At the beginning of every year, the head of the company I work for crawls out of his hole, adjusts his beady eyes to the sunlight, and calls his employees together for a state-of-the-corporation address. We are herded into an overheated lunchroom and subjected to three hours of defeatist football metaphors ('There's 10 seconds on the clock, and the other team has the ball!'), veiled threats ('Whoever is rearranging the letters on my office nameplate to read 'Dr. Spankme' is going to be VERY sorry!'), and advice on increasing productivity ('Stop wearing your pajamas to work!')
The only thing that keeps me from snatching the toupee off my boss's pointy head and spiking it into a vat of cold soup is the running sexual commentary coming from my friend Greg, who is seated beside me.
'Have you ever noticed how all men with small penises want to possess weapons of mass destruction,' Greg observes as our boss vows to use 'whatever means possible, including nuclear' to put an end to the gross misuse of the company's pencil supply.
Greg knows the size of all the penises in the company. He has gathered this information by ignoring the defining principle of the 'modesty shield' that separates urinals. He runs daily reconnaissance missions into the little boy's room and then trots back with his findings. We then add the information to a chart that matches penis size with personality.
Plotting a penis chart might seem like an odd activity for a lesbian, but it helps pass the time and it also gives me valuable insight into the characters of my coworkers. From our research, for example, I've concluded that bigger really is better. The men with the biggest penises are nice, generous, and never give me any guff. It's the guys with the smallest penises who are often cranky, weepy, and prone to engaging in bizarre hand-lotion rituals.
Before this exercise, I didn't think about penises often, and when I did think about them, I usually giggled. After all, the penises I know are forever stumbling into madcap misadventures. They're the Lucille Balls of body parts. Always sneaking into places where they don't belong. Always wanting to be the star of the show. Always getting jittery and excitable when Ricky enters the room.
But once I determined that penises were, in fact, affecting my life and, more importantly, my bridge game (Note to a certain beloved bridge partner: we would have won that match if you had kept you eyes on your cards instead of on our opponent's package), it was time to start taking the little fellas seriously.
How will I do this? I have no idea. I'm a lesbian. What the hell do I know about penises?
So why am I writing about them? You got me. When I began writing this week's column, it wasn't about penises. It was about my failed attempts to get my friends to wear matching outfits. Then, suddenly, the word penis appeared on the page. But that just proves how insidious penises are. When you least suspect it, there they are, hopping all over the place, bullying you around, and demanding that you pay attention to them.
Little bastards.
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