: February 2001:
danger is real. It's the greatest threat currently facing
men and manhood and maleness and manliness and machismo
and masculinity...and Guy Stuff in general.
What is this threat, you ask, growing
somewhat impatient and ready to flip the page to ogle
more tacky pix of naked erotic models?
It isn't feminism, because, well, feminism's
ridiculous. No one takes that shit seriously anymore.
It isn't lesbianism, because it's common knowledge that
women can't get along with one another for very long.
It's not even male brutishness, because that has flourished
for eons, and the patriarchy has chugged along unhampered.
No, the threat is simpler. More pervasive.
More seemingly innocent, and thus all the more sinister.
The threat to every American male lurks
quietly in bathrooms from coast to coast. And that threat,
my brothers, is the hand-held shower nozzle. That cocky,
arrogant plumbing appliance. That evil, steely, praying
mantis. That simple bathroom appliance, available at
any K-Mart or Home Depot, will topple ten thousand years
of male rule. That inanimate shower device symbolizes
feminine liberation. It betokens a rising gynocratic
dictatorship. The ultimate, irrevocable downfall of
Good for her. Bad for you. Bad for all
Scared, fella? You should be. There
is reason to be afraid.
Mention the topic of shower nozzles
to a woman...any woman...and her lips will curl into
a smile. Her eyes will assume a faraway look of forbidden
love and giggly secrets.
She's a little more distant these
days, isn't she? A little less eager to please, right?
And still you wonder why it takes her that long to
take a simple shower, you silly little fool.
She loudly slams the bathroom door
shut. She rudely clicks the lock, shutting you out
of her private aquatic self-pleasuring session. She
defiantly strips naked and slinks into the shower.
And there she stands, nozzle in hand, coldly mocking
the patriarchy. She cranks up the faucets, spritzing
herself 'tween the legs. The relentless downpour assaults
her crotch like a mini Muff Monsoon. The nozzle gushes
at full force, crop-dusting her nether regions. Battering
her swee'pea like a boxer pummels a punching bag.
Plastering her clit like an astronaut's rubbery cheeks
in a G-force test. Pummeling her shiny li'l pencil
eraser into pink liquid ecstasy.
have been replaced by a household item."
Banished and abandoned, you sit outside
the bathroom, jealously enduring the yelps and groans
and grunts and war-whoops of insane pleasure, the
sort of pleasure you never give her. The sort of pleasure
you CAN'T give her.
You can't compete. There's no way.
You're flat-out fucked. You don't understand her body
like the shower nozzle does. No matter the size of
your canoe, it's no match for Niagara Falls. Your
organ may be able to thrust...on occasion, it might
even throb...but alas, it cannot PULSATE, mon frere.
Your tongue may be able to flick like a hummingbird's
wings, but it cannot match the thousands of spurts-per-minute
clocked by a high-tech nozzle. You say you can please
your lady all night? The shower nozzle can please
her until the city reservoir runs dry.
You have been replaced by a household
item. With a mere twenty or thirty dollars, she
buys herself lifelong satisfaction. She may need
you to install it, but after that, you're history.
The penis is obsolete. Shower nozzles
do not grow fat and bald. Shower nozzles never fail
to achieve an erection. The hand-held shower nozzle
is the horseless carriage of human sexual relations.
And you, kind sir, are the sickly old horse, put
out to pasture.
There is one small chink, however,
in the shower nozzle's shining armor: A woman is
unable to nag and torture a shower nozzle like she
can a real live man. So one of her primary yearnings
will go unfulfilled.
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