Actually, it’s a faulty pecker picker or pussy picker depending on which (or both, let’s hope) you prefer to pick at this particular time.
If you have lady parts, you may be inclined to think the fault is in the peckers you’ve picked. Nay, I say. My pecker is quite perfect. It makes pee and pearly puddles.
(OK, enough with the Ps. My screen is spotted.)
My point is that the pecker you have chosen is probably attached to a man-tard. The pecker is fine; the pecker support unit is quite faulty. He may have an odd sense of what is important in life. He often chooses things he has no control over (e.g. the Eagles winning a Lombardi), instead of things he has much control over that could improve his life (e.g. eat less bacon and more pussy).
So, logic would tell you to focus your picker above the waist. Heck, most peckers are around six inches and come with very similar user manuals. The differentiating factor is in the accessories. If the ball of beer-soaked brains atop the unit is inclined to be kind, then that pecker will probably do. If it yells, ignores, or mistreats you, be prepared for a series of abuse and makeup sex. If that suits you, ignore me and my compassionate pecker.
Lest you think I’m pointing peckers, I mean fingers here, I am absolutely guilty of having a defective pussy picker. My most significant fault is picking pussy that does not pick me—unattainable pussy, so to speak. I’ve had this problem since third grade when I anticipated Miss Sinclair’s willingness to marry this prepubescent lump of goo because I had an awesome baseball card collection. I was also too young to toss out a fantasy batch of poison to quell my too-hot-for-teacher desires.
I should have matured and learned. I did not. Nor, sadly, did the most recent pecker you’ve picked, most likely. No, I still pick pussies attached to people who want gods, children, dogs, and camping trips. Are these women superior to cat-loving atheists who appreciate the comfort of a Tempurpedic? Nope. Then, why can’t my picker tune in to better options? Why must this dog chase the feral cat?
Wish I knew.
Perhaps it’s Nature’s way of forcing diversity. Maybe we are instinctually shoved toward things unlike us, in hopes that we might mix and create something new and unlike us both—self-entitled brats who watch reality TV and smoke weed all day, while keeping the rest of us absolutely uninterested folks informed by typing status updates with their thumbs. (Gosh, I love kids. Don’t you?)
Look, here’s the moral: Don’t judge a tree by its root. No, that’s not it. Um, far better to be a lesbian. Undeniable, but still not my point. Fuck. How about this?
“You bought the lemon. Now, either make lemonade or get away from lemon trees, and start picking berries. They’re sweeter.”