Just A Test

This is a test, only a test.

 

If this had been a real emergency you would have been completely on your own because I would have slid out the door like a weasel in an act of desperation.

 

That is all.

SURVIVING YOUR BETTER HALF

Perhaps this should be called; "How to Survive, or Not Survive, Having A Better Half That Is Hell-Bent On Keeping You Alive Long After You Know You Have Outlived Your Usefulness", but that would not fit on the title line provided.

I am prompted to write this because I have just such a spouse. It appears that her key goal in life is to make me live longer than I necessarily want to.

Things were going along just fine for the first 20 years of our marriage. I slammed down McBurgers and mayonnaise to my heart's content. I ate 15-20 hard boiled eggs on every Easter Sunday, grease gravy was a beverage, I slurped down millions of gallons of ice cream, entire herds of bacon sandwiches, all the beer my kidneys could handle, and everything else that guys naturally gravitate to when unsupervised. I sat like a swollen slug for hours every day watching ball games, munched on chips and sour cream dip till my eyes were glassy with glutinous delight. If I so desired, I could literally eat an entire can of lard with my bare hands without suffering any repercussions as long as I didn't get any on her furniture. My workouts consisted of 12 ounce curls of beer cans and scratching the twins between remote control finger exercises.

All was perfect in man-world.

Then came the day I turned a certain age and she had the big idea that it was time that I get a complete physical. I don't know why I let her talk me into it, and I sometimes wish I hadn't. I went along with it because I really didn't see a problem. I mean, isn't a mature mans belly supposed to resemble a Volkswagen tire? My father's did and nobody ever told him what to do. He was absolutely ecstatic about his life, all the way up to his third heart attack, and no one ever gave him any crap about his diet. His gestational habits were very simple. Red meat, potatoes, red meat, red meat, beer and red meat. Seems logical to me.

So, I found myself at the doctor's office having all the usual tests. The blood pressure, a few vials of blood for good measure, the finger in the ass, you know, all the fun stuff. We left and went out for the all you could eat deep-fried chicken at the buffet and all was well. That is, until the results of the tests came in a couple days later.

My wife spoke with the doctor on the phone and sported a concerned look on her face. I watched from a distance as her expressions changed from concerned to horrified to mortified, before slamming the phone down on the counter and looking at me as if I had just tied all her tampon strings together, (a great one for April Fool's Day), or used her silk sheets to wipe the motor oil off my hands. I attempted a slick getaway by whistling for the dog and heading for the door, but received a "Stop" command that was so intense the dog shook and squirted on the floor, and I swear, instinctively my butthole clammed shut and my testicles shot up to hide between my pancreas and my liver...

The next two hours were spent sitting at the kitchen table with her occasionally grasping my chin and turning my face toward hers to ensure my complete attention. She spoke in a foreign language that I didn't even know she knew, possibly Ukrainian, using words like "Triglycerides, hypertriglyceridemia, plasma lipids", and a string of acronyms that would have scared the FBI, the CIA, and NBC. She spouted out letters like "LDL, HDL, HBO" and others. I had no idea what she was talking about but I nodded knowingly so she would not make me sit through lengthy explanations of their meanings.

If there is one thing I know about my wife it is not to argue with her when she has my chin in her hand. Any resistance results in her tiny little hand applying instant vice-like pressure that causes my eyes to pop out like a doggie squeeze toy. I must have said "Yes Ma'am" two hundred times. By the way, I strongly suggest that all married guys learn and use that phrase often. Those two words, "Yes Ma'am", have saved me many a slapped face, countless scoldings and in-the-corner time-outs over the years.

By the time she was finished I had agreed to so many things that I didn't understand that I felt like I had just sat through a symposium of neurosurgeons in the banquet room of the Holiday Inn. However, the next few days clarified many things for me.

First came the blue-cap milk instead of the usual red cap. This was followed by stinky fish and skinless chicken dinners. Before I knew it I was taking a thousand fish oil tablets, several prescription drugs, and eating low fat yogurt and celery sticks every day. Suddenly there were baskets and bushels of apples, bananas, kiwi fruit, and granola bars strategically placed throughout the house. All the bologna, ham and liverwurst had mysteriously disappeared from the fridge along with the mayo, the beer and my beloved bacon.

