Take it from Snee: Embrace the penis

So I’m ditty-boppin’ around Fark, when I came across this headline: “Jason Segel on working with Paul Rudd: ‘I slowly open my eyes, and Paul is standing there with his d___ out.'” (Here’s the actual story. Don’t pretend you’re not curious.)

I wasn’t too surprised to read bizarre peniphobic comments. After all, I did see The Watchmen this weekend.

I liked The Watchmen. Fortunately for Zack Snyder, I had to watch it twice because the first time was too distracting. A number of people in the audience could not shut up about Doctor Manhattan’s blue dork. One actually started booing because the character would not stop having a penis. These same people applauded when Silk Spectre II’s tits were on-screen.

There is a disturbing dichotomy in our society folks — a sexist one, if you ask me — and it’s high time we whipped this issue out. There is nothing wrong with the penis.

Sure, it’s goofy, but no more so boobies or hineys or uvulas. But, for some reason, the penis has gotten a bad wrap.

Is it rape? It’s rape, isn’t it?

Look, not all penises are going to rape you. In fact, I’m fairly certain that most dicks want nothing to do with raping you, but would rather spend time curled up with a good book, perhaps in a sock. Also, penises don’t rape people, people with penises rape people, which any NRA member will tell you about his supplement.

So, admitting that it is sexist to believe all penises are violent sex criminals, let’s move on.

The penis is one of the man evolutionary features that separates us from the apes. I’m not saying apes don’t have beef sticks, just very tiny ones. Men evolved bigger apparatuses for the same reason we do everything else: chicks dig ’em.

Women hand-selected mates based on a variety of reasons back in our early evolutionary days: flowers, chocolates, poems comparing their hair to swamp gas … but only one thing got bigger through selective mating: the tubesteak.

For centuries, we celebrated the John Thomas in painting, sculpture, song and childrens’ names like Peter and Mike Rotch. Deciding the already large mammalian fleshtre wasn’t big enough, men even began wearing codpieces in the Middle Ages (renamed the Dark Ages because of huge shdows cast everywhere.)

(Penises cast those shadows.)

Yes, sir or madam: the golden age of the dickerdoodle lasted for a long time, mostly for good, but occasionally for evil (see: the Falklands War). In the 1970s, scientists made great leaps forward in peniology by paring it with the mustache. An entire cinematic movement exploded on movie screens.

It was in the 1990s, though, that deflated the poon balloon, a truly inglorious time, indeed. Between Clarence Thomas and Bill Clinton’s escapades, the mainstreamification of Prince Alberts, AIDS and the entire male cast of Friends, the pork whistle became undesirable.

Shame has followed, sending penises everywhere scurrying into the darkness, occassionally peeking out, only to send the townspeople rioting with pitchforks and torches and those weird wooden Frankenstein rakes.

This is why I propose a holiday. Not one of those crappy name-a-penis awareness days, but a real holiday with cards and bizarre pseudo-Christian rituals like painting bunnies and sitting on trees.

It has to be soon, too. The last thing I need is to invent a holiday and everyone forgets about it. That is why this March 17th will be “Hug A Penis Day.”

I want you all to go out there and show some dick you care, circumcized or creatively tattooed. To show that you’re a participant, everyone should wear green — the color of Freude’s envy that he didn’t think this up — and drink lots of beer and whiskey.

And if you see a little green dick running around, grab him and pound him until he tells you where he keeps his gold.