The more sensitive a man is, the smaller his penis

  “I’ve always wanted to ask a tall guy, ‘Is your dick in proportion to your hands and your height?’ I seriously wonder about that,” said a friend the other day. Obviously we’ve all heard speculation that tall men have long penises, men with big feet have large rods, men who drive huge diesel trucks and tiny sports cars lack a stack, and men with blonde hair have no merchandise whatsoever. Personal experience, however, invalidates this gossip. Yet there is one rumor that I would like to spread: that sensitive men are strapped with small shafts.

Big dick = big dick

If you’re a woman, gay man, straight man or voyeur, you may have noticed that the larger a man’s penis, the larger his head and, in turn, his “I’m the shit” attitude. If a man is “cocky,” he’s most likely cocky; if a man has a huge dick, he’s probably a huge dick; the more smug and vain, the more throbbing veins (and so on).

Now, obviously these are not hard-and-fast rules, so allow me to clarify that not all men are assholes — specifically not all black men (since we‘re all aware of their assets.) And, on a side note: not all black men have ginormous schlongs. I’m sure there are a few poets, clothing designers, artists, and nurses out there who prove to be an exception to the rule. Roses are red, violets are blue, your penis is a joke, so fuck you! And I’m sure there are also serious douche bags with itty bitty members (little prick = little prick.)

It seems to me that whenever my friends are “dating” a man with King Kong’s Dong that he’s a conceited jerk who gets away with murder because of his hose. While I have encountered one man who seemed sensitive everywhere but his shaft, he was just, ugh, too nice… plus I’m sure deep down he was a jerk and I just hadn’t realized it yet. Then there’s the other extreme: the sensitive sally. As one friend stated, “the most emotional guy I’ve ever dated, also the biggest guy physically I’ve ever dated, and the smallest wang of anyone I’ve ever dated.” (Men take note: Out of consideration, a woman will lie about the size of your penis to her friends… until you piss her off.)

Big hands, big feet? Big deal.

While I’ve yet to witness a man with small hands and a stick of salami between his thighs; I’ve definitely seen men with monstrous feet, or catcher’s mitts for hands, but without an equally large fifth appendage. In fact, my very first interection (sic.) with a dipstick disproved the big hands big feet theory.

Hanging from the 6’5” football player with size 11 shoes was the smallest, saddest excuse for a toddler dong I have seen to this day. In an effort to illustrate my point, I will now as you to peer down at your thumb (with your palm facing you). This penis was the size of the cushy tissue that runs from the heel of your hand to the point where the thumb finally extends from the hand. It was like a little gherkin dwarfed by two kiwis.

Was this guy sensitive? Well he cheated on his girlfriend (unbeknownst to me [I‘m not a complete whore]) and then cried about it, so you tell me. He also had a “thing” for Scooby-Doo and I may go so far as to suggest that he wore Scooby-Doo pajama pants too. So. Very. Sexy. Although this man refutes the big feet/big cock theory, others confirm the hypothesis, however, I won’t name names.

So consider yourself warned, girls and gays, the next time you find that sensitive man you’ve been searching for, you may be unpleasantly surprised. Be careful for what you wish.

It’s my job to live my life uncensored and say “fuck, shit, balls!” in front of your children; its your job to teach them that those are bad words.

My mother has always said that her daughter had “a mouth that could make a sailor blush,” an adage I have always cherished, embodied and flaunted. Ever since I could talk I‘ve been cursing up a storm. At the age of one, my first words were “cupcake, bitch;” at three I learned how to flip the bird; and in kindergarten I was sent home with a pink slip because I had given my best friend a black eye. Why? “Because the bitch said she had more Barbie’s than me.” (And the bitch lied.)

While I kid (except for the Barbie thing, that actually happened), I know that’s how some of you envisioned me as a young whippersnapper. The truth is, I got popped one for saying a “bad word” as a child and I learned my lesson… that is, until I grew up and no longer gave a fuck about such shit.

