Men and Their Little FriendsWritten by D. Gustafson
I’ve never been able to quite get a grip on a man’s attitude towards his penis. Look it’s a body part. We all have body parts. But somehow, someway, male penis has evolved to such an extent; it has developed its own personality, hell, its own life. If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.
Go ahead, ask a man. I guarantee you; he’s named damned thing.
Now let me tell you, they’re not ordinary names, no sir. This small, goofy looking piece of flesh, sitting in front of two overly sensitive orbs, always, and I do mean always, merits some sort of large or action packed name – “Big Jim and Twins” or “Pumpin’ Pile Driver o’ Passion”.
Yep, they’re talking about that thing that retreats at merest suggestion of cold water, and twins? They’re hydrophobic. No doubt about it, none at all. They don’t merely retreat, they flat out run away. Or is it roll away? A shyer trio you’ll never find.
These appellations, slightly threatening in tone, have no relation to actual size of organ. Even tiniest penis, to its owner, warrants big and dangerous names…”The Thrill Drill”, or my personal favorite, “Vlad Impaler”. At least latter shows a rudimentary knowledge of history.
I don’t quite understand threatening part. When those little things are pressed into action, don’t they want to draw women in, attract them? Think about it for a second, would you prefer to be impaled, drilled, or massaged? Why not something like, “Gianni Gentle” or “Ronny Rubdown”? Or better yet, go for gold with something meaningful, albeit lengthy, like, “No, Your Ass Doesn’t Look Big”.
My momma always taught me that you catch more flies with honey, than vinegar.
Owning a penis must be a daunting proposition, maintenance alone must be overwhelming. The poor owner has to continually “drain main vein”, and “pull back its turtleneck” to properly wash. Then, of course, he has to dress little bugger by “putting on its helmet”.
I nearly Drove the Ruddy Fire Engine MyselfWritten by Holmes Charnley
Now then, those visitors already familiar with some of other articles on site will know that, yes, I found love last year, but it involved me taking on role as step dad. I wasn't really up for that, to be honest. It can be best summed up as: I fell in love but at a cost.
I was a bachelor boy and I don't mean in way that Sir Cliff ruddy Richard is. No, that's just unnatural and deeply disturbing bachelorhood (!) I mean, I was one of boys down bar, shooting pool and giving my liver a nervous breakdown.
But, there we are, I was in love so a young boy and girl became my step-kids. To be honest, I'm young at heart. It's an advantage. (I think pickling of my liver weirdly also preserved my mind in a suspended perpetual youthful look on life. Pickled and preserved, I think they call it …)
It has been very hard for me at times, a whole new routine, but as I write this seven months have passed. And with those months, a certain acclimatisation has taken place.
I'd like to draw reader's attention to something that happened earlier today. We were all down town, sorting out shopping etc, when I noticed that there was a fete being held on forecourt of fire station. And as we moseyed over, it became apparent that kids were getting a ride round block in one of engines.