I couldn't help noticing the recent news story of an Australian gentleman caught pleasuring himself with a jar of pasta sauce. An Australian gentleman not only pleasuring himself with a jar of pasta sauce, but in the presence of a Jack Russell terrier. Won't anybody, I ask, think of the puppies?
Yes, I know what you're thinking. The bloody fool. Doesn't he know the real sweet, sweet lovin' comes from a jar of medium strength Uncle Ben's Stir-in Chilli Sauce?
In fact, working in the news business as I do, rarely a day passes without some story of some fellow caught sticking his Johnson where no right-thinking member of society should and refusing to stop when the law turns up with their batons, pepper spray and tasers.
And there, I believe, there lies the design fault inherent in the penis.
The pecker, you see, spends most of its time doing nothing. Whilst coming with two uses, neither of these takes more than a few minutes a day (unless you are supremely skilled, in which case I recommend a job in the circus), so it spends much of its time just sitting there.
Waiting.
Plotting.
It gets bored.
And, like a cider-fuelled teenage hoodie, it does stuff. Stuff with jars of pasta sauce and homemade hand shandy devices.
Next time you hear about some bunch of numpties trying to get Creationism taught in schools, point out the example of the human hampton to them, and challenge them - on the 100% irrefutable evidence provided – to prove that this is the work of an Intelligent Designer.
If only there was a third use, such as a built-in FM radio, because anything can be improved with an FM radio. Then we'd all have rhythm.
Time to act like the deity of your choice. Your wang-improvement suggestions, please.
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