existence, and during the standing ovation, boners poked spines in the sweetest way that a boner can poke a spine. Victorian-era theater seating was stained in the most wonderful way that a lady can stain an antique, and Crawdaddy Philips drifted away on his magical wings that he has, over to the greenroom to await his sentencing.
The police officer said, “Hey there, snapdad. That was a beautiful performance, so you’re free to go. All charges dropped.”
And Crawdaddy Philips said, “Thank you kindly, the fuzz. But I won’t stop humping my Rolls Royce.”
“You really ruined the sentimental mood there, Philips.”
Then they kissed each other on the mouths and told beautiful lies about each other at the dinner table every Christmas.