I’m seriously sick, but still feel duty-bound to update, and so I will.
Like all men, I must daily face a gauntlet of adventurous challenges rivaling the deathtraps of Indiana Jones every time I go to the bathroom. Specifically, I’m talking about the fact that my and, by extension all mankind’s penises, are essentially a complicated game of Russian Roulette where the opponent is yourself and the gun is loaded with urine and shame.
Most of the time, everything goes quite smoothly – the bathroom and I conduct our business, wish each other a good morrow, and are on our respective ways – but perhaps one out of every hundred times something goes terribly, unexpectedly wrong and I find my usually companionable wang has suddenly acquired a random powerup from the old Nintendo game Contra.
Normally, all men begin on the optimal, expected setting; the standard, “one bullet at a time,” no frills default stream.
But then, there is the Machine Gun:
Which isn’t all that bad really, it just switches to a stuttering, semi-automatic annoyance of repeated small bursts that seem to defy you to sheath your weapon and be on your way for fear of a misfire, minutes later. Possibly while doing something direly important – something where your crotch is the focus of attention; such as spotting for the Pope while he does bench presses. What? That happens. Don’t assume about my life, internet.
Worse yet, there’s Fireball:
A rotating, adapting, ever-changing monster of a surprise that can occasionally lead to impossibly tragic circumstances. This setting – while not responsible for the worst of the damage – is often the cause of the most horrendous surprises. It defies direction. It mocks gravity. It rapes physics. Seemingly able to travel through porcelain, walls, windows and even – one sad, snowy December 7th – through the very fabric of time. You might recognize that date. Yes, yes I did just imply that Pearl Harbor was caused by my own misdirected urine. Fuck you for taking issue with it.
And, though I do not speak from experience here, there is Laser Beam:
Typically caused by VD and resulting mostly in inhumane screeching and piteous sobbing, it is best not discussed in civilized company, (which, just for kicks, I will pretend we are.)
Next and finally, comes Spread Shot:
Oh, God. The whirlwind of damage! O, this tornado of horror! Spread Shot leaves broken homes and broken lives in its terrible, ruinous wake. There is no fix for it – no panicking last minute grab for a shielding shower curtain or absorbent cat – for its range is omni-directional, and its horror; complete. Countless bathrooms have been left humiliated and shamed – covered in urine like so many German Housewives – as a poor, frightened, confused man crawls out of his window at three in the morning to flee for the anonymity of sweet Mexico and perhaps, one day, to live with dignity again like a human being.
Do you see what I go through for you? Do you see my sacrifice? Writing words about penises is statistically proven to be the single most taxing work on the human body in the history of time, and here I am in poor health writing words like cock and wangle; all for you. I’m not even exaggerating here. If anything, I am under-exaggerating by 100 billion times. Somebody needs to invent blowjob dollars and then give them to me in appreciation of this shit.