I recently read a 2015 British Journal of Urology article, in which British analysts took six months and compiled 20 studies from across the globe, regarding penis size, and female attitudes.
These were their findings:
11% o f Women said “Size didn’t matter.”
24% of Women said “They couldn’t care less.”
64% of Women said “It was only of mild importance.”
This concludes in the presumption that we don’t effing care about the length of your dick.
I mean, I care – deeply – about each and every individual penis. But, by and large, women just don’t.
These findings, by the way, totally echo the independent research I’ve done on the subject. So, that was reassuring. My girl's-nights are on point.
I’m writing my grant proposal this weekend.
Wish me luck.
I’ve seen sweat, despair, and disgust give way to eight-minutes of complete euphoria. I’ve seen men come alive for three-to-five, depending on the crowd. I’ve seen grown men crushed beneath the critical heel of an ignorant, arrogant audience, and seen them lifted to highs yet undefined.
And, I’ve been this man.
Jumping and gyrating, hoping a spark from your personality will ignite onto the apathetic-at-best spectators.
Performance art at its best,
It makes full adults scream, and reel, and cry.
Stand-up comedy, you bitch-whore devil-mistress.
“Why can’t I master you?” We all scream in an agonized unison.
The highs are EPIC.
The lows, though… Oh, God, the lows.
I thought I had met depression on a biblical level – and then I began my love affair with Comedy.
Rejected by a whole room? Oh, yeah.
Rejected by fellow comedians? Both Male and Female alike.
Rejected by long-standing friends and family? Certainly.
Rejected by prospective partners, as inevitably, life creates art? Definitely.
There’s nothing like the shame, the pain, the solitary burden of holding the mic, and being told to say something amusing. Clever on command: Go. The failure is more than anyone should really have to bear.
But, oh. God. The highs...
It’s a steep price you pay when you chase a dream.
I still wonder if we’re begging for understanding or forgiveness.
I’ll never not do this. I couldn’t give her up. Comedy, you devil-queen, I think I love you...
::: to the tune of Peggy Lee's "He's a Tramp" ::::
I’m a tramp,
But, I love it.
Ride a new dick, every day.
I’m a tramp,
I adore it.
Do you want to do it in the alleyway?
I’m a tramp, I’m a nympho,
I’m a ho, yeah, I’m a slut.
I’m a tramp, but I love it –
Do you want to do it in the butt?
I can never tell,
When I’ll get fucked…
So, I keep condoms on me.
I guess I’m just an easy piece of fluff,
‘Cause I’m always super horny,
I’m a tramp,
I’m a floozy,
And, there’s nothing more to say.
I’m a tramp,
I’m a good one.
So, how’s about the alleyway?
I had a show tonight, and as usual, I was running through my material in my car before the show. I was driving with one hand, and I went to rub my chin with my left hand.
To my horror, I came across two errant hairs.
Thank God I was parked, because I totally freaked out.
So, I’m frantically looking through the car for tweezers that I know I don’t keep in my car. I’ve never kept tweezers in my car.
I tried to make some tweezers out of cardboard in my car—like a shitty McGyver. That show was stupid, anyway. And, I’m no McGyver.
But, I am a smoker.
And, I do know that they’ll burn off… So, I looked at my lighter, I looked in the mirror at the offending hairs. I looked at the lighter. I felt the hairs.
I did it.
I burned those fuckers off my chin.
I’m pretty scorched, but I have powder in my bag, so I just covered over it.
That’s how much I love this business. Also, it’s a testament to my overwhelming vanity.
And, as a bonus, my face smells vaguely of bacon.
I’ve been a bit lonely, lately.
So lonely, in fact, that I answered the phone when my ex randomly called me. He’s great, and we ended amicably about two years ago. And, then we ran into each other in a bar about six months ago, and had nostalgic sex. You know, where you’re like… “Awwww, I remember that penis… and, ooooooh, I know that mole! And… Ugh. You still make that noise, huh? Great.”
So, he was like, “How’s the Pacific North West?” Because he’s never been here…
And, I was like, “It’s amazing, the only thing I haven’t seen is Sasquatch. But, I hear he brings the kids colored eggs in the Sping, so I’m looking forward to that. You should definitely come down and see it.”
Then he said, “Oh, I would, but the FAA has put you on the No-Fuck-List.”
Ooooooh! Good one! Burn.
I was instantly like, well… They should notify you, because I’ve been violating that order all over the place.