All the boxes of Hamburger Helper vanished into thin air, every Oreo cookie, every box of Fruity Pebbles and every box of macaroni and cheese (the good stuff with the powdered cheese-product pouch) seemed to be transported to another planet overnight. I began sucking my thumb just for the meat protein. She started nagging me incessantly about my smoking, my posture, my lack of willingness to go on long walks and exercising. This woman that I had grown to love and cherish was turning into Hilliary Clinton. Suddenly I was not allowed to go out and carouse the sports bars and eat hot wings with the boys or sit for hours playing mindless games on my computer.

Finally I had met my limit and I went to her with notes in hand to plead my case.

I told her that life for me was about quality, and not quantity. I asked her why I couldn't do anything I liked to do anymore. Why I had to eat rabbit food and drink watered-down milk. Why I couldn't have a bucket of deep-fried chicken and a couple cigars with my pals at a bar. My list was long and well thought out. It even addressed why she had thrown away my stash of Twinkies and all the bags of candy corn left over from Halloween that I had kept under my side of the bed. I finished off my appeal with the phrase "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!". I was sure that one would set her straight.

She folded her little arms and sized me up with one of those "Oh no you Did-tent!" looks and I could feel my well rehearsed act of manly rebellion starting to melt. Her face began to transform from its feminine softness to that of an angry republican talking about health care reform. She began gnashing her teeth together so hard that her fillings were disintegrating into plumes of smoke that bellowed forcibly from her ears. I could feel the bumps raising on my arms and a flush of fear reddened my face. Was it my summary that I wasn't going to take it anymore too much? Should I have stopped after "where are my Oreos?"

Was I going to die now?

She composed herself quickly and stepped toward me. I recoiled slightly but stood my ground. She brought the dreaded hand up and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look her directly in the eyes. My eyes darted side-to-side in attempt to avoid capture but she guided my face like a gelding horse on reins until I had no choice but to pay full attention.

"Because I LOVE you, you big stupid ape !"

Wow. No one had ever said anything that nice to me before. I felt all tingly inside. My shoulders began to drop and relax. My butthole ceased its tight clinch and relaxed to a normal gas-passable state, and my testicles dropped back into the wrinkled bag.

"You are my husband and the father of my children. You are a grandfather, and most importantly, you are my best friend, and I will not let you die on me because of your childish indulgent bad habits."

Okay, this was getting serious. All this time I was operating under the assumption that I was meant to go first and that this was the way of the world. I figured that I had completed my task of providing for my wife and children, paid enough taxes, fixed enough cars and unstopped enough toilets, and was free to assume my rightful position as a deep-fried couch potato. Apparently I was wrong.

Well, here we are several years later and I have grown accustomed to the wheat snacks and late evening walks she imposes upon me. I am able to wrestle with my grandson on the floor without gagging up a lung and clutching my chest. I feel fortunate that I am able to see my children, and their children grow. It is great to not wake up every Saturday morning to nurse a beer, cigar and Tequila hangover. I feel healthier and am more mentally aware than I can ever remember being, and all because of her love for me.

She turns a blind eye as my grand-kids occasionally smuggle in a few Hershey's Kisses or a Kit-Kat bar for Papaw, but she keeps an eye on me at all times.

I guess I literally owe her my life. In fact, so does a friend of mine. She made me so healthy I was able to donate a kidney to a suffering friend. Imagine someone even wanting one of my abused kidneys, but nevertheless, verily it has come to pass, and all because of her.

I suppose the old saying that behind every great man is a great woman. To be more politically correct I suppose the saying should be changed to read; "Beside every healthy person is a loving concerned person". I hate omitting the word "man" because I know how very dumb us guys are. We have a lessened fear of death, which frequently clouds our priorities. We sometimes fail to consider how much we impact the people around us. Who is going to teach the grandson how to fish? Who is home while the parents work and have the time to teach the granddaughter how to ride a bike without training wheels? And probably most crucial of all, who is going to pass on the revered and renowned practice of "Pull my finger", if not ole' Papaw?

Thank you Honey. I couldn't have done it without you.

Peace
JB

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

hesitate to write this story for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm not particularly proud of everything I have done in my life, and this story certainly falls in that category, and secondly, it's not an especially tasteful story. You see, I try very hard to present a persona in my writing that fools the reader into thinking what I want them to think. For example; I want you to think that I have a brain, but as this story will example, that is not always the case. However, in my defense, I will add that this event occurred many years ago and hopefully my IQ has since improved.

