I don't know if you've noticed, or why I have, but there seem to be an inordinate number of news stories of late about what seldom makes most men’s lists of life’s must-dos—marriage.
No, not the marriage of a man to a woman, a man to a man or a woman to a woman—none of which strike me as at all unusual.
No, in this instance I'm speaking of the atypical marriage of glue…and the human penis. From where I sit—with my hand cupped protectively over myself—even one situation that combines genitalia and industrial-strength adhesives counts as “inordinate”. Then again, I'm told I'm sensitive.
In England, where it would seem twigs-and-berries double as stage props, one “Captain Dan the Demon Dwarf” was feeling blue because the vacuum he drags across the stage with his pecker—no doubt to the oohs, aahs and oh-dears of fans who just can't get enough of phallus-as-train metaphors—was broken. (No explanation is offered for how the vacuum became damaged, and for this I'm thankful.)
Anyhow, to fix said vacuum, Cap’n Dan squeezed some extra-strong glue onto the attachment. Instead of waiting for the adhesive to dry, Dan hastily squeezed into this most unusual "costume". Soon, performer, penis and vacuum-on-penis were racing en masse to a packed emergency room where, a very long hour later, Dan’s impromptu and over-the-top-generous penile extension was successfully removed. The star of the show was banged up but spared; no updates were provided about the fate of the vacuum.
I’m no social scientist, but I believe there's a lesson in this. If (a) you’re planning to vacuum (or make love to such an appliance), (b) you’ve slathered glue all over the attachments, and (c) you simply cannot resist the urge to shove the hose down your pants—just wait a spell. Have a smoke or a soda; read a magazine article; dust the blinds; admire your love truncheon in all its free-standing, vacuum-free glory, if you must. But keep it well clear of the glue until you’re sure it’s dry. It’s just common sense, folks.
An aside: I was going to include some pun about how the situation must have really sucked, but I thought better of it—that wouldn’t be funny.
Okay, back to the Glue/Shlong Phenomenon.
In Wisconsin, where male genitalia are not usually stage props but vehicles for rehabilitation, a philanderer who was tomcatting with three women allegedly learned of their collective displeasure when one tied him down to a bed (okay so far), slapped him across the face (you have to give her that much) and then super-glued his member to his stomach (which seems to me, sensitive guy that I am, a tad over-the-top). The latter two steps apparently went down while the other women watched.
As you might expect, after the women left, our victim chewed through his bindings and notified police. A week later, he was arrested for supposedly hitting his daughter and stealing his ex-wife’s deceased father’s ashes. I can see why not only one, but four, women fell for this guy—he sounds like a real peach.
Lest you feel a need to chastise me—“But Brian, most of us honor the penis”—let me say this wasn’t the first time.
In 2005, a Pennsylvania ex-girlfriend (the “ex” part should soon become obvious) not only glued her former boyfriend’s willy to his stomach, but also stuck one of his testicles to his leg, glued his buttocks together and then poured a bottle of nail polish on his head—presumably to make some point. She then kicked him out of the house. My guess is that he’d have left, anyway, albeit with a decidedly awkward waddle and in a manner best described as “gingerly”.
The only positive this time around was that no audience of lovers took in the show, so the man was able to preserve a modicum of dignity—unless, of course, you include viewings by police, several emergency room personnel and more than one dermatologist.
What happened to the good old days, when a woman could express her displeasure with a well-placed punt to the stones? Trust me—a direct hit hurts…it really, really, really hurts. Even a glancing blow—say, the outside of the sole to one-third of the hemisphere of one testicle—is enough to make most of us dump our lunch.
Why, then, does glue have to be a part of it? I'm not saying knives are a good substitute—that seems even more painful and over-the-top, and only leads to divorce and a moderately successful career in the adult film industry. But glue?
Can’t we agree that each of us can, in our own way, “Stick it to the man,” without actually sticking IT to the man?