No Style No. 47: It’s like Six Flags, only the ride leaves you messy and sore.

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Why yes, my friends, our emo haircuts, and I do make a habit of scoping out men’s packages in our local used bookstores. Really. Yep. Sure.
For some reason, the “size matters” conversation has been coming up in multiple discussions with multiple friends lately, and it’s been driving me mad - because apparently I’m the only person on the face of the earth (and definitely the only man, gay or straight) who doesn’t think size matters. Call me fuckin’ loco, but I’ve got other things on my mind on a daily basis than the size of my dick, the size of your dick, and the size of the dick on that stranger I happened to pass in the grocery store.
Men are ridiculous size queens. We really are. We fixate on dick size and act as if it defines our worth as a person and our potential to succeed in society. I, frankly, don’t get it. As long as it stands up, lies down, functions properly, and feels good while doing it, then I don’t care if it’s two or twenty inches long as long as it works. That goes for mine, yours, his, and hers.
…well…uh…maybe not hers.
Although the size thing does get ridiculous when you’re catching instead of pitching. Here’s a news flash for those of you who don’t know about this little corner of reality: it. Hurts. And not in the good way. We’re talking in the “lasting physical damage” way. You ever read that horrible het fic where they talk about bumping a woman’s cervix with his massive love rod - and every woman within in a fifty mile radius closes her legs and screams “NO, DEAR GOD, NO!”? Yeah, well, we get that way, too. Show me a twelve-inch cock and I’ll show you a chastity belt with inch-thick steel plates over the ass. I’m very happy for you that you have a gargantuan schlong capable of clubbing baby seals to death. If you try to put that thing in me, I will promptly remove it from your person and give you a hands-on demonstration of exactly what that damn thing feels like.
I’d apologize for the crappy art on this one, make all kinds of excuses about one of those days where I have no hand-eye coordination and the pencil / stylus won’t cooperate, blah blah blah, but y’know, I’m just a mediocre artist, so let’s leave it at that. I have my good days and my bad days and my days in between. It gets the idea across.
What? You were expecting me to say something more? Go on, get outta here. Nothin’ to see here. I’ll snarl about something else tomorrow.
-Adri
”Gargantuan schlong” is almost as fun to say as “giant anime hooters”.
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April 21st, 2008 at 12:48 am
[…] No Style No. 47: It’s like Six Flags, only the ride leaves you messy and sore. […]
April 21st, 2008 at 1:06 am
You’ve been reading weepingcock again on LJ, haven’t you?
April 21st, 2008 at 6:29 am
*snickers* Gargantuan schlong…almost as fun as anal scarring.
And your art is not crappy and you’re hardly mediocre (more like bloody effing amazing!).
April 22nd, 2008 at 3:18 pm
You know, I was trying to eat pudding while reading your post, and now I realise it was a big mistake… Now, I don’t have pudding anymore. =~
April 28th, 2008 at 12:12 pm
Emo-haircuts show that you have style, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.
April 28th, 2008 at 10:03 pm
All I can say is “ouch”. If my spam box is accurate het men are size queens too. Really, why else send 30,000 pieces of spam each day promising wealth, fame, and god-hood if you only had a couple more inches? Sheesh!