padiofarty

Now I want you all to sit up and listen – and I’m not specifically giving an order to the Penises – I am addressing both the chaps and the dear chapesses – and anyway, as far as I know Penises don’t have ears, although they do seem to respond to signs; well with not having ears we can assume they are deaf, so little surprise to us all then to understand that they would be able to read sign language. I’m sure you will all agree.

Where Braille is concerned I have to admit to being unsure, but there again perhaps not, they all do come with at least one eye. Two in my case which I have to admit causes the little woman at home constant irritation; our downstairs cloakroom is carpeted and the number of times a week we have to have it re-carpeted is costing me a fortune – it’s the smell of damp you see, the Memsahib can’t abide it for more than a day or two.

Now there’s been a lot of old twaddle going around in the ether.

Are or are not our dear Chapesses happy with the dimensions and qualitative nature of the Male appendage in today’s society? Quite a topic to tackle I know and to be honest as a Male, a Tackle I know well – and as an ex Rugby player I have tackled some of the finest tackle in the land, make no mistake about it.

Modern living, pollution, alcohol, tobacco, carbon emissions and most western political leaders over the last century – so we are told by the media – are reasons for a lower Male Sperm count. And, one would assume, the recent economic downturn will be considered partially to blame not withstanding the havoc wreaked by electro magnetic forces – absolute Poppycock, I say.

Now let us intelligently dwell on this one point – the eye of the matter so to speak.

Who in their right mind would actually go around counting sperm in these modern times? I know that back in Victorian times we used to have chaps who went around lighting the gas lamps, emptying chamber pots and generally performing other rather degrading tasks – well it was necessary back then.

Now I know we have all kinds of odd bods knocking on our doors from time to time telling us they are from the Census Bureaus and can we please count the number of people living in this or that hovel etc. And in fact just the other day a Lady dressed in a tight figure hugging PVC outfit and carrying a whip presented herself to me and asked if my own dear Lady wife was ready to go out. I soon saw her off and suggested she had the wrong house and that she might be better off trying next door. A couple of shirt lifters live there and they seem to enjoy some rather unusual friends visiting at all hours of the night. And I knew when I found the little woman cringing in a foetal position under the stairs holding a flyer which had “admit two” printed across it that she didn’t care for the intrusion. She was wearing a Cat suit at the time and as she clearly explained, she was practicing for her role as Puss in the local infants annual school play. Apparently this year it’s titled “Dick Whittington Steps in Puss” – clearly a misprint since it should read “Richard.” I told the Memsahib and we both had a good laugh when she informed me that her opposite number, her co-star playing the lead male role was, strangely enough, called Rich Hard – odd name isn’t it – I expect he’ll be yet another one of those immigrants.

However that aside, in your lifetimes, can you honestly remember anyone passing through your neighbourhood, knocking on your door and saying “I’m here to count your sperm.” Can you honestly recall such an incident?

No, well nether can I. So I think you might agree with me that we can put that one safely to bed, stuck firmly to the sheets where it belongs.

And anyone who might be the slightest bit in disagreement with me here and perhaps thinking the little woman might be doing the counting, dream on. Since when has any woman been able to count correctly beyond “I want another credit card and I want it now.”

Myth busted, I think the modern expression is?

Now as to dimensions; I have gone to great lengths on this subject. I have spent endless hours doing high level academic research in the matter and I can tell you, without word of a lie, that every internet site tantalising the little woman with overly lengthy and “girthy” Penises is a complete and utter oversight – and yes I do mean oversight.

Statistics today reveal that females under 30 are for more likely to need ocular assistance than they have ever done in any previous times since the advent of the personal computer.

Feminist groups who claim this affliction has been caused by washing detergents such as OMO is a falsehood. The claim that female eyes are more and more being reported by both the American and British Medical Associations to be suffering from EPD (eye penile damage) also known as PITE (poked in the eye) by weapons of mass destruction is a Government cover up – just ask Michael Moore, he knows about these things.

And what, I hear some of you asking, has OMO got to do with all this?

On this matter I do concur with both official statistics and local gossip. The sign placed in the kitchen window indicating ‘Old Man Out’ as an open invitation to their miscreant boyfriends after hubby has been unceremoniously shoveled out of the morning door and set off on his way to work (with or without bicycle clips), is as well known as that famous washing detergent itself – or at least it is around our housing estate.

So, why is it that women need more ocular assistance than they have ever needed before – well I can answer that quite easily. It’s all due to male magnanimity, the modern caring male attitudes.

