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?

Aimee Arciuolo

“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;

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.

Oh, baby, one member really stirred up a hornets’ nest.

As it turns out, the following story is, in fact, false.  It originally appeared on a Swedish site that caters to fans of satire.  I would take it down, but dead links are annoying and Flock Of Weasels is getting more hits on it than it has ever seen.  The writing’s mine, however, and if you find it slightly humorous, I’d encourage you to poke around some of the other articles for a while and then maybe pass the word along.  It gets lonely here.

I’ve stuck my porksword in some strange places, I’ll admit, but never with the expectation of intense pain, nor near-certain death; well, not immediate pain and death at any rate.

A 35-year-old Swedish man who took a hornets’ nest to town on Monday has died as a lifeless, bloated mess, albeit a sexually satisfied lifeless, bloated mess.

He may have received 146 stings, 54 of which were in his genital region, but he managed to complete his act of misguided copulation, as was evidenced by the semen found on some of the wasps that were sent to the great beyond by what must have been a frenzied encounter.

And here I am, merely thankful for the fact that I wasn’t the one who had to count the stings.

I’ve always assumed that hornets gave terrible head, but based upon the Swede’s ability to satisfy himself, I’m now left questioning my assumption.  News Sweden has some sage advice on this matter, however: “To attempt to have intercourse with a hornet’s nest is a very bad idea.”

No word on whether or not the deceased was able to impregnate any of the hornets.

In a confluence of events so dramatic, so mind-bogglingly awesome, two stories about nuts have surfaced in a very short span.  As a result, it seems almost negligent not to write a short article on testicles.

Wesley Warren Jr., 48, of Las Vegas had a 132-lb problem between his legs.  Following a painful, sleep-induced nut-munging event, Warren’s ball-sac swelled to the size of a soccer ball.  A visit to the emergency room netted him some antibiotics which were completely useless for his condition, scrotal lymphedema.

His pouch wasn’t done.  Over the next five years, his fellas released enough fluid to make his scrotum swell to a whopping 132 pounds.

As you might imagine, this hampered his ability to get around…well, that and the fact that he’s overweight to begin with, has asthma, and high blood pressure.

Simple tasks like cupping his balls while masturbating were likely impossible.  The horror.  Oh, and did I mention that the mass all but swallowed up his ding-dong, forcing him to urinate on himself whenever nature called?

Lacking the funds to get surgery, Warren turned to The Howard Stern Show.  He raised enough money from Stern’s listeners to purchase a ticket to Irvine, CA where, on April 9th, he had surgery to fix his monumental problem.

Warren is now recuperating with his reduced sac and is doing well.

In a closely related story, those crazy hoodlums in Brazil have opted for a giant scrotum called Senhor Testiculo to raise awareness of the dangers of testicular cancer.  Kudos to them for giving him an odd haircut, pudgy cheeks, and buck teeth…as if scrotums weren’t unsightly enough already.

I have a conspiracy theory that Senhor Testiculo is actually Wesley Warren Jr.’s swollen package, stuffed with down feathers and shipped secretly to South America, but I also believe that UFOs are time travelers from Earth’s future, so you might want to take my theories with a kilo of salt or something.

And since we’re on the topic of male genitalia, I thought I’d include this catchy little diddy from Jonah Falcon, the owner of what is supposedly the largest porksword in the world…shame about the face, eh, ladies?