What should I do with my wonderful candy?

When I came a-knocking at a dear, dear friend’s house, he gave me the best candy ever: boner candy. Yep, two Viagra and one Cialis. Now, before you go judging my testosterone-depleted ass, be aware that I’ve never tried such. Most men poo poo the thought, and say something braggadocios like, “Heck, I don’t need any help.” Right. Lying motherfuckers. We’ve all had that time where ole junior wouldn’t cooperate, for whatever reason, be it tall whiskey or an ugly woman.

I, for one, will openly admit I’m dying to try one. I’m going to patiently wait for a willing participant in my little experiment because I doubt my arms have the strength to spank the monkey hourly for half the day. Once I find the generous (desperate) lady, I’ll provide full disclosure.

“All right, before we do this you need to know something.”

“Why are you carrying a crowbar in your jeans?”

“Yeah, about that.”

“Wait, I’m not sure I care. Let’s see it.”

“No, you care. Trust me. What I have here is a bionic boner, made by Viagra.”


“And, before you judge me, no, I don’t normally need boner candy.”

“I don’t care.”

“How kind of you.”

“Let’s see it.”

“Actually, I do need to pop a few buttons loose as I think my pee hole is chafing. I guess we should discuss some things including possible side-effects, disclaimers, and where I keep my insurance card.”

“Why? Those are unimportant as long as what you’re carrying there is stiff as a redwood. Maybe we should hurry before it expires.”

“That’s the thing–it says on this package that my erection could last four hours.”

“I love you.”

“Stop it. Seriously. What the hell am I going to do if this love balloon doesn’t deflate?”

“Guess you’ll just have to fuck me again.”

“Right. I assume that’s the general purpose. Maybe I should apply a thick layer of New Skin to avoid blistering.”

“You’re not sticking New Skin into my vagina.”

“Fine. Ace bandage?”

“Shut up and start pumping.”

I’m slightly concerned that all that blood engorging my cock rocket has to come from somewhere. Normally, my boner blood definitely comes from my brain as, once it returns, my brain awakens from its hibernation to karma-slap me into a sad state of guilt. What if the Viagra redirects the blood from my arms and they flop around by my side instead of hanging onto boobies? Or, what if my mouth goes numb and I begin drooling? If the blood comes from my toes, I might get one of those toe-twisting cramps and a migraine. What if we’re doing doggie and my knees give way? Heavens to Betsy, I could fall and break my dick!

“I’m scare-ded.”

“Don’t be a pussy. Let’s go, mister.”

“Promise me that if I pass out due to blood misdirection you won’t take any photo poses of me and my fuck pole.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Damn it. OK, if you must, at least blur out my face. A cool idea might be to stack multicolored inner-tubes up my galvanized shaft so it resembles my favorite childhood play toy.”

Most Popular Halloween Costumes: 2012 Edition

It’s time for the annual “I can dress like a slut” Day for ladies. How festive! For men, it’s “I can dress like a woman/redneck/penis” Day. How silly! Still, I predict this year’s most popular costume for the ladies will be the slutty redneck combo, affectionately known as “The Honey Boo Boo, all growed up and drunk on cheap whiskey version.” It’s akin to a distorted and deranged Little Orphan Annie, or Raggedy Ann (for gingers) from decades ago. Certain things recycle as the years pass.

OK, so, what should your man do if you insist on being Boo Boo? Redneck is too obvious. Think outside the trailer. I have some suggestions:

  1. Pregnant Nun.
  2. Mittens Romney (cute kitty cat outfit with gray sideburns, a thick wallet, and no concept of reality).
  3. Cucumber.
  4. Girl Scout.
  5. Parrot Perch … oh, wait, Cee-Lo already did that and, technically, it was a ripoff of Koko B. Ware anyway.
  6. Donald Trump’s hair.
  7. Santa Claus (just to fuck with Target by calling attention to Christmas before they do).
  8. Chocolate Zombie – bleeding Hershey’s syrup and pudding. I, for one, would eat you.

When children come to my door, begging for handouts, I play a little game of “go long” with them. I make them run post patterns on my front lawn and I dot them in the head with Twix bars, then Tebow myself and thank Jesus for the great arm he blessed me with. When they say, “Hey, mister. Guess what I am?” I play along, because, like a good neighbor, I don’t like your kids.

“Hmm. That’s a tough one.”

“C’mon, mister. Look, I have a black cape and a mask.”

“Ah, you’re the gimp from Pulp Fiction. Here, let me get medieval on your ass. I’ll fetch a sword and some mead.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“You’re a child laborer, and that evil person waiting at my front gate is your slave master. They’ve sent you here to pester and beg. If you return without gold coins they’ll whip you and force you to attend catechism and soccer camp.”


“Wrong again. Fuck. Sorry. Don’t ever use that word, unless you burn your mouth on hot pizza. Then, it’s OK. Let me see. What’s black and annoying? Are you Jesse Jackson?”


“Say, do you know what’s really fun to do? When you go to my neighbor’s house and he answers the door, point at him, turn to your dad, and say, ‘Dad, he just showed me his pee pee.'”


“Oh, you’re no fun. OK, let me try another guess. Are you a movie character?”


“A good guy or bad guy?”

“Good guy.”

“Were you in Silence of the Lambs?”


“Damn it. All right. Are you a superhero?”


“Excellent. Oh, gee, this was easy. How did I miss it? You’re Lebron James.”


“I give up.”

“I’m Batman.”

“Ha! Right, and I’m Kayne Fucking West. Here’s a pack of Smarties. Now, go away so I can keep up with my Kardashian.”