And, then I began to think about it. Obviously, this was a joke that had been crafted for me. He was totally like, oh, when I see Jane again… Muahahahahahahah… As he twists his twirly mustache, the one he grew for this bit, specifically.
But, the construction began to bug me, not just because I’m a comic, but yeah…
He chose the FAA. The Federal Aviation Administration, does he think he has a Boeing 747? Because that’s not a commercial flight, John. You’re not going to need an airline hangar for that…
And, I love him, but wouldn’t it burn harder if he’d chosen the CDC (Center for Disease Control)?
That’s the joke. Damn.
It's interesting to see when people match with you on Tinder.
I honestly get the most action on Sunday mornings. I don't know if that means that Tinder users aren't really church attendees, or what, but it sure does seem to indicate they're not really in a spiritual place.
I have my life together. I have a job, car, place, etc., so there's a pretty good chance that I'm not up to fuck at 3:45am on a random Tuesday.
And, I'm not going to drive 55 miles so that you can shove your dick up my ass. For the love of gold, do some leg work. Gas is expensive. At least meet a girl in the middle. And, the drive back home is very different after anal. I don't think you guys know what you're asking.
I met this man in a bar last week – he was drunk, and loudly proclaiming, “I’m ‘Murica!”
And, I believe him, because within three minutes of meeting him, he called me a ‘faggot’ and kicked me off ‘his porch.’
But, then he had another shot, and his mood towards me changed.
He looked at me with a new light, and he said, “Hey, polka-dot.”
I was wearing polka-dots.
“Hey, polka-dot! Why don’t you let me take you home and milk those titties before they explode.”
Charming, right? He’s obviously a scholar… definitely an academic.
So, do you guys not have to take basic health in Oregon? Or Biology?
We’re not well-educated in New Mexico, but even we lowly half-breeds know that women don’t have udders.
There’s no milk in there. I can't reiterate that enough, 'cause eeeeeeeww?
There's no milk in there.
They probably won’t explode, though I am grateful for the concern...
So, I’m 35, and my mother would like it if I’d settle down.
Every time I speak with her, she’s like, “have you met anyone?”
And, I love her, deeply, but I am DONE with this conversation. OVER this question. No. I haven’t, and I’m not looking for anyone, either. And, not in a bitter, ‘all men are assholes,’ way, but I bet I could get an ‘amen’ off that on stage… But, no really. I don’t want one. I’ve had opportunity, probably still do in some cases, but…
Here’s the list:
I make our money with my hands and brain.
We get nothing from the government.
I get no financial, physical, or emotional support from either of my kid’s dads.
We have our own place.
We have a car.
We pay our bills and live in first-world comfort.
AND - I am beholden to no man.
I am no one’s princess; I’m the God damned KING.
Lord of the Fucking Manor.
Do you know how many centuries of women reign free in my veins? Hundreds of years of subservient silence, courses through the wild abandon of my heartbeat. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten my place, I’ve just risen above it. I am the culmination of my female ancestors – I have no master.
I am beholden to neither father nor husband nor creed or God. I am freedom.
And, I use it to tell dick jokes on stage.
I grew up fat.
No, not fat. 320lbs. fat, in high school.
To give you a frame of reference, we had an elephant born at the Rio Grande Zoo while I worked there, and she weighed in at 318lbs. To celebrate, they gave out these plush elephant beanie babies with “Daisy 2009,” and “318lbs.” on the other.
I had to keep that side facing the wall.
‘Cause it felt like she was taunting me with her svelte physique.
So, this is thin, for me.
No, that’s the joke: THIS is thin.
And, it’s always been like this, it’s not as though I was a skinny kid. I was the fattest kindergartner in Ms. Zwilling’s class, all the way through to prom.
My sister and I took ballet together. She was this lithe, slim, graceful ballerina in a delicate lilac costume that seemed to float around her clever legs.
My costume was bright yellow.
I looked like a lemon wearing a tutu.
I had the “Dora the Explorer” haircut.
We danced to Maurice Chevalier’s “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” which is arguably the creepiest song on the planet:
“Every time I see a girl of 5 or 6 or 7, I can’t help but to smile, and stop, and say, “Thank Heaven.” Thank Heaven, for little girls, for little girls get bigger, every day.”
Seriously, what’s going on with Maurice Chevalier? Is he a pedophile? ‘Cause he’s sounding just that side of molestation center…
I'm Jane Malone.