The Poisoned Phallus

So masculinity is in crisis, is it? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ,ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. And, indeed, ha.

Frankly, Sam hasn t had such a good laugh since he last smoked a fabled 29-skin Mallow marrow, turned on the telly and was promptly ambushed by Primetime s Brian Farrell in one of his droopier dickie bows.
Which is quite an appropriate image, now that I think about it. Since it is the very droopiness of one s dickie, as it were, which seems to be at the core of this alleged crisis in masculinity, it shouldn t take too much imagination to work out why Samuel J. Snort Esq finds the whole idea hilarious in the extreme.

Trouser snake
Lesser men and I use the phrase advisedly might think differently, of course. According to the Doc Clare, speaking elsewhere in this issue, some men are obsessed with penis size . Well, hell, maybe he is which would explain why they call him a shrink , for a start but Sam the man sure as hell ain t.
Or at least no more than, say, a Tibetan highland peasant who daily opens his wattle door onto the imposing vista of the world s biggest mountain, could be said to be obsessed with Mount Everest. It is just a part of his everyday experience.
In a very similar way, when Sam unzips his fly and uncoils his fantastic trouser snake, he could not be said to be obsessed with the thing. Like Mount Everest, it is simply there. A force of nature. Mount Sam. And, of course, they do.
So, no, this idea of the enfeebled male simply doesn t compute in Sam s brain. The Suez Crisis? Yes, I once saw a television documentary about that. Crisis? What Crisis? That was a Supertramp album so appalling it probably merited military intervention too. But Masculinity In Crisis ? No, sorry, I just don t get it.
Unless... unless... hold on there just a minute could it be that, unusually, I ve missed the point completely and that this alleged crisis in masculinity has nothing whatsoever to do with floppy dicks, dudes weeping, guys who want to fuck their muthas and all that embarrassing shit?
Perhaps what it really refers to and I m beginning to think it does is the frankly alarming collapse in standards in the general area of hot n cold running poontang. Because, yes, indeed, if the concern is that a man like Sam Snort can t get his rocks off or his nose blown, and enjoy some home-cooked grub into the bargain, then yes, by all means let s call it what it is: a crisis.

SPIRITUAL SHITE
Myself, famed axeman Ted The Fuckin Nuge Nugent and Lance Turnpike, lead singer with popular southern-fried boogie band Foghat, were discussing just this very issue at our regular group meeting for multiple-divorced men in Snort Towers the other night.
Our group is based very much on the familiar 12-Step programme, though minus all the spiritual shite and about eleven of the steps. Last week, it was Ted s turn to speak. For its honesty, directness and inspiration, I think his testimony is worth producing in full:
Hello. My name is The Fuckin Nuge and I m not gettin me enough poontang .
Then he sat down.
It was powerful, uncompromising stuff, I m sure you ll agree. Dudes who weep weak dudes, in other words would doubtless have been shedding gallons and generally behaving in an unsightly, blubbering manner. Instead, myself and Lance responded by cursing loudly, shooting off guns in the air and punching holes in the walls with our bare fists. We then broke full bottles of whiskey over each other s heads as a sign of our group oneness.
Later, just before we finished the meeting by conking out on the floor, Lance put the whole issue of masculinity in crisis in perspective.
I know where The Fuckin Nuge is comin from Sam, he vouchsafed. Time was when guys like us only had to say git down, woman, an when you ve gotten up scramble me some eggs and the gals pretty much formed an orderly queue. Fact, way I remember it, having had your hooter expertly hoovered, it was nothing unusual to look up from your plate of eggs and find that your good lady was over by the light of the window, moanin some sweet song and stitchin some nice shit on your cowboy shirt.
Silently, we three grizzled veterans of the cultural revolution, contemplated how things are and how they used to be. Masculinity in crisis? Hell, maybe it is and maybe it isn t.
But as far as we can see, femininity appears to be fucked altogether.
Your ever-lovin Samuel J. Snort Esq