Tuesday, January 13, 2004

Below the Belt

Back in the Long Gallery some of the women went upstairs to 'powder their noses'. Lady Montdore was scornful.

'I go in the morning,' she said, 'and that is that. I don't have to be let out like a dog at intervals, thank goodness - there's nothing so common to my mind.'

Nancy Mitford, Love in a Cold Climate

Twats, willies and wee-wee got a lot of blogospheric attention over the weekend. It's too soon to say that any of these topics will emerge as the BlogGeist's flavour of the month but they've been at least lukewarm topics and it's possible that they'll hot up.

Over at the Billabong, Stanley Gudgeon has turned in a first class impersonation of Mitford's Lady Montdore in commenting on this memoir of incontinence by Stephanie Bunbury which appeared in Saturday's Age. If nothing else, it confirms once and for all that Stanley is not Imre, who wrote in The Oz several months ago about his own struggles with bladder control (not available on-line, alas). From the biographical information Stanley has let slip over the past couple of years, I gather that he is numbered among those of us who look to the future with a certain trepidation for the time when it is no longer possible to achieve the Congress of the Snake Climbing the Tree without popping your plastic hip joint. One hopes for his sake that the next time Stanley bares his bum for his six-monthly grope, the doctor doesn't extract his rubber encased, KY-coated digit and announce "I think you're going to need to see a urologist. In the meantime I can prescribe something for those haemorrhoids if they're bothering you."

At Blogorrhea, Rob Schaap has posted on the subject of willy extensions and twat tucks, a theme picked up in passing by Gianna at She Sells Sanctuary. It's been a while since I got any penis-extension spam. I did succumb to visiting one of the sites that was e-mailed to me, where I was promised, among other things, that I would never have to feel embarassed walking into a locker room again. On checking, I discovered that the promised enlargement might be counterproductive, regardless of any ego-boost I might get from knowing that I could wander into any football club dressing room in the country and drop my kecks to reveal an old fella of Dirk Diggler proportions. In any case, if you're not a member of the team, the most likely response to such an act is that somebody will ask: "Who's the poofter with the long tool, then?"

"Dunno mate. You'd expect a dick that long to be thicker than that, though, wouldn't you?"

"Must have been hanging weights off it, I reckon."

If, on the other hand, you've decided on a penis extension in order to please your (female) sexual partner, you'd be better off learning the trumpet, or some other brass instrument, paying particular attention to the techniques of double tonguing and triple tonguing (this might also work if your sexual partner is male, but I'm in no position to comment on that - although I have heard that you can wreck your embouchure if you're not careful).

Afterword: after another quick visit to the Billabong, it's obvious that wee-wee will win out as flavour of the month over there.

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