My penis froze and fell off
I hate to be graphic. I really do. I would really prefer if RER were a place your children could learn to read. But this has been one long fucking day and it isn’t over yet. As I write, my penis threatens to fall off from complete embarassment.
If the bad part of the day had ended with my penis shrinking a little after the events described in the post below, I could’ve dealt with it. Hell, my penis has been shrinking since puberty. It got a little smaller that day at Fastnight Pool when the cute girl by the diving board called me a pencil-dick. It got noticably smaller the day the butcher called me “ma’am.” And it got smaller today when the good looking volunteer firefighter looked me with eyes that said, “Man, it’s a damned shame your wife has to see you sitting here as helpless as a little girl who just lost her dolly.”
If it had all ended there, I probably could’ve lived. Hell, it’s not as if I’m trying to snare new women with a extra-long schlong or anything. My wife has watched my thing shrink several times in the last six or seven years. That time I couldn’t fix the toilet and had to bring in a black market plumber comes to mind.
But it didn’t end there. It only got worse. First I had to admit the single-digit temperatures and sub-zero wind chills were really getting to me. I was really cold and as a result not a real Midwestern cold-fighting man. Turns out, I wasn’t the only thing feeling a little chilly.
I always get nervous when my wife comes out of the bathroom and uses this phrase: “Honey…we have a problem.” It can mean so many different things. I won’t go into that now.
She proceeded to go to every sink in our home, turning on the faucets, and looking at me as if to say, “So whatta you figure we’re going to do about this?”
This was a decided lack of water. With the exception of a small trickle from two downstairs spouts, every pipe at Mt. Willis was frozen. Oh yeah, then the trickle stopped.
I did what I always do when I encounter a home problem I can’t fix. I called Dad. He gave me the best advice I’ve received all night: Call a plumber.
Of course, that would be failure. Recall: Hiring Ray the Plunger Sabatino to install the new toilet drew a look of worry from the wife.
She called the neighbor. He can fix just about anything. Ten minutes later he was standing at my door with something called Burn-Zo-Matic. In short, a blow torch. Against my better judgement, he and I heated up every pipe we could find, in around, and under the house.
I made a few phone calls. The guy at the water company said just to wait. Don’t blow the cash on a plumber. Of course, there’s a chance your pipes will explode. But then again…and here’s the good part…there’s a chance they won’t.
So, there’s a chance they won’t. If they don’t, I stand a chance of keeping my penis until the next major disaster.
But, you know, it may not matter anyway. As I write, my wife is watching a TV news magazine about the evils of the porn industry. I don’t see me having much use for my man tool any time soon.