The Dictator

Beautiful cock now available for worship

Women adore worshipping my enormous perfect cock, do you want to give it a try? I'm 7+ glorious inches, circumcised, with a long hearty thick shaft, and, nicely shaved balls. I have an enormous cumshot sure to please you. Mine is nice and hard,come suck on my absolutely beautiful, hard, and juicy, cock tonight. David.

Yeah, we get it David. Your breathtaking, blue-ribbon cock is a masterpiece, a gland even more awe-inspiring than a box of kittens with bone cancer singing "The Star Spangled Banner."

We must see to it that your penis is immediately placed on a delicate velvet pillow, enclosed in an airtight oxygen chamber, surrounded by armed guards, and transported to the Chamber of Esteemed Genitalia in Vienna, Austria.

You know ladies, it wasn't always this way.

Like all men, David was once an innocent little boy just like yours, a boy happily willing to exchange everything between his legs for 5 minutes alone with a cheap Japanese talking robot with rotating sirens. Yet David has morphed into a grown man sitting at his computer, scribing an ode to his penis with the same intensity of a modern beat poet sitting on a cliffside, cursing birds for their ability to fly.

How does this awful transformation take place?

When a boy is 6 years of age, his penis merely seems a nuisance, an unsightly weed sprouting from the cracks in the driveway of his body. It pees on his Batman sheets, flops around like an agitated salmon in his Toughskin jeans, and sometimes gets hard and leaks gerbil tears.

But by the age of 11, the testicles foment an uprising against the body. Armed with millions of white-tailed, bleach-flavored soldiers, the oft-neglected penis launches a brutal takeover of the body and quickly establishes an absolute monarchy. The demands? Hustler magazine, constant visual contact with breasts, and all the vaginas you could hope to fit in the Grand Canyon. And then some. For eternity.

So it's not David talking here, it's his cock. Like all men, his cock is shaping his every action and decision. He has no choice.

As he wrote this ad, I'm sure David sat at his computer weeping lightly to himself "Please, cock, don't make me do this," but his words were wasted on pleading to the Master.

"Type it, bitch! G-l-o-r-i-o-u-s!"

So next time a guy says something offensive to you, remember, it's not him. If you need to get the message across to a man, kick him in the fucking balls. Then he'll understand.

(This entry, as are all entries, was written by The Weasel's balls. Which are far more glorious than David's.)