June 10, 2011

Burt Reynolds

Burt Reynolds

Yes, I do. I appreciate “the fairer sex,” as God calls them. I covet every facet of a woman. Her muffin top is an extra breast. The zit on her ass is a beauty mark. Her beef curtains are an orchid. Our unflappable libido is what got us all here. If women shared these traits, we’d have shoeless orphans running through the streets like stray dogs. Look at male and female strip clubs. While a gaggle of ladies scream and laugh at the naked man pretending to hump them, men sit alone and erect, quietly sipping beer and staring headlong into a woman’s anus.

I did a comedy sketch about this for Will Ferrell’s site and there was a predictable backlash where women claimed they are constantly consumed with lust. Sure, there are blips in a gal’s history when she may request a penis shot from a guy she knows and likes. But this phase is very rare and occurs for about a week during a relationship’s zenith when a woman’s uterus is barking at its owner, “This guy’s The One. GET him!” Before the zenith it’s like getting a shot of a pig’s organs as you bite into a pork sandwich.

After the zenith it’s worse. Once a man’s swollen organ has pushed its way deep inside a woman’s body when she wasn’t really in the mood, his once-golden phallus becomes a telemarketer ringing her iPhone while she sits on the toilet trying to remove a stubborn tampon. And who wants a picture of that?

The secret to seducing a woman is to distract her instincts and convince her you’re not there for sex. You give her a back rub or massage her feet. You laugh at her jokes and talk about how enamored you are with her photography. You pretend you’re only interested in what’s “up here” and couldn’t care less what goes on “down there.” You lie through your teeth and tell her that getting your rocks off is only the icing on the cake—exactly the way it is with her.

The truth is that a man will do it with just about any female on the planet, regardless of species, any time of day. We only wish random female strangers were dying to see blurry JPEGs of our proud, cornstalk-sized boners to use as fodder while diddling their beans. We fantasize about a world where women shared our insatiable needs. What red-blooded American male hasn’t secretly prayed that a nymphomaniac maid who speaks zero English was going to enter his hotel room with sopping-wet inner thighs? The rational among us recognize this fantasy is reserved for Penthouse Forum and we keep it to ourselves. The idiots indulge.

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