“Does even one of you have a cock? Just one. If so, this might work for me. Doesn’t even have to be huge, just functioning.”
Aimee Arciuolo of Kings County Bar in Brooklyn, NY had a tiny stroke of genius this year, deciding to institute her bar’s first annual “Smallest Penis In Brooklyn” pageant.
Arciuolo birthed the idea as a result of a surprisingly satisfying encounter with a man who possessed a donglette the size of “an acorn.” That is why this contest is a celebration of nano-penises, and not a vehicle for the type of derision one might encounter in a high school locker room shower at the hands of ambiguously gay jocktards.
The contest will be held on July 20th at 5 PM. Participants will be required to, at the very least, show off their equipment through a pair of wet underwear which will be hydrated using an arsenal of water guns. They will also be asked to share experiences related to being minimally endowed.
Not everyone is on board with the idea. In fact, many of Arciuolo’s straight male friends and bar regulars believe it to be the single worst idea they’ve ever heard.
And just in case you have a third leg and wish to shame the other contestants, be aware that anyone with a member of eight inches or greater will be disqualified and forced to buy a round of drinks for the judges. This writer is slightly intimidated by the prospect of such a healthy requirement. Are we talking flaccid length here? And if not, who will be responsible for preparing the beast for measurement?
“We hope all kinds of men will apply—we have a few brave contestants already—this is obviously a pageant for confident people with a sense of humor!” says Arciuolo.
Kings County Bar is located at 286 Siegel Street, near the Morgan Avenue L-train stop, but you can probably just walk around looking for a disproportionate number of Hummers, Camaros and Mustangs parked on the street;
An open letter to grammar nazis, comma fuckers, or Pilkunnussija out there … You know who you are. We ALL know who you are. You lurk, ready & waiting, drooling with anticipation at the opportunity to spring into action at the incorrect use of ‘there’. Or when someone leaves an ‘o’ off of ‘too’. You see it as your responsibility to save the world from an improperly used ‘hear’. I understand your frustration … spelling rules were not made to be broken. (xcept some ‘ei’ thing when a ‘c’ is involved, but I’m not going to use that sort of language here). But here’s the thing …
And I’ll tell you why.
Congratulations on knowing the correct form of there/their/they’re to use. I stopped getting excited about that when I realized that my breasts could make boys do silly things for me. I’m so proud of you for knowing which here/hear goes where. As soon as my teacher stopped being impressed, I stopped showing off with it. I’m thrilled for you that you possess this great handle on third ( second?) grade spelling. The thing is, nobody you correct is sitting there thinking, “Thank god this random internet stranger has assisted me in furthering my knowledge! I’ll definitely make a note of this shit now so I don’t look like such a fool again.”
They’re thinking, “What a complete doucheface, too bad they don’t get any sex.”
Nobody cares. Nobody is impressed. Nobody thinks you’re a giant brain hiding behind your @DrWhoNerdgasm name. They think you’re a tool who has no useful social skills.
For years, back in the mid-90s, I ran around AOL (*pauses here until the riotous laughter eases up*) like some self-appointed grammar cop, mocking people for using “effect” when they meant “affect”. Then one glorious night, someone replied with, “I really appreciate your help with that. In my defense, I’m just really tired. I was up all night nailing your mom.” After making sure that, in fact, my father wasn’t on AOL, it struck me that perhaps my attempts to assist this Internet stranger in his education were not appreciated. That moment changed my life.
Let me be that person for you. Let this be the moment you stop acting like a twat. Really want to impress me? Know the proper time to use ‘who’ or ‘whom’. Panties off for anyone who says, “To whom were you speaking?” instead of “Who were you talking to?” Nobody’s knickers melt for the person who says, ‘HAHAHA YOU MEAN TOO NOT TO, YOU PLEBE.’ Want to really blow minds, and possibly cocks? Know when to use ‘Rebecca and/or me’ instead of ‘Rebecca and/or I’.
Trust me, we all care about grammar and spelling. Those of us who aren’t douchey don’t jump on people for mistakes, we just sit and quietly judge, basking in our superiority. Believe me, it’s a much richer way to live.
