Sunday Miscellany - Penis and Philosphy by Cathal .

I’m going to go out on a limb in this weeks journal and talk about two things that inspired me recently, Penises and lessons in Philosophy.
Lets get the penis discussion out of the way first shall we?
I appreciate that for most of you, talking about penises is about as appropriate and palatable as bringing your vegetarian friend out for dinner and ordering roast swan on a bed of sauted goldfish, it just isn’t very tactful, appropriate or tasteful.
Maybe its the word itself that doesn’t help, penis, peeeneesssss, perhaps it just sounds sinister and sneaky and reminds you of science or biology class, so if you prefer I’ll return to my youth and the time when most boys in Ireland referred to our penises as our mickey’s (not Mikey, it wasn’t a name, that would be sad, it was just mickey, pronounced dicky as in a dicky bow tie) and I must apologise now for the immaturity I still treasure, because the word ‘mickey’ still makes me smile.

So,lets just assume that I’m sorry for every bit offense I may cause by talking about mickey’s. But, and I know its a big but, I’ve recently been told I have the perfect mickey, and I’m sure you will totally agree, that such wonderful news must be shared with others! (and I’m not typing this naked, just in case you were having suspicious thoughts). So where did I hear such a revelation? Why a magazine of course, isn’t that where all such life changing pieces of information are gleaned from?
I went to a plush hotel recently and as part of the finery and pomp, some obscure magazines were left on the coffee table. One of them happened to be a trendy design mag and there were some ideas in it that triggered some garden designs for me to work on. So I stole it. Well, technically I like to think the bill covered it, but I suppose in a court of law, I’d be guilty of theft. But as you will know if you have read Sunday Miscellany – A Whole Heap a Nothin, I think I’m turning slightly klepto, and having being literally scarred for life as a result of robbing onions, I’ve decided to go the whole hog and live up to the reputation my scarred body now advertises. Therefore, it now seems that I have the elastic morals of an athiest priest.
But hey, I’ll live with such a flaw, now that I have the perfect mickey.

So if you’re asking what on earth was an article on mickeys doing in a design magazine, you’re obviously not familiar with the aesthetic beauty and the personification of physical perfection that the mickey is; why the hell wouldn’t it be in a design magazine?. But don’t feel too bad, even I, as somebody who’s been very attached to his mickey for the last forty two years, didn’t know it was design perfection, not until I sat on my sofa and flicked to a page that had detailed pencil drawing of seven different types of mickeys!
It was an ephipany
There I was, coffee in hand, slunk down into the cushions. Missus and Mother-in Law (aka Rottweiller) are in the kitchen having tea, Eldest is in his room watching Turner and Hooch for the hundredth time, and Toast is doing a Tinkerbell jigsaw under the dining room table, with a torch and a duvet. (You may think that such a detailed description of my surroundings is superfluous, but I suspect any man would lock into his head, the memory of the precise moment he was told he had the perfect mickey. Of course I would have preferred a completely different scenario for such a moment, but beggars cant be choosers.)

So picture it, a double spread of mickeys in all their flacid glory staring at me over the rim of my mug. Don’t worry, I don’t propose going into too much detail on the details of the seven phallic wonders of the world, suffice to say there was different shapes, different angles of elongation (i.e some bendy ones), different head gear, the obviously different girth and lengths, different nestling features, and last but not least, different smiley faces on their tips.
And then there was one that was deemed perfection, and I recognised it immediately. It was my mickey.

Now I’m sure every other man that read the article thought the same thing, it was a plush and fancy hotel after all and customer service is paramount. I’m sure the hotel is savvy enough not to leave articles lying around that could make some of the guests feel inferior, so I presume the magazine was selected on the basis that it would ensure that ALL of their male guests could become aware that each and every one of them had the perfect mickey.
But I’ve no doubt that if I had read the article whilst I was still in the hotel I might have even tipped a few more quid and walked around the place with a bit more of a gigolo attitude knowing that I had a mickey to be proud of, clever hotel eh?

As you can gather, I thought it an interesting article, and it went on to talk about the functions of various shapes and the efficacious nature of their design. It also briefly mentioned the names that the penis is called in different countries and cultures, mickey being a case in point. It didn’t explore why this was (it being solely concerned with the perfection of its design of course) and it was only mentioning names in a ‘tongue in cheek’ kind of way (and I appreciate that using the term ‘tongue in cheek’ when discussing penis is probably uncalled for, I apologise, again).

But after I finished reading, it got me thinking about the names and why we use them. I suspect it has something to do with a mans relationship with his mickey, you see very often a penis has a mind of its own, and therefore it usually gets a name other than just ‘penis’. Eldest calls his ‘willie’ but the older you get the more macho the names become. It would be childish and boring of me to repeat the various names of course so I’ll leave that to your own recollection, because as you will appreciate, I’m not childish in any way :)

So with the knowledge that I was now the perfect specimen of manhood, a warm glow of satisfaction came over me as I closed the double spread article and drank the last of my coffee, and as I stretched upon the ‘man the hunter’ sofa cushions, something occurred to me that I had never thought of before.
So I shouted into the Missus from my sofa.

Hey, Wife, do you have any pet names for your vagina?

And that brings me on to the philosophical lesson that I mentioned at the start. Basically, it’s this.

Don’t ever inquire after your wife’s vagina when she happens to be in the kitchen having a cup of tea, and sitting beside her mother.

Have a great week folks.