During a two-day visit to San Francisco last week my brother Vince, sister-in-law Leenie, and I trekked up to North Beach for some fantabulous Italian food. As we walked back to our lodgings, a gleaming black motorcycle roared by. It was adorned with fire, lightning, a shark's face and other fierce images that blurred past me in the rush and noise.
Left in the wake of Harley-Davidson motor and exhaust, Leenie nodded knowingly. "Small penis."
Given the number of spam emails I have received on this topic, I realize it must be an issue for some. In saying so, I am embarking on foreign territory and a world I cannot possibly understand. No pun intended when I say that penis size does not loom large in my life. For grins, I have contemplated answering one of those emails with "What can you do for me?" To be sure, in adolescence there was talk about breast size and how some girls got all the boyfriends because they were "stacked", but I don't recall obsessing about this beyond the usual teenage angst.
People make fun of what provokes their anxiety. We make hilarous films about the army and the police because soldiers and cops have messed with our lives for a long time. We tell wonderful jokes about the afterlife because death is the ultimate freak-out. We have countless sex jokes because coitus and its consequences generate all kinds of concern.
And a cardinal rule of nightclub comedy is, "Always go for the joke about the schwanz."
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