I wanted to let it go. I wanted to just let it wash over my eyes like a retinal shower. Then, I wanted to settle for letting it pass like a particularly troublesome stool. I wanted to act like an adult, to celebrate medical miracles while pretending I’m not juvenile to my very core. But, well…
A man in Boston who lost his dingle-dangle (doctor’s words, not mine) due to cancer, received a new hang-low this week after being three years groin-ferret-free. Side bar: What the hell, there’s dong cancer now!?! With David Bowie and Alan Rickman and artist Darwyn Cooke all dying from cancer just this year and now the threat of wang cancer, what more motivation do you need, cancer doctors? Get to curing.
Not sure why he wanted to be plagued with the burden of a new, stranger’s used hot dog. What, now he gets to pee standing up? Use his preferred bathroom in South Carolina? I bet if he really looked back critically and thought about how much trouble his old bell-end got him into, it would outweigh the number of good times he had with it. (Look at this dude, no offense to him, but it doesn’t look like he was out there laying pipe like the Public Works, he was more like the guy in a sitcom doing light plumbing and having the pipes explode in his own face. No judgement, though.)
What if this is an Idle Hands situation (no way any of you get that movie reference) or, for the bibliophiles out there, a Maurice Renard’s Les Mains d’Orlac situation where he received a killer’s penis and cellular memory compels him to murder with his love truncheon!?! What if this guy becomes a flasher? Or, what if the previous owner was into some weird stuff. Like, he’s sitting at home watching the rodeo and finds himself getting turgid after seeing the rodeo clowns get gored by a bull? “Well, I guess I’m into this now.”
What if they gave him a smaller swizzle stick? I mean, it can’t be smaller than the nothing he had for the last three years and beggars can’t be choosers but how disappointing would it be if he was an arch cocksman and now he has been reduced to a baby baby-maker? And are’t all skin tones different? “No, baby, it’s real and mine, it’s just that my family is Eastern European but my purple-headed yogurt slinger is Mediterranean . . . and smaller than my original.”
Most puzzling is, why did this guy agree to have his surgery covered by newspapers and splash his happily tallywhackered face all over the world? “That’s right, I am the proud owner of a new, used beef whistle. Who’s into some freaky stuff and wants to see if this dead guy’s Franken-Wang works?”
I get that he identifies as male and probably wants the equipment to match, but he had lived a full life with a kickstand, where’s his sense of adventure? Instead of sitting on his post-cancerous nubbin, why not turn it inside-out and take a swing at life with a love glove? With the death of space exploration, so too dies curiosity, I suppose. (I did it! I connected space exploration with bearded tacos and custard launchers!)