I was in my late 20's, and like every young man of that age, I was, how should I put this ... Okay, I'll just quote my father. I was "Young, dumb and full of come". The twenties for a man is an exciting time. We awake every morning with our soldier at stiff attention, lovemaking is at its best, and we are entirely invincible. My young wife was in constant awe of my greatness and my general "I shall rule the world" attitude, so she had every reason to think that I would be a good husband, an decent father and a strong provider for her. She trusted me and my decisions without question. I'm telling you this because I do not wish for this saga to reflect poorly upon her.

Somehow, and please don't ask me how because to this day I am not sure what I was thinking, I came up with the brilliant idea that I should make a plaster representation of my manhood at its best. Okay, let's cut the crap. I wanted to make a life-sized statue of my "rooster". My wife, being young and impressionable, reluctantly agreed to assist me in this endeavor. In my mind I was about to create something of great historic value, not unlike the statue of David or the Venus De Milo, and that it would forever stand as a bold historical representation of "John the Great" of the 20th Century.

I hurriedly went to an arts and crafts store and bought five pounds of Plaster of Paris, (yes, I thought a lot of myself), and rushed home to create the next great monolith of modern of art. I envisioned the finished product being displayed in the Musee du Louvre in Paris France, or at least in the Museum of Fine Arts in San Francisco (although that option made me feel a bit uneasy).

My wife and I ripped open the container and hurriedly made the plaster mixture in one of her best stewing pots and went to work. To keep this as clean as possible I will just say that my wife helped me prepare for the sculpture, and when I was at my best I sat on the edge of the bathtub and she applied the plaster abundantly on my purple headed yogurt slinger, being thorough and applying it from just below my navel to the crack of my derriere.

We then read the instructions and shared a glass of California Red as we waited the 20 minutes for the plaster to cure to its maximum density. Roughly that of a marble headstone. Now, The object was to simply slide my Moisture and Heat Seeking Venomous Python of Love out of the plaster contraption, then pour vegetable oil in the cast, refill it with plaster, wait, lather, rinse and repeat, and then extract the wondrous work of art. Sounds simple. Eh? The problem was when I attempted to extract Big Ed the Scream Machine, he would not budge.

I really must warn you that the descriptions from this point on are somewhat graphic in nature, and much like the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland, it is not safe for persons that are, or may become pregnant, persons with heart problems or those who suffer unusually high gag reflex. I will supply you with this picture to look at as you ponder whether or not you wish to continue.



Shall we continue? Think "YES" or "NO" and respond accordingly.

Okay. In our zeal to create this modern art masterpiece it seems that we had not thought the process through thoroughly. While attempting to extract my love truncheon I discovered the first of many problems. The plaster, which as I said, traveled up my hind quarters, and in effect had made an irremovable plaster chastity device unrivaled by Medieval design. I yelled the only thing I could at that moment of realization. "Mommy!!!!!!"



It was decided that I would need some tools from the trunk of the car so I sent my wife out to the parking lot to retrieve a pair of Robo-Grip pliers. When she returned I bent gently forward and she began trying to pry the rock-hard plaster down and away from my bum. It was very painful but after several minutes I heard a loud "crrraaaaackkk" and a piece roughly the size of a dime fell to the floor with a gentle "tink"

I have to hand it to my wife, she stayed with it, piece by painful piece, until I was once again at least able to cop a squat and fire a dog-rocket, should the need arise. So, that ordeal over, I attempted again to extract my Man Pickle from its plaster sarcophagus.

Problem number two became painfully obvious immediately. That's right, The family orbs were also trapped securely in the plaster. Now, for those of you who do not fully understand the level of pain the twins can effect on a man, just think of it this way. Rather than take a kick in the McNuggets I would gladly prefer to let a Boeing 747 run over my kosher dill during landing. These guys must be protected at all times and at any cost!


We pondered our options for a few minutes as I chugged about a half gallon of California Red and hung my head in shameful defeat. My wife suggested using a nutcracker. Not an option, if for no other reason because of its name. A crowbar? Get real. Go to the hospital? Oh Hell No! I wasn't going to end up in some medical journal as an example of the second dumbest medical emergency in the history of man. (Second only to this guy with a light bulb up his butt)

(Note: I try to be open minded about this Xray. Perhaps his butt just had a great idea!)