“You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

One day, the eight-year-old daughter of my friend Robyn heard me say “fuck,” or “shit,” or some other popular expletive frequented by charmers such as myself. Just as annoying as me at that age, the girl and I had the same name, some junk in the trunk, and an identical hair cut (the cursed little copy cat). She was basically my mini-me — only clad from head to toe in purple, like Violet Beauregard (“Violet, you‘re turning violet, Violet!”).

“Oooohhhh, you said a bad word!” the chubby cheeked cherub lisped through missing teeth. “Yeah… and?” I replied. “You’re not supposed to say bad words,” she proudly informed me, quite the know-it-all. “No…” I pointed at her, “You’re not allowed to say bad words.” I then pointed at myself, “I can say whatever the fuck I want because I‘m an adult. You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

“Uh!“ gape-mouthed and offended, she stared at me for a second — the expression your parents wear while giving an, “I’m disappointed by your behavior” speech. She immediately called to her mother to tell on me, the little narc, and I watched with a grin on my face. Her mother Robyn gave me a face reading “You’re an asshole,” but said nothing. Aggravated that I had not been punished for my crime, the dwarfish purple people eater’s immediate response was to test the boundaries and say “Shit!” It was at this point she was punished.

You are so grounded!

While I may be presenting an obstacle with my dirty little mouth, isn’t the joy of being a parent teaching your child right and wrong, and making sure you don’t create a monster? C’mon, you know you love a good challenge. And, when it comes down to it: It’s your choice to raise children; it’s my choice to raise hell.

If a little smack is not your style to keep your kids from saying "fucktard," "douchebag," or "dick smack," lock the little ankle biters in the closet or something; I don’t know… is that legal? Either way, it depends on your discipline style,I suppose. Perhaps you can get tips from The Dog Whisperer. Cesar is brilliant with animals of all sizes. If all else fails, just pretend I have Tourette’s Syndrome and tell your kids I’m a sick, sick person. You won’t necessarily be lying.

Now, on a side note: Anyone need a babysitter?

My next door neighbor should be the spokesperson for the Faces of Meth campaign.

*Note: This was written before this neighbor's eviction, he was finally locked out two weeks ago and today three men are attempting to clean out his disgusting apartment.


Picture it: I’m a hot, dirty mess and I’m bringing in the last load of my belongings into my apartment just over one year ago. I’m precariously juggling A.) the last box of my shit, which is sharply jutting into one hip; B.) my eager, pulling dog; and C.) a heavy door above me, at the top of the stairs; which, of fucking course, pulls toward you. I finally get through the door, (although the box is starting to slip) and am beginning to shuffle the final steps to my apartment. Within feet of my final destination, I hear “Need any help?” I think to myself, where was this asshole the past five hours? Then I look up and see what must be a pirate. Thank fucking god this is the last of my shit.


He was more than 6-feet tall with long, scraggly, dingy brown hair and baggy clothing. His face was red, sunken and weathered, and looked to be the texture of paper. He had skin speckled with scabs, deep set eyes, and protruding cheek bones. He was wearing a bandana on his head… and a mother fucking eye patch. An eye patch! My neighbor > an eye patch.


I then picked up the lower half of my jaw off the floor, jammed it back in place, and said as politely as I could muster, “No thank you, this is the last of my things.” I shimmied my ass through the door as the box dropped to the floor, and I mentally listed the many cruel acts I have performed to have earned such karma.


Part One


Not too long after, I saw the pirate without an eye patch, but wasn’t sure which I found more disconcerting — my initial belief that this man is without one eye, or the realization that this was a person who got himself into situations in which he sometimes required an eye patch. I was soon to find the latter was the more frightening conundrum.


This pirate, sans patch, is a hoarder of sorts; and, much to the other tenant’s dismay, he insists on keeping his door wide open. His apartment is a catalogue of crap, enveloped by a tapestry of crazy, and smothered in bad news. The fact that his life is just a thin wall away from mine sends shivers down my spine.


