thepenismightier

The red phone rings.

You do know the red phone, right? It’s the one that all of us A-List rock star bloggers have that automatically connects us with each other.

“This is Avitable.”

“Hi, it’s Lotus.”

“What’s today’s password?”

“Heather sticks her tongue in men’s assholes.”

“Correct. So, what’s up?”

“I need a guest post.”

“I knew you’d call in that favor sometime. I guess I owe you for getting rid of that dead hooker for me.”

“Too bad for you that you didn’t know anyone else with lots of lyme and a chainsaw.”

“True, true. Are there any parameters to this guest post? Restrictions? Demands?”

“Just no full frontal nudity. Everything else is okay with me.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“Damn straight you will. *click*”

************

I’ve racked my brain. How do I, of all people, appeal to an audience that reads a blog like this one? She used to have a picture of a fucking pacifier in the header and has a kid and talks about being a mom and baby poop and pregnancy and topics like that. This is all emotional shit here – how can a childless man even understand or empathize? I hear stuff like “You don’t have kids, so you wouldn’t understand” or “You’re just a man, you wouldn’t understand” all of the time. And it’s probably true. I don’t understand babies or the love of them. I don’t understand why people continue to procreate. I don’t understand why children aren’t locked up until they’re 10.

But I’m still a sensitive, emotional guy. I use Aveda moisturizing face wash and I love the Gilmore Girls. I can talk on the phone for hours and think most men have a short circuit in their brains. I notice when my wife gets her hair cut or wears a new outfit. So I know I have it in me to convince you, dear reader of Sarcastic Mom, that I am one of you.

Then it hit me. Last year, to show solidarity for all of the women who wrote letters to their bodies as part of that BlogHer initiative, I wrote my own. What better way to show my sensitive side, to fit in with the Sarcastic Mom readers, than to repost it here?

Dear Body,

I love you.

I knew that a steady diet of cheeseburgers, french fries, pizza, and butter would make you into an object of desire and affection.

I love that you can displace all of the water in a pool with one cannonball.
I love that your pants would feed a largish village in Africa.
I love that I get to use a mirror to see my penis and feet, since that lets me just gaze at myself.

Your breasts started out firm, but after having many Baby Ruths, they have become a bit saggy, but that’s okay. I’d never be able to lick my own nipples otherwise.

Your stomach, pregnant with many, many food babies, has expanded, but that’s okay. It’s a good place to sit a book or balance a tray.

Your thighs, once glistening pillars of steel, now brush together, but that’s okay. If I get trapped out in the wilderness, I can just wear corduroy and walk around to start a small fire.

Your penis, a mighty warrior of slightly above average size, has now hidden itself among your girth, but that’s okay. The smaller size makes it easier for smaller hands, say that of a high school aged girl.

Your butt, once shapely and taut, has become completely flat, but that’s okay. Now I can drop my pants easily without worrying about snags.

Your hair still covers every inch of you, except on the top of your head, but that’s okay. I enjoy being able to explore fashion trends with different types of hats.

Being the size of six normal people just means that you are six times as awesome! Being able to ride in solace in an elevator because you meet the weight limit alone is gratifying. Bringing your own titanium chair to restaurants allows you to protect the environment, and buying four seats on an airplane before you board gives you the comfort that none of those other passengers will ever experience.

Body, you’ll never understand how important I feel when the people at the Burger King drive-through know me by name. And that’s all thanks to you. And having the city of Altamonte Springs offer me my own roving zip code – that just warmed the cockles of my heart. When cars move out of the way as I cross the street because they don’t want to hit the large zoo animal who has clearly escaped, I always nod my head and secretly thank you. For I truly am special.

I love you, Body.

_____________________________________________________________________
When Avitable’s not busy smearing his asscrack across other people’s websites, he welcomes you to his with the flick of his bird. If you, too, believe that “tact is for pussies,” you’ll be kicking yourself in your own mightypenis if you don’t head over. *snicker*