ANYWAYS... So, after long contemplation we decided that maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that all my manly hair was simply entangled in the plaster, and that through careful scissor snipping I just might be able to free myself from the horrible pickle and pecan hijacker. Carefully I slipped the scissors down from the naval area and started making gentle snips at my fur. So far so good. But the time came to snip from behind and I was unable to reach into the tomb and snip around my walnuts myself. I vaguely remembered that my wife once told me she had flunked the Home Economics class on sewing, seems a tube top was too challenging for her, but I forced that thought aside and handed her the scissors.

I assumed the moon-river position over the edge of the tub, giving her an unprecedented front row view of my anus-orifice and gritted my teeth. I jumped nervously as she slid the sharp points of the scissors down into the cast and she made the first snip.

OH MOTHER OF HOLY GOD SHES NEUTERED ME! I thought as she gave a healthy snip to my duffel bag. I leapt forward, banging my face against the heavy porcelain tub, promptly bloodying my nose and chipping one of my front teeth. After a few moments of crying like little Polly Pink Panties I took a tentative look back at my wife. The scissors she was holding had a rich-red drip of blood, my blood, running down the blades and over her fingers. "YOU'VE KILLED ME!" I screamed.

It took several minutes for either of us to calm down. My wife got a Hefty bag from the kitchen and laid it across the seat cushion of my easy chair and gently helped me to sit down on it. We both sat in silence for several minutes as thoughts of singing soprano in a barbershop quartet raced through my mind. I also took a moment to consider if I had any interest in sex reassignment. I could easily hop a plane and be at John Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore in under 8 hours. I could start a whole new life. Guys would ogle over my chest all the time and I would never have to pay for another drink in a bar the rest of my life.

The mind plays tricks. You must play tricks back.

ANYWAY... Two hours had passed and we were no closer to a solution. By now the excitement had entirely diminished and Big Ed had shriveled up to the size of a single-celled amoeba. I tried to use my brain, I really did, but times of extreme stress can cause a man certain madness. Finally, I said as calmly, and in as masculine a voice as I could muster; "Go get my hammer". My wife complied without uttering a sound. This was not the time to argue with a man.

A few minutes later found me on my knees, the plaster captive device laying on the edge of the bathtub, and me doing a gentle "tap-tap" at various strategic points. After what seemed like about thirty-seven days, my gentle tap-taps had accelerated to "knock-knocks", and then to "wham-whams", and finally to "BANG-BANGs". At one point I thought I might be making some headway as a piece of something white fell into the tub. I picked it up only to realize that I was now chipping away the porcelain on the tub edge.

"Goddamnit! There goes our security deposit!"

At this point I was more desperate than I could ever recall. There were times in Vietnam that couldn't rival this desperation. I hobbled, pants down around my ankles, to the window and peered out onto the front patio. It was a typical Californian ground-floor apartment patio with a wooden fence on three sides, and a cheap Coleman charcoal grill, but it did have something that I needed. A heavy concrete cinder-block that I could use as an anvil. Even though a quick vision of Wile E. Coyote did flash through my mind, in my desperation I decided what had to be done.


I sent my wife outside to do a quick recon of the neighbors and she reported back that only old Mrs. Wilcox from across the court was out there snipping at her flowers and everyone knew the old gal couldn't see for shit, bless her heart. Besides, I had my three-sided privacy fence so I decided to go for it. With 3 lb. hammer in hand I shuffled hurriedly out the door and lowered myself onto my knees and placed the plaster phallus atop the cinder-block. My wife offered to do the deed but I simply gave a growl not unlike a rabid ferret and she took her post as sentry at the opening of the fence. A "lookout post" if you will.

I said a silent prayer and did that Catholic cross-thingy on my chest even though I'm neither Catholic nor a baseball player, and I raised the hammer high above my head. I squinted my eyes and swung as hard as I could. My right toe was now bleeding like Jebus on the cross and the blood trailed away under the fence and onto the common sidewalk. I yelled some things that I'm not even sure how to spell here, so I will fore-go any descriptive of that verbal bellowing. It suffices to say that even a Merchant Marine with severe Tourette's Syndrome could not have outdone my string of profanity. I looked back at my wife and she nodded anxiously for me to get it over with, and I summoned up the courage to try again, sans closed eyes. I'm not joking, a full fifty swings later I was just beginning to crack the white wiener wrangler open. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a bloody hand and prepared for another assault when just then I heard a little girl's voice say "Mommy, what is that man doing?"