Almost a hundred years ago we allowed them the vote. Unfortunately in order for them to be able to vote we realised that they needed to think and so we also had to agree to allow them to read and that’s where the problem lies – they now think too much and we all know what thinking does don’t we? Headaches, stress and eye deterioration – and there we have it; so that’s another myth debunked I think you will agree.

Now specifically onto dimensions, is it or isn’t it suitable? In order to prove my Point and to soothe yours, read on.

There are many ways to skin a cat. I personally have never actually skinned one, apparently it’s illegal but I digress. There are two sound methods to determine this centuries old concern, the direct method and the indirect method (referred sometimes by Catholics and practitioners of Caribbean Voodoo as the Rhythm method).

Let us now look at the direct method, it is very simple indeed and consists of some wholesome and acceptable questioning. You will note below the use of two letters – M meaning the Male Partner and F meaning Female Partner. I chose this designation rather than MP because this might confuse some readers to think that this article was aimed at those onanists sometimes referred to as Wankers.

M: Am I a big boy darling?
F: Well you’re certainly my darling, darling – after all I did make the mistake, I mean decision to marry you (and this often accompanied by peals of wondrous feminine laughter)
M: No darling I mean am I a BIG boy.
F: Yes

And there you have it – proof positive that you are indeed of adequate dimension and suitable for her whoopsey-do-dah-do (well that’s what my girlfriend calls it although I must admit she isn’t legal tender at the moment – although I suspect that she probably is a little too tender – anyway, I live in hope).

“Ah ha,” I hear you all thinking “but what happens if she’s lying, playing that age old female game of “yes I’m sorry I spent all the housekeeping buying your whisky and cigars, please can I have some more money” and this despite the fact that your house is as dry as Saudi Arabia during Ramadan.

Well I can assuage you there; it’s quite easy as the following should demonstrate:

M: Darling am I a big boy?
F: No

And there you have it. You see clearly in this scenario an example of the lying, thieving, cheating wife – you are indeed adequately endowed in her female opinion – you see she lied and the real answer is in fact YES.

Ah indeed some of you are paying full attention and are desperately wishing to say “but what happens if she answers Yes in the first place.” Once again the answer is quite simple. Born a liar, die a liar – I can assure you that this problem will never arise – you see she had to lie and so the answer will always be No, meaning of course Yes.

Now let us look at the indirect approach (also called “let’s measure hers”), also very easy and quite simple really.

Look around your hovel and find that 6 inch graticulated ruler you keep somewhere handy. Metal, Plastic, Silicon or Wood will suffice (although I don’t advise Balsa Wood or Glass and Chinese Papier Mache manufactured rulers are a definite no-no, they’re better saved and used at weddings on rainy days as confetti).

Ask her to insert the measuring device into her whoopsey-do-dah-do and read off to you the measured dimensions.

Scenario One:

M: Darling shove this up your whoopsey-do-dah-do and read off the dimensions will you?
F: I can’t do that.

Well its obvious isn’t it – if she can’t fit that little thing up there you are more than adequate.

Scenario Two:

M: Darling shove this up your whoopsey-do-dah-do and read off the dimensions will you?
F: What??? No, that will hurt me!

Ditto above

Scenario Three:

M: Darling shove this up your whoopsey-do-dah-do and read off the dimensions will you?
F: I can’t, it’s Lady day, I’m painting the town red.

Well it stands to reason doesn’t it? If she can’t accommodate a Lillet (heavy flow or other gauge) and a tiny sliver of acceptable material no more than 6 inches in length you can rest assured that your name could well be King Dong.

Scenario (the last) Four:

M: Darling shove this up your whoopsey-do-dah-do and read off the dimensions will you?
F: OK – oh dear I’ve lost it; I think it’s somewhere buried deep inside.

This is highly unlikely to occur although it has happened to some Gentlemen who have holidayed in Thailand and other exotic locations. If this happens to you please take a moment to sit down (a glass of some strong liquor at this point is advised) – I will wait until you return suitably inebriated.

If Scenario Four is experienced by you I have some rather bad news I’m afraid.

The “wife” you married or possibly shacked up with is in fact now proven to be not of the female gender – or at least you can take it from me she wasn’t born a female. You dear Sir have lumbered yourself with what is sometimes referred to as a “Katoey” or “Ladyboy” – or put another way and in a more pictorial theatrical manner – you didn’t actually marry a Puss in Boots, you actually married a Dick in Boots.