When engaged in a debate with a man, the argument stopper has always been, “Well, what do you know? You have a small penis.” The only possible comebacks are saying “I do not” or unzipping to display the merchandise (preferably after a two-minute hiatus whilst said unit is coaxed into making a more significant entrance).
I’ve covered this before, people. In fact, I fully documented the experiment with my pet, Willy, in a previous book. He’s average and I’m O-fucking-K with that.
According to Wikipedia:
“Results vary, with studies that rely on self-measurement reporting a significantly higher average than those with staff measuring, but a mean human penis is approximately 12.9–15.0 cm (5.1–5.9 in) in length.”
A “mean” penis, indeed. Look, eggplant lover, 95% of penises fall into that range, so you’d better get used to it. Don’t expect every man you meet to unroll a hose or you’ll be frequently disappointed. It’s better for you to hope for abnormalities that get the unit closer to your personal pay dirt.
I’ve seen my share of freakish floppers at both ends of the spectrum. Unfortunately, in locker rooms there’s no avoiding them, especially the ones on elderly men. (That’s some super-scary, Friday the Thirteenth shit right there—definitely not for the faint of heart.) Granted, most of the wieners I see are flaccid, but I still get a good idea of what’s going on when I catch an inadvertent glimpse.
My roommate in college was lugging around a pet python. Oh, his poor girlfriend. Seriously. It was as if he were riding on an elephant’s head. I bet he could wash his back with it. I’m sure somewhere in western Pennsylvania there is a happy, bowlegged woman.
I don’t want any woman I am with commenting on Willy. If she compliments his size, I’ll realize that she’s showering the compliments to nudge me closer to Tiffany & Co. If she expresses disappointment, I’ll be forced to find a flaw and blog the shit out of her. Hey, I’m protective of my little guy the way any proud father should be.
Maybe this picking on peckers stems from men being so demanding about boobs. I’m not one of those fellows. I prefer natural, little ones. Big ones may distract me, but a handful is plenty. Plus, I would never use breast size to end a debate with a woman. I can’t imagine saying, “Well, what do you know? You have fried-egg tits.” That would earn me (and Willy) a well-deserved boot to the head.
By the way, all penises (except my Willy, of course) are freakish. They have bulbous ends, winding veins, and occasional scars from mutilation (circumcision). In that sense, rating penises based on anything other than size is unrealistic. I could have a police-lineup-esque display of ten topless women and I bet nine out of ten men will pick the same top three. Do the same with flaccid penises and it’s a crapshoot. Do it with boners and the three largest will win every time. How shallow.
Ladies and men with chestnuts or mushroom caps in their laps should not use penis defamation to win an argument. It’s just not right. (Willy is winking his approval.)