See, here’s the thing about this blog.  Because of what I do for a living (at 98.9 the Bear) I have to watch what I say.  On the air, anyway.  Add to that the fact that I have two kids, ages six and almost-three, and most of my day is spent not saying “motherfucker.”  Too bad, really, as “motherfucker” and “goddammit” aare two of my favorite things to say.  The point I’m trying to make here is that it’s ’bout to get drrty up in this blog.  Because when not plugged into a mic broadcasting to literally DOZENS of listeners or taking my children to a gaddam splash pad or somesuch, I get short-term Tourette’s Syndrome.  Seriously filthy.  So y’been told.

Daddy, why did you call my teacher an ass-whore?

Right off the bat, here’s a recent incident at our fine radio station.  Someone discovered a discarded condom wrapper in the studio. True story.  Some idiot was smart enough to use a condom, but left the wrapper behind.  Perhaps they were trying to be all Kevin Spacey and leave little clues.  Perhaps they were just stupid.  But the amazing thing is this: no one has fessed up to banging someone in the on-air studio, even though THAT’S WHAT DJ’S DO.  Oh, I’ll add this little detail: the condom in question was a Magnum XL.  Yes, the perpetrator is apparently packin’.  Big time.  And yet, collective silence from our 99% male staff (see what I did there?  Male? Staff?)  “What’s that you say, Mister Program Director?  Big pecker?  No, not me!  When I get aroused it’s like a hamster trying to wag its tail!” What the hell has happened to male pride?  Back in the seventies and eighties, dudes were all about chest hair and unbridled male engorgement all over the place. “I don’t even use condoms.  Nossir, I simply grab an old bread bag, some duct tape, and Thompson’s Water Seal.”  Now we have online ads telling us how to increase the size of our junk.  God, we’ve failed as a society.

For the love of God...do NOT search for "huge meat" with your safe search filter off.

When my mind starts a-ramblin’ like this, weird thoughts materialize.  For example, I wonder if old guys generate as much man-sauce as younger dudes?  I’m 41 and have had a vasectomy.  My seed is more like “Seed-flavored Kool-Aid.”  Or so I imagine.  Never been that thirsty, frankly.  But I remember being in my twenties and filling up a pickle jar with my stuff after spending an afternoon with a copy of Swank magazine.  I can only imagine it’s a diminishing return, even if the body keeps making new swimmers.  Old guys probably just release a puff of air, like those things they (for some reason) blow on your eyeball at the optometrist’s office.

Okay, look right here while I fuck with your cornea for no good reason...

Back to the big-meat problem, or for the ladies, the LACK of big meat.  I think that’s a bit of a misconception, the belief that all women want twelve inches of “wrist-thick cock” (I read that description in Penthouse Forum once, and loved it so much that I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to work it in.  Yes, I just said I wanted to work in a wrist-thick cock.  Sure did.) is akin to assuming that all men want to fuck an inflexible hole the size of a quarter.  Not as cool as it sounds.

You know you want it...

Perhaps ladies should be thankful for what they have nowadays.  Lack of quality Mega-Schlong (a new movie on SyFy) isn’t all that big a deal now that men go down with regularity.  I’ve overheard old guys mention that they’ll never put their mouths on “that filthy thing.”  I think there’s more than just the old-school conservatism at work here.  I think it’s that back in the day, say, the late-40’s and early 50’s guys didn’t want to lick punani because they were afraid their hair would get messed up.  Likewise, when ladies had an orgasm (female orgasms?  In the FIFTIES?!?) they would get their hands in all that greasy, sticky pomade and then have to wipe it on the pillow or something,  embarrassing both parties and killing the mood.  And trust me, when it comes to pomade, I know what I’m talking about.

I also happen to be an expert in killing the mood.  Dang.  Wish that had been MY condom wrapper.