“Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” – Christopher Reeve
As I crest the mountain of life, I find my brothers loading up on all sorts of substances to keep them on the fun side of the hill. Little blue bills used to be the craze. Now, it’s testosterone cream. Not only are my programs interrupted by erection toting blue hairs, now my friends are extolling the benefits coming from a few dabs of wonder goo.
“Just go to your doctor and say you’re feeling sluggish, and you can’t get your dick hard.”
“But, I can get my dick hard. So can many others.”
“Even so, say what needs to be said so you can get what needs to be had.”
“Whereas most people find it unacceptable to lie to God, godless me thinks it’s even sillier to lie to a doctor.”
“You never feel sluggish? You are never saddened by a semi?”
“Sure, it has happened. In fact, the latter may cause the former by keeping me up most of the night trying to redirect my blood to blind appendages.”
“Then, tell the doc you have a perpetual dangler, and fill the prescription that will make you a new man.”
“You’ll retain more muscle, improve endurance, need fewer naps, and carry around a lead pipe in your pants.”
“Let me guess: The minor side effects include anal bleeding, vomiting, blindness, and frightened fellow bar patrons.”
“Such an insignificant percentage.”
Mom always told me to make a list, because it helps with the decision process. Here’s a list of things I expect to achieve after slathering on the man jelly:
- Less forehead.
- Proper tenting of morning sheets.
- Orgasm number two (puff of dust doesn’t count) within sixty minutes of orgasm number one, which was an epic semen geyser.
- Hit a baseball out of the infield.
- A place to keep my new pet parrot.
Reactions I expect to hear:
- “If you haven’t yet, would you mind coming soon before you knock my uterus loose?”
- “Where have you been hiding that thing?”
- “Where did you get that snake? Roto Cooter?”
- “Mommy, look at the giraffe.”
I’m worried the increase in testosterone will make me do some crazy things, like wear a tool belt and drink Budweiser. I doubt I’d be able to concentrate while writing. My emails, status updates, and tweets would be overrun by sexual overtones and swear words–I mean, more so than usual. My interactions with members of the service industry would become precarious. Heck, a simple bank deposit could turn into an adventure.
“Hello, Mr. Torcivia. What can I do for you today?”
“I’d like to make a fucking deposit. Sorry. I like fucking. Sorry. Wow, look at my cock. Wait. No. Don’t. Just take my word for it. Tits. I want to see tits. You don’t have tits. Fuck. Sorry, dude. So, anyway, can I put this huge fucking cock–check, into one of your sluts–ugh, slots? Jesus. Yes, I ejaculated–I mean, endorsed it. Thank you. Where are all the single ladies? Ah, not here. Shit. Yes, I want a fucking receipt. Give it to me, baby. Sorry again. I’m a not-so-hot, yet stiff-as-hell mess. You see, I took this cream. I so want to cream all over a huge set of knockers right now. OK, I’m leaving. Please, don’t press that clit–ugh, button. Bye.”
Guess I should stick with cannoli cream.
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