So, is it wrong that when I see one of those spam emails offering to ‘ampl1fy your c0ck!‘, I envision someone holding a microphone to my groin, to see what the little fella is saying?
And should it be troubling that I imagine that my trouser buddy would then tap the mic gently, and pull the old, ‘Testes, testes; is this thing on?‘ routine?
(Tsk. Penises. So predictable. What’re you gonna do?)
While we’re on the subject, should I be nervous about what my ‘ampl1fied c0ck’ would say, once it got, um, warmed up, so to speak? I mean, let’s face it — Mr. Wrinkles isn’t likely to recite Shakespeare down there, or engage in lively debate about the subtleties of Nietzsche.
Not unless by ‘subtleties’, you really mean ‘underpants’. And by ‘debate’, you mean ‘sweaty pawing’. And by ‘Nietzsche’, you mean… well, actually, the little one-eyed wonder would probably give Nietzsche a shot, if you let him. He’s really not terribly discerning down there, left to his own devices. You can’t leave him alone for a minute.
(It’s a bit of a problem at times, frankly. I’ve had to resort to keeping him on a leash lately, ever since the, um, ‘bagel incident’. I’d rather not elaborate; let’s just say that I can never go back into that deli. And I’ll never look at ‘cream cheese’ quite the same way again. Yeah, don’t ask.)
Anyway, what would an ‘ampl1fied’ willy have to say? I can’t imagine it would be anything terribly poetic. I’d expect it to be pretty repetitve, actually — honestly, isn’t that the original ‘one-track mind’? You’d probably just pick up a long string of:
‘Oh, mama… oh, mama… oh, mama… oh yes, mama!‘
‘Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme…‘
Or how about:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout… this is my —‘ *ahem!*
Er, yeah, not that last one, so much. ‘Stout’ doesn’t sound so hot. And let’s not go down the ‘short’ road, all right? Forget the fact — if you can — that you’d have to picture the little wiggler actually singing for that last one to make sense. Nobody needs that image in their head while they’re trying to get to sleep at night.
(Yeah, you’re welcome. I’m only here to help.
Oh, and if that didn’t get you, then just try to figure out where the ‘handle’ and the ‘spout’ would be. That’ll keep you awake. Disgusted, and awake. Welcome to my world.)
Anyway, I suppose we all know that’s not really what the emails are advertising; it’s just a rather curious choice of words. Not incorrect, necessarily; just curious.
(I suppose if you spam long and hard enough, you eventually start leaning rather heavily on the thesaurus. It probably gets pretty boring otherwise.)
In any event, I just devoted several hundred words to the topic of talking penises. And you just spent ten minutes or so reading it. I’m frankly not sure which of us is worse off at this point, but neither of us is in great shape at this point. Why don’t we just toddle off to bed now, and let’s get a fresh start tomorrow. I’m pretty sure we can only go ‘up’ from here. Sleep well, friends, and do try not to think of teapots, won’t you? I’ll see you in the morning. Cheerio!Permalink | 3 Comments