Something, You Know, for the Ladies

Sometimes people forget that the male crotchal region is the source of all the world’s evil. Not me. You see, I have the misfortune of being born with a male crotchal region permanently attached to the terrain between my waist and knees, and as a result am locked in epic struggle with the various devils, haints and malicious vapors always erupting out of my pants to do battle with the forces of light. It’s a lot of responsibility. . . .

In fact, let’s review: first of all, you got your pubic hair, which is scraggly and bristly and difficult to groom. Ugh, pubic hair, I feel a little queasy just typing that out. Then of course there are the blotchy, wrinkly weiner and balls, which – let’s face it – on their own or as a combo are damply comical, at best.

Around the corner, of course, fudge is made. This takes place in the booty crack, which is less a body part than an abomination defying description in the best Lovecraftian tradition, where to gaze into its unspeakably malevolent eye is to risk turning mad, etc. All this stuff is associated with a dizzyingly unpleasant array of poo, pee, steam, boners, fluids, aromas and – really, you know, if I believed in God I’d spend a fair amount of time praying the shit out of some new design suggestions, should He ever decide to roll out Man Crotch 2.0.

I'm not so upset with the design as I am with the function, so if He's open for suggestions, I've two words for Him that He's already familiar with: Multiple. Orgasms.

But if we're adding new stuff, there's also a little thing I'd like to call the B-Spot, named after it's discoverer, Biff Loman (because if anyone can find it, . . .). For those of you who haven't figured out what a B-Spot does, see the preceding paragraph (but with greater intensity, you know, so intense everyone in your genetic line feels it).