Every year, the inhabitants of the Mangrove hold a special event that focuses on artistic and humorous expression of the male sexuality, specifically the penis, called the Penis Soliloquies. People from Hill to the High Rises make their annual pilgrimage to the attic of the Mangrove and read/rhyme/sing/present their own treatise to the penis. Here is my submission:
It’s that time of year again. That magical day where we pick our lazy asses up off the couch, sack up and come see some penises here at the Mangrove. Those special few hours where Kevin prances around West Philly wearing nothing but a Speedo, occasionally showing people what’s underneath. Wait, that happens almost every weekend. Well, anyway, this day is special to all of us, not only because we can celebrate our manhood and discuss our sexuality, but also because it gives us a way to discretely compare our dick sizes in public. That’s very important to me, because I was desperately seeking a way to affirm my wholly average status. I’m not talking about the first day of school to a pedophile, or the inner monologue of a sexually mature rabbit. I’m talking about the Penis Soliloquies.
The Penis Soliloquies is man’s last hope, my friends. It is man’s final line of defense against the Venus flytrap of the Vagina—the only way to prevent the hapless fruit fly of male sexuality from buzzing its way into the deceptive jaws of this often-slimy creature. We must keep our proverbial fruit flies free from being consumed by the acidic, sticky digestive juices of the Vagina (that’s with a capital V, for those of you taking notes at home). It is this confidence that allows wrinkly old men to walk around naked in locker rooms even though their towel is right there. It’s the unseen force that makes them perform a brisk post-workout hamstring stretch, lingering just a little too long when you walk by. It is this comfort that facilitates the immediate and unbreakable bond between men when a chick with a killer rack walks by. We all know what I’m talking about.
You see, this is why the Penis Soliloquies is an Institution that holds the very fibers of our society together. How else can we be justified in nonchalantly whipping out our dongs and taking a leak wherever we damn well please? How else can we straight up let our facial hair grow out for a month, getting all gnarly and scratchy, no fucks given? Hell, we can grow a pedophile mustache just for the fun of it. Without appreciating our penises and what they represent, we’d all be clean-shaven, pee sitting down, and no one would ever get cock slapped, ever. Do you want to live in a world where nobody gets cock slapped? I sure don’t.
A vagina is like Halley’s comet: it doesn’t come often, but when it does, suddenly everyone starts caring about it. A penis, on the other hand, is like acne to a sixteen year old: it comes way more than you want it to, and you often have to hide it with tissues or an extra-long scarf. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. This event is extremely important to the future of mankind. Even though the originators of this practice in penile appreciation, the first founders of phallic freedom, are graduating, this tradition should continue forever. I don’t want to find out what would happen if it doesn’t.