Tonight’s Debate: Man vs. Dick


Face it, the presidential debates are awful. They’re not changing anyone’s mind anyway. What would be interesting is an actual debate between north brains and south brains with a sex kitten moderator.

KITTEN: Here are the ground rules: No lying, swearing, interrupting, or asking me to pick something off the floor so you can see my nipples. We flipped a coin backstage and Mr. Willy D. Penis, you won, so you’ll go first. My first question has to do with Libya … I mean, labia. We all remember the assault you had on us recently and would like to know how you’d improve your next approach.

WILLY: Thank you, Kitten. And, may I begin by saying how lovely you look today? Now, about your labia: my friend over here was entirely responsible for the assault. I mean, shit, I have no hands. You can’t blame me for getting drunk. This knucklehead here was the one who suggested, “Oh, what’s one more bottle? It’s not very strong wine.”

MAN: First, you’re a dick.

KITTEN: Hey, no name-calling either.

MAN: I apologize. You’re a choad. My wallet and I were both perfectly content to stop at one bottle. In fact, Mr. Liver suggested a tall glass of ice water. But, no. You had to insist we get a little deeper in the grape.

WILLY: Rubbish.

MAN: Stop interrupting me. Then, Kitten, he has the nerve to make you wait while I pee–fucking dotted-line pee, nonetheless–while you sit on the edge of my bed reconsidering.

WILLY: Oh, sure, Mr. Thimble Bladder, blame me.

MAN: Plus, when I suggested we enjoy a little conversation and perhaps some Jason Mraz, he voted against it! What a dick!

KITTEN: Stop with the name-calling and interrupting, you two.

MAN: Sorry. Well, I’m sure you remember, Kitten, that after I dabbed the pee dribble from him (he drools, how gross), we returned to bed and the little fucker had the nerve to go semi-limp on me. I mean, it was like stuffing warm, bleu cheese into an olive.

WILLY: Don’t blame me for your ineptitudes, you syrup-blooded relic.


WILLY: It’s my turn.

KITTEN: Fine, you have two minutes.

MAN: Well, that’s one more than he typically needs.

WILLY: I’m efficient; so sue me. Anywho, I was half asleep because he bored me with all of the silly foreplay talk. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard the same goddamned spiel? “Er … eh … I’m a one-woman man. I don’t usually do this. You’re special. We have a connection.” What a bunch of barf-a-loney.

KITTEN: True, a little finger-lovin’ wouldn’t have hurt.

MAN: But, …

WILLY: I’m not done. And, did I get hard? Yes. Did I climb on into the love tunnel? Yes. Work until I puked? Yes. Shrivel and sleep without being intrusive? Yes. All I asked for was a nice warm towel. Did I get one? No. Homeslice here simply yanked up his boxers (backward, I might add), rolled over, and played dead.

KITTEN: That is, actually, what I recall.

MAN: Can I speak now?

KITTEN: Yes, you get a one-minute rebuttal.

WILLY: She said butt.

MAN: Do you see what I’m dealing with here? He waivers between rodeo clown hopped up on Dew and a narcoleptic lump of flesh taffy. Where’s the bipartisanship? How are we ever going to conquer labia, if he keeps working against me? Then, after a night of noodle-play, the little prick decides to wake me with petrification. How embarrassing!

KITTEN: I was fine with it. Morning nookie is fun.

MAN: Fun for him. He didn’t have to smell morning mouth–a foul combination of garlic hummus, carne asada tacos, and stale vino.

WILLY: See how inconsiderate he is? What’s a fucking toothbrush cost, a dollar? You think El Cheapo over here could sell a few more books and avoid wasting the proceeds at the track.

KITTEN: You two settle down. And now, a word from our sponsor:

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.