Can I just get a Loaner Penis, Please?

There are certain times in my life where I’m all but certain that I should have a penis of my very own. It seems that those things have magical powers that could potentially excuse me from a bunch of things I hate doing. A perfect example reared its ugly head today when I was forced to attend a wedding shower on the first NFL Sunday of the season. I think I have a better understanding of the concept of Karma now. I must have done something unspeakable to have this brought upon me, but to be fair I was probably drunk at the time. I can’t think of much that I hate more. Essentially, a bunch of women sit in a room and pretend to get excited as the prospective bride opens items such as blenders and four slice toasters. What the hell am I supposed to say, “Ooh, you’re gonna toast the shit out of that bread… times four!” There’s undoubtedly that crazy aunt that has commentary for every gift. “Wow! A crock pot? Set an extra place at dinner the next time you make beef stew. Mmmm.” I wanted in on this game, but I was holding out for the bathroom hand towels so I could contribute to the witty banter by exclaiming, “Woo-Hoo! I can’t wait to come over and take a shit in your bathroom so I can use those bad boys. Man, those look soft!” Take that, Aunt Sheila. I win. I also wanted to ask if there was a TV in there somewhere so we could get to watching the Browns game, but no such luck. I’m quite sure that when you arrive in hell, Lucifer makes you sit in a chair while other people open presents that suck in front of you.

I tried really hard to distract myself from the brutality of not knowing the score of the Browns game or how my fantasy football teams were faring, but there was little cooperation from the estrogen fueled minions. I could have sworn that I heard a “Here we go Brownies” chant at one point, but it was just Aunt Molly trying to pass along the desert sampler tray. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Murphy’s Law made me its bitch. One of the co-hostesses perkily jumped up and announced that it was time to play Wedding Shower Bingo. Oh, for the love of god… I don’t want to play any god-damned games at this point unless it’s Wedding Shower Russian Roulette. The objective of this crappy game is to guess which stupid presents the bride will be opening in front of you and put them on a bingo board. You get to cross off spatulas and rice cookers as they present themselves. On a side note, what the hell is a rice cooker and who could possibly need one? How freaken difficult is it to put some Uncle Ben’s and a little water in a sauce pan? You rice cooker people are idiots. Get over yourself and make your Minute rice like the rest of us. The co-hostess felt the need to act out gifts while she announced them for the benefit of the elderly and people in the back that couldn’t see. Her hand mixer routine was pretty solid, but the plunger was amateur at best. It was like watching a really horrible Tina Fey SNL skit. I couldn’t wait for the bride to open a set of kitchen knives so I could get in on the action with my ever-popular wrist slitting charade. I’ll have to admit that I’ve played worse games though. At my sister’s baby shower, the hostess thought it would be a great idea to eat pudding out of diapers like it was baby poop. She seemed shocked when I said, “No thanks, I’m trying to quit.” I think I was called a ‘spoil sport’ or something equally as juvenile because I was opposed to mock shit eating for entertainment purposes. On what planet do people do that?

People with penises don’t have to deal with this nonsense. While we’re pretending to fawn over Pyrex, they’re down at the tittie bar checking out silicone. They don’t ever have to go to any of these other asinine parties I keep getting invited to either… Pampered Chef, jewelry, wine and sex toys. Let me just clarify… I hate all of that crap. I prefer cheap Giant Eagle wine at $3.00 per bottle, so unless your wine list for your party includes the 2010 vintage bottle ‘o crap I usually indulge in, there’re really no point. I also prefer cheap, disposable jewelry in the event that I need to flee the scene of the crime after a drunken night, inadvertently leaving one earring on some dope’s dresser. I haven’t had that privilege lately, but I like to keep my options open. I’m a firm believer that sex toys should be purchased in the way God intended; at a seedy, dimly lit porno shop with non-descript black plastic sex toy bags. Besides, would you really want me sitting next to your mom or co-worker at your giggly sex toy party? Ill-advised at best.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

September 2010
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