I looked up to see my upstairs neighbor's wife and their five year old daughter looking over the balcony at what must still haunt the little girl even to this day. Let's face it. If you live a thousand years, one of the things you'll probably never see is a guy on his knees swinging a three-pound hammer at his albino cave dweller as it lay sacrificially upon a concrete altar.

It just never happens !

I decided to hurry up and get it done, unfortunately what old Mrs. Wilcox lacked in sight, she more than made up in hearing. She had called the police only moments after I whacked my toe. My wife said "John .... JOHN!", and just as I turned to answer her, two of California's finest entered the patio. The older one crossed his arms and looked me in the eye with a puzzled "WTF?" look, while the younger one covered his mouth and laughed so hard that snot shot out of his nostrils. Once the younger cop composed himself he asked the older cop if he should "call it in". The more experienced cop just shook his head "no" and turned his attention back to me. By now my wife had high-tailed it back into the apartment and was gurgling down the last liter or so of the Red Napa-Juice. I guess she figured if she was going to jail, she might as well go good and sedated.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to go indoors to finish that... whatever the hell it is you think you're doing..."

I felt a slight moment of relief and pulled myself up onto my feet and turned around, only to notice that nearly every balcony in the apartment complex was filled with rubbernecking, and in many cases, gasping women and children and several men shaking their heads as if to say "what a dumbass!" I guess if you're a cop in the San Francisco Bay Area, and given enough time, you will have pretty much seen it all.

I raised my chin proudly, dropped the hammer onto the top of the cinder-block, and with pants around ankles, shuffled the eight hundred and seventy-five baby steps back into the apartment. I gave a nod and a polite "thank you" to the elder officer and shut the door and turned the knob lock, and the deadbolt, and put the chain on, and pushed the refrigerator against it.

After all the rubberneckers had all finished discussing what they had seen and finally returned to their apartments, my wife brought the cinder-block and hammer back into the apartment. After two or three hours the evil plaster captor lay in shards on the floor of the bathroom.

She ran me a warm bath, administered both of us a Valium and took the phone off the hook. I soaked for a while, all the while trying to pick the last plaster hangers-ons from my now swollen and abused man-quarters. The bits of plaster clung to every hair like a malnourished suckling Biafran child so finally I gave up and requested a razor. Not to be too descript, but by the time I finished shaving myself I looked more like a five year old boy than I did a man. Such is the price of stupidity.

What is the moral of this story? Hell, I dunno, except to say that if any of you young guys out there are as friggin dumb as I once was, please see a professional, whether it be a professional in sculptured art, or in psychology.

Booth Out

THE MALE, HIS URINE, AND WORLD CONQUEST

At my house I routinely have to sneak out to enjoy an old vice of mine, smoking. This morning I called my dog, "Milo", a short legged fat little guy, not unlike myself in that regard, and we went out to the porch. My neighbors have a giant female Labrador that leapt excitedly as "Milo" the small Cocker Spaniel puffed his chest out and surveyed the territory, taking special note of the over-sized female. He gave a look up at me as I fumbled with shaking hands in the cold November wind to jump-start a stubborn butane lighter that had seen its better days. I looked at him, and then at the horse-like Labrador and nodded in the affirmative.

Milo proudly strutted into the neighbors yard to a bush just 6 inches from the maximum length of the chain on the female's neck and defiantly took a long, in your face, whiz on their bushes. The female seemed to know instinctively that she was now powerless and she hunkered down on her belly, placing her giant head on her paws in a submissive position. Milo finished up and casually walked back to the porch and sat down beside me, facing the rising sun, ignoring the giant female entirely as she whined a lonely wale.


My wife cracked open the screen door just long enough to see that I was taking a draw on a cigarette and give her usual disapproving scowl. I gave her the same non-acknowledgment that Milo had given the Labrador and she let the door slam shut with a huff and disappeared into the house. Her domain.