As if the contents of his studio were not disturbing enough, he leaves random piles of crap outside his door for days at a time and has been keeping his food outside his window on his air conditioner, spoiling in the sun and spilling on the sidewalk. It’s like a trailer park garage sale within mere feet of my door. If I wasn’t too frightened to touch the sketchy stacks of waste, I’d throw the shit away myself. But clearly, he’d just find his precious treasures in the dumpster once more and bring them back to store in his dossier of rubbish. Speaking of waste, did I mention he has a woman friend?


Part Two


I eventually learned my neighbors name as a result of countless crack heads, meth dealers and crazies calling “Tim!” in haggard, raspy, desperate voices outside his window (which, I might remind you, is mere feet from my window). Tim then lets him or her in, or even better, puts a brick in the back door so creeps, scumbags and rapists can enter at their leisure. My least favorite person shouting “Tim!” in the most tiny and shrill voice imaginable, is the constantly re-appearing crack whore he let live with him during her pregnancy. That’s right: Pregnant crack whore > my neighbor. I’ve heard her screaming to be let in more times than I can count, and I have shot her evil glances more times than Ron Jeremy has shot his load on a woman’s face.


I’ve never heard the crack whore’s name; I’ve always just referred to her as “the crack whore.” She is a tiny, mousey woman, so white she’s see-through, with faded hair dyed blood red with black roots. Her face looks like she chews glass for a hobby and her eyes are black and cold. Between the two of them, these people should front the Faces of Meth campaign.


Shady, yet verbose and seemingly considerate, Tim is not the crack whore’s boyfriend, nor the baby’s father, but just someone putting a roof over her head. Once I realized she was pregnant, I almost began to pity her… almost. Me and the normal neighbor across the hall discussed whether or not we should intervene, but child protective services can’t step in until the day the child is born… which was the night before my trip to New York. I was packing and heard her screaming bloody murder on and off for hours in the next apartment. My neighbor across the hall was timing her contractions through the walls. Finally we heard an ambulance and saw nearly ten paramedics and police officers bust in and ask her about her pregnancy and possible drug use, then dramatically carry her out on a stretcher as she made a scene. She still comes around, but clearly the baby was given to a good home — not one towered with trash, and with constant creepsters doing drugs, and random early morning fist fights… or had I gotten to that?


Part Three


This morning at nine I was lying in beg, willing myself to fall back asleep. As I began to drift off, a man attempted to start his huge Ford truck with no luck. He opened the hood, frustrated, and tried once more. The diesel engine started to growl, barely running and sounding loud and wounded. I thought to myself, I cannot think of one sound that could possibly be more annoying then that right now.


“You don’t live here, you can’t park there, shut that fucking thing off,” I heard Tim yelling over the truck‘s moans as he walked aggressively over. I noticed that he had a huge band-aid taped over the entirety of his nose, like Michael Jackson wore after his nose took a tumble. He then tried to push the truck’s owner, a man wearing a Cleveland Indians cap. The Indians fan then slugged him in the face and they were at it, fists awkwardly fumbling, Tim’s long and likely lice-ridden hair flying as the man pushed him into the garage behind him. While I knew my neighbor to be a slimy, troubling man, he’s never seemed violent or provoking.


I called the police and watched from my window; it was like being invisible at a live taping of Jerry Springer. The truck owner’s friend, a short man who was missing a few teeth, attempted to stop the fighting. For a second the pushing ceased and they began yelling back and forth. Tim then kicked the truck and threw the man’s keys across the lot. After gathering his keys, the man in the Indians cap took off his glasses and ran low and like a bull, slamming directly into my neighbors torso, knocking him down. At this point, the men gave up the fight, the police arrived, and I lost interest — although I’d like to think the brawl resulted in yet another eye patch for Tim, and a new face on the meth prevention billboards.