If you feel the need to comment on any of the mistakes in this, I’ll be sure to show your mother how smart you are after I’m done bangin her out.
Teenage boys are a miserable, obnoxious lot. I know I was. What an adult politician was doing being Facebook friends with one is beyond me. What he was doing actually interacting with one is an even bigger mystery; but interact, he did.
Western Australia’s minister for education, Peter Collier, back in 2011, clicked the ol’ “Like” button on a picture posted by a then-16-year-old boy. In it, the boy seemed to be standing innocently next to an older gentleman.
However, closer inspection of the picture revealed that the boy had been engaging in a practical joke known as “sneaky nuts,” a version of photo-bombing where one (or more, I guess) of the people in the picture is subtly exposing his genitals.
It’s embarrassingly difficult for me to be mature and tell you this isn’t a very, very humorous activity. My only real objection to it is that my viewing the results would involve setting eyes on some dude’s sac.
Collier apologized this week for “liking” the picture, saying he totally missed the scrote portion of the image. In fact, the whole incident went completely unnoticed until the boy started bragging on Twitter about hoodwinking Collier.
“At first glance it appeared to be a harmless picture,” Collier said in a statement. “It was a silly mistake on my part. I only became aware of the actual content of the photo when shown by a journalist today. This obviously highlights the pitfalls of social media. I apologise if I caused any offence.”
How I’m just becoming aware of this brand of prank is beyond my comprehension.
Last year, school officials at a Canadian Catholic school had to hastily place stickers inside 1,300 yearbooks after someone noticed a sneaky nuts photo contained therein.
I think the only way to stop this trend is probably for gay men to send these “sneaky-nutters” videos of themselves jacking it to the scrotums in question. Please do so privately, gentlemen, and god speed.
In a move that is likely to set manhood back an epoch or two, a handful of New York men have opted to take a $2,400-course in being gay at Louis Licari Salon.
The six-week course will teach husbands how to effectively blow-dry their wives’ hair to a salon-perfect coiffure.
I am currently putting together a syllabus for some piggyback courses on changing tampons and driving a Prius.
Arsen Gurgov will be the class’s instructor. Never mind being taught how to dry hair from a man whose first name is dangerously close to ‘arson.’
“Clients would say, ‘Why can’t my husband be more like you?’” says the 32-year-old Gurgov, and he fictitiously responds, “Because I’m a top and your husband is clearly a bottom.”
“From Day 1, she’s asked me to do her hair: ‘I wish you could blow-dry my hair,’ she’d say out of exasperation in the morning,” says 43-year-old Dan Menchini of Park Slope, whose wife, Lark, 35, has been nudging him to pitch in around the kitchen (and the bathroom) for years. “She takes her hair really seriously.”
Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Danny-boy. There are certain things that people should do for themselves. They include wiping after a good morning growler, putting contact lenses in, birthing children, chewing, and blow-drying hair.
“He’ll save money, she’ll get attention; it’s sensual. It’s like cooking class together — except the husband is blow-drying for the wife. It’s date night with the hubby,” says Gurgov.
Fellas, blow-drying hair is not sensual in the least unless you get to ejaculate into it after all is said and done.
Danny’s wife, Lark, tries to throw the vultures off the track of the carcass of her husband’s manhood by pointing out, “He owns a moving company — he’s the ultimate guy’s guy. But I have no time for anything these days, let alone my hair. I literally dream of waking up and not having to do my hair.”
Listen, Lark: whoever gave you that name is a cretin. Also, the only moving Dan’s going to be able to think about after this class is pushing a turd up some dude’s butt.
I am obviously repulsed by this story. My sperm is actually committing mass suicide inside my testicles as I type this.
Dan pretty much summed up the degree of emasculation by admitting that he’d lied to his friends about where he was on the night of the class. “This is the sort of thing that takes awhile to live down.”
Indeed it does, Dan. Indeed it does. The Gay Pride Parade is on June 30th this year, my friend. Enjoy.