It occurred to me that Milo and I are quite alike in our territorial quests. We both have marked out a spot and claimed it defiantly as our own to the chagrin of the females in our lives. I don't recall setting out to prove a point, nor is it in my nature to be disrespectful to the female of the species, but some things are simply what they are by nature. Which brings me to the subject of my penis. (How did that happen? Smooth segway Booth !)

When it come to being a man, his urine and the mechanics of his manhood, there are certain undeniable facts, albeit quirky, but nonetheless, fact. It was not by our own design to awake each day with King Arthur's sword tall and ready for battle. It just happens. Further, it was not by our own design to have testosterone filled veins and a conquerors ambition. That too just happens to be. Not unlike our hairy legs, hairy backs, natural-born upper body strength and the like. It just is, and therefore is a force to be reckoned with by all who choose to interact with us. It is what makes us who and what we are.

This territorial defiance doesn't stop at smoking on the porch or peeing defiantly on the neighbor's bushes, not by a long shot. For example; In a public restroom, whether it be a bar or a church, if I stand at a urinal, which always have one or both of the following; A urinal cake, (No drunk guys, it's NOT a breath mint) or a plastic splash barrier, or one of these combos.

(Ladies, if you are unfamiliar with these things please see the following illustration)

Notice the blue splash guard underneath the combo. It has several holes in it, including one dead center. I always shoot precisely into the center-most hole. It is like target practice at the gun range. In fact, if I am drinking in a bar and find that I am unable to achieve at least 90% accuracy, I consider it the definitive indication that I have reached my alcohol limit. For me this is as good as a sobriety test and I immediately go home.

If the pink breath mint exists I shoot in a circular fashion around the outer circumference, doing my part to erode the mint down to the size of a lifesaver. At this point I, or my fellow brethren, will begin a direct assault upon the pink intruder until it is roughly the size of a Tic-Tac and falls through one of the holes into sewer oblivion. This is however, an unspoken procedure among myself and other men. We don't need to talk about it except when one of us has finally achieved the complete and utter destruction of the invading pink oracle that invaded our blue world.

Now, I cannot speak for all men, but I have a special quirk of my own. I do not, and will not clean a toilet. I would rather pay someone a weeks pay to get down there and stick their hands in that ungodly bowl of putridity than to do it myself. This has been a point of contention between my wife and I for over 30 years. She, on the other hand, will kneel before it, take cleanser, and (ugh... I just threw up in my mouth...) stick her hand in there and clean it. I am appreciative, but always from a distance. However, I do have my own way of helping her. If there is a "ring-o-funk" or most especially if there's a brown chip of "fecal-nast" on the side of the bowl, I will employ the long-term erosion technique of peeing directly on the spot, even if it takes weeks or months, until much like the Sphinx of Egypt, I have weathered it away with my torrential downpours and alleviated the fecal-invader once and for all. I consider this not only an admirable all-male talent, but an accomplishment worthy of annual annuity payments.

I suspect it has always been this way. Although I can find no proof, I strongly suspect that just prior to Napoleon Bonaparte's attack and subsequent conquer of Eastern Poland, he walked to the "Welcome To Poland" sign and took a territorial squirt over the border before yelling "Charge!"


I further expect that Neanderthal men did the same with caves, and that even to this day, late at night when all is still, the Pope hangs his holy pickle over the balcony and affirms his rule of Vatican City.



SO, In conclusion I offer these words of both wisdom and solace. Men cannot help the way they are. It was all in the big plan whether you believe in creationism or in the great primordial soup recipe. The instinct to seize and conquer all lands great and small, those annoying dribblings on the toilet seat, or the marking of the four corners of the yard or the writing of one's name in the snow are not only not our fault, but are also a vital part of the natural order of things. It defines us. It shouts out to the world "I was here!", and that is the very strength that our female counterparts need and expect from us. We protect the world, we clearly define the very boundaries of what is ours and what is theirs. We make the world an orderly place with our penises.

Someday one of us will urinate on Mars and all the other planets we as mankind shall reach, and I highly doubt it will be done by anyone squatting to "tinkle", and we will build upon those planets and provide for our wives and children new worlds in which to explore and enjoy. Again, all because of our penises.

Ladies, I am glad I could be of intellectual assistance.

Guys, put one in the win column for us, and don't use the urinal next to me.



Peace,
JB