Really boys, we love you to death. You’re so cute and sweet most of the time. We love that you are bigger than us, that you smell yummy right out of the shower, that you kill spiders and uncork the wine. But, sometimes, you guys need a little help in the common sense department.
As Baby Chicken leaves this week, the collection of dolls that surround me, and thus my chickens, decide to join together for one last bash, or three. The weekend finds the female chickens and myself wholly enveloped by girl outings; Friday night with Sisterella and wine; Saturday night with Sisterella, Long Time Bestie, her Medical Daughter and wine; and Sunday night back at Realtor Girl’s house with her super cutie patootie chickens, Contractor Girl and wine. Sensing a theme? Aside from the wine, there was one other constant that came up in conversation over and over and over again. You guessed it. Anthony Weiner’s, ahem, wiener.
There are questions the gals would like answered. Being chicks, our general thought is, if we were going to show off parts and pieces, we might do some maintenance to the girly bits. We might trim, wax, light a candle for ambiance and make things look as lovely as possible. So the question that begs an answer–what fool takes a dick pic from the top down? Anthony, dear, I cop to not being a penile artistry aficionado so I’m not exactly in the know. But I would assume one would want to display manhood in the best light possible, non? Seems to me that might involve a certain flair, a certain je ne sais quoi–perhaps standing at its best shall we say?
Instead, this man, who has oodles and oodles of experience shooting photos of his little beast and using them for show and tell, chooses to take a photo pointing downward. Upon closer examination the viewer wonders, “Well, there’s his feet. Wait. What is this?” Turning one’s head a little to the left and then, “Oh there it is.” Straight down. It’s a puzzler. Not having a penis, I cannot be sure but I assume that the best shots are not straight down and shall we say, relaxed? Again, just an assumption but wouldn’t your most advantageous shot be kind of sideways and attentive? Just sayin.
Then yesterday he stumbles over the question of whether he’s still sending pics. Why don’t we just give this guy’s wiener a facebook page and be done with it. We could label the page Tony’s Dick, Antny’s Wiener or Carlos’ Dong. We could ask all our friends to like it, friend it and have little conversations.
“OMG, Carlos, saw your shlong at the gym today. Great yoga!”
“Anybody wanna watch me do push-ups?” Like, Comment, Share.
Can’t you just hear the squees from all his girl fans?
And that’s where this idiot should deflate. Boys–if you really believe chicks want pics of your member, your misguidedness has hit the level of Madonna thinking she’s still twenty and relevant. There are things we love about your little friend. We admire his skills to be sure. We love what he can do for us. And we have accepted, through evolution, that you are abnormally attached to your little (sorry, big) buddy. But, here’s the deal. How do I put this gently? It’s not the prettiest thing in the world. Never once have the dolls sat around and discussed the inherent beauty of the wiener. Ripped abs check. Tight butt check. Muscled arms, you bet. Wieners–never–not once.
Basically, we can’t put a Manolo or a Jimmy Choo on it. It doesn’t look good in Chanel. You can’t show it off to your girlfriends. Well, not in civilized company anyway. Although I could find a way to drape it in pearls, even the finest Mikimotos would not raise its level on the attractive scale. It’s just not your most attractive thing. Sorry.
Just in case you need a primer: these are the things chicks dig more than your dick:
Your smile and your laughter. It makes us laugh and smile right back, especially if you’re a funny one. Even if you’re not, your nerdiness is adorable. No lie. Heart stolen.
Your hand on the small of our backs as we cross the street, enter a building or move toward the car. It’s such a protective but non-threatening thing to do–sends a chill right up the spine.
Your ability to change the oil, mow the lawn, lift heavy stuff and pretend to be the big strong man–old fashioned turn on stuff. You know, like real life? Oh, and that spider thing for sure.
You playing with your children–swoon.
Your eyes, when we look at you and you are already looking at us.
Your hand, holding ours, showing the world we’re a pair.
A phone call in the middle of the day just to say hi. So presh.
A picture of your wiener? Not so much. Keep it in your pants ’til we tell you otherwise. You’ll know when to take it out. It won’t be a secret. Promise. Oh, and by the way, show those pics to anybody else and prepare to die. Dumbass.