I just woke up from a nap in the office with the Burj Khalifa of erections. This one is special, and gentlemen the world over know what I mean—there’s different makes and models of erections. Various degrees of engorgement. Some days you’re a sapling, other days you’re a Redwood. It doesn’t even make sense. I was dreaming about hiking.
For some reason this one is so powerful it hurts—that’s actually why I woke up in the first place. This thing is a stitch-burster. Of course I get one of these at 3:00 PM on a Friday at work. You’re early, dude. I live in Korea but it must still be on East Coast time. I can feel my pulse in it and I’m pretty sure it has its own gravity. Compasses from here to Madrid are now off by 15 degrees; watch the news for reports of battleships running aground on South Pacific Reefs and 767s slamming into the Himalayas.
I’m light-headed. I’m thinking: what, where did this come from. I don’t even think this is mine. There must be a glitch in the Matrix because I am not the Burj Khalifa, I’m the Eiffel Tower at best. It’s like being in Freaky Friday, but instead of swapping bodies with someone we’ve swapped dicks; is anyone out there missing a dick. Today I believe in magic.
Dude, way to show up late. There were some games I had to sit out because you were AWOL. Like that one night when I was 22 and had something good teed up but I’d consumed enough Chinese beer to neuter myself. It’s too bad erections are non-transferrable. Like airline tickets. If God loved us we’d be able to go back in time and hand one of them off like a baton. Or, we’d be able to stash them away for the twilight years. There’s only so much wood in the pile.
Guess I’m just gonna file this one under “Sex.”