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Build Thee More Stately Mansions, O My Pole

E-mail after urgent e-mail tells me
my penis is too small. Poor shy hunched-up
love button, however did they
find you out?

My wife says I'm just fine -- no doubt
to spare me the embarrassment.
For her kindness,
doesn't she deserve another three inches?
Don't we all?

But what if I go for it and love
the feeling of my erection getting
an erection? What if it's addictive,
"better than sex"? "Honey, 12 inches
is enough!" "Please, just three more inches
and then I'll quit, honest!" -- my wife
finding my laptops hidden in closets,
beneath cushions, as the top of my lap
becomes impossible to hide.

What if, at 36 inches (not a third leg,
but a yard arm), I develop satyriasis?
No toga could camouflage it. It would require
its own crotch crutch. Where would I put it?
Would it leave the rest of me bloodless?
Would my sperm, half way down the endless tunnel,
give up, turn back, colliding with those
still on the way, create a massive traffic jam,
growing until my sperm-delivery mechanism resembles
an ostrich swallowing a tennis ball?

How many women would die in the effort
to deep throat me (going down for a record)?
Would my skin stretch to cope with my erection
or would I burst like an over-fried sausage?
Would I have to register it as a lethal weapon?
Would a 36-inch organ become obsolete
if we converted to the metric system?

On the bright side, what fun to lie beneath
the tented blankets like a kid camping out!
Walking to the shower, I could drape my towel
over it, freeing my hands to hold weights
behind my back as counterbalance. I could make love
to a woman with bad breath -- from a distance.
I could get into S and M and use it
as a whip. It would be flexible and responsive
for fishing, handy for surveying
("This room is 10 square boners in area").
Penis duels could replace fencing
as an Olympic event -- "Touché! A prick!"
During the Xmas season, I could lie
on my back, my extra limb decorated
with evergreen boughs, my balls like gifts
beneath the tree. From a safe distance,
I could put out fires. In restaurants
no need for footsy -- it could rest
on her lap (she sitting across the table).
I could have a gay relationship
in which, from a distance, pleasuring each other,
we'd shout the glad tidings (their ebbs and -- ah! --
surges) from pole to pole.

And I could give myself head, which is
almost like being God: My rod and
my staff, they shall comfort me!

But there are drawbacks: Even limp, there'd be no hiding
the snake that would go with me.
Penises (peni?) aren't like tape measures
or vacuum cleaner cords -- press the button
and they zip back out of view.
I might have to avoid rooms with
rocking chairs -- though I'd be in demand
for jump rope. Hey, Babe, wanna see
an elephant?

If it did shrink to modest size,
what gross fungi might thrive in such slack,
warm, moist and deeply rumpled skin?
(Fun-guy fungi?) "Dear, you've been in
the shower for an hour now." "Sorry,
I just HAD to do my prick." When aroused,
I wouldn't be able to fit into revolving doors
or shower stalls. How does one get out of a sports car?

I see the diabolical scheme: Once we've all
become monstrous, we'll be inundated with ads
for penis shrinkers: "Tired of riding buses
with the 20-volume OED on your lap? Tired
of strangers wanting to autograph it?
Do your dates faint or run screaming
from the bedroom when they see your gear, Dear?
Is the burning core of your love life
obese? Doesn't your petite lover deserve
a svelte, wiry, lean, mean machine?
Give yourself the elegant (not elephant!) organ you deserve!
Take off three inches the first week. Absolutely
guaranteed -- as shown on network television!
No surgery required.

Copyright c. 2003 by Dean Blehert. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED   
last updated: March 2, 2005