The dashing dildo dangler

Dangling dildosDear SSBS,

Recently I fell on hard times, living in my best friend’s pocket. Back to the job market I went to find work on the line at a plastic press. However from day one my discomfort at the work grew. You see dear Slightly, this plastic press produces prosthetic phallus by the fuckload (this is no joke – it’s actually how we measure production targets).

Day after day I monotonously press out phallus of all shapes and sizes. Over and over and over the dildos flow from the machine as it bangs out more plastic injection formed penises.

At first it made me dizzy from the smell of the melted plastic and at night I dreamed of the dongs as they streamed past my workstation. An endless, relentless stream of sex paraphernalia. But as the weeks wore on, my dreams became more sinister. Marching John Thomases took to the streets seeking custom with many lonely men and women. I had to stop it.

So every night when the press winds down I dive into one of the defective dildo bins. It seems Inspector 13 finds the most defective ones. And then I spread the joy of phallic plastic by cover of darkness, stringing them up and nun-chucking them over power lines all over town.

Now I am freed of my dreams but haunted by my actions as the phallic thrower about town. Help me Slighty! Free me from this penile curse!

Regards,

Phallus Chucker

 

Before we begin, Phallus Chucker, I’m afraid I have to quibble with your choice of sobriquet. I cannot cope with the word phallus. It is either overly scientific or a bit too bodice-ripper:

“she cried out as his swollen phallus entered her quivering quim”.

You see what I mean? So I’ve decided to re-christen you with a more pleasingly alliterative nom de plume.

Dear Dong Dangler,

That’s better, isn’t it? I am very flattered that my advice is being sought from Portland, Oregon. I had thought that the only people who read my columns were Lord Sutch and my Mum, but then I received your email and, like any New Zealander, felt obsequiously gratified that someone from the northern hemisphere was paying me attention. Thank you for revealing the inner turmoil that compelled you to waste perfectly decent dildos. Little did I know that it was a cry for help.

I can only imagine the mental anguish of being tormented day and night by non-stop cock. OK, that doesn’t sound so bad to me, but I’m attempting to be empathetic. I completely understand why you felt compelled to steal from your place of employment and run through the night pitching plastic penises over power lines. We all go a little crazy after Too Much Dick.

There’s only one solution: you need to restore your equilibrium. That’s right, my friend, you need a minge binge, a veritable extravagina of pussy. Fortunately, you live in the Pacific North West, where the ladies are smoking hot and sublime in the sack. Although, to qualify that statement, I have only been to Oregon once and it was for a wedding so my impressions might not be entirely representative.

Alternatively, you could sell some of those defective dildos on eBay and buy a ticket to New Zealand, home to the most promiscuous women in the world. No, I didn’t make that up. Personally, I think Wellington City Council should use that impressive fact to attract visitors rather than the pathetic attempts to re-cast our capital as the Middle of Middle Earth in homage to a movie that vaguely interested the rest of the world nearly 15 years ago. I digress.

Best wishes for your muff mission, my friend. If I don’t see any more dildo-related news reports from Portland, I’ll assume that you’re happily face first in a fish taco. Just remember, mental and physical health both depend on a balanced diet.

Your personal nutritionist,
SSBS

 

 

Image courtesy of Reuters

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