Our world is vast and wondrous, with many an awe-provoking marvel awaiting the intrepid soul who ventures out to seek them. Here, in verity and candor, are the six coolest penises I have seen in all my world travels.
Venturing through the isle of Madagascar, I came one day upon a man sprawled in the shade of a great baobab. The tree puzzled me: its crown was strangely absent of leaves or branches, and it stood alone in a swath otherwise reduced to swidden. Only after the man idly scratched at its fuzzy trunk did the dawn of splendid revelation break upon my benighted brow. The towering object—which I now observed to possess a bouldery head, great serpentine veins, and two testicles of normal size—was no baobab at all. It was, upon my very soul I swear, a penis of Brobdingnagian proportion.
I raced closer to confirm my suspicions, begging, through hopeful pantomime, permission to lay trembling hand upon it. The man nodded his gracious invitation. Indeed, he babbled amiably when I rubbed it with a Frenchman’s vigor, and cheered a hip-hooray when I drummed it like a bongo. I leapt for the giddy rapture of discovery, and began shimmying up the shaft to take its measure from above. Alas, the climb were better made unshod; the man quickly grew irritated with the jabbing of my bootheels, and howling in sudden rage, he rocked his hips violently side to side. I dived clear moments before the toppling meat would have dashed me to atoms. When the dust of its thunderous impact settled, I found the penis reduced in flaccidity to a size no greater than a Greek’s. My attempts to rouse the colossus from dormancy with lusty descriptions of wide bottoms elicited only the man’s icy glare, so disappointed yet undeterred, I resolved to sally forth and see what other cool penises this earth yet had in store for me.
Bid a weatherbeaten caballero of this Mexican town to show you his penis by day, and he will produce a member so thoroughly unremarkable as to seem the very composite of all penises yet revealed to you. But when the gloaming’s violet hue at last creeps down beneath the horizon, a marvelous secret reveals itself here on the outskirts of Zacatecas.
I remember the spectacle vividly. As night fell, an eerie green light bobbed out into the darkness at waist height from a doorway. Then another. And another. My heart raced. Penises! Luminous, marvelous penises, phosphorescing with the winsome radiance of ten thousand fireflies united in a singular, swinging body. The town’s plaza became a second sky, pendulous stars winking in and out as penises flopped languidly in a grand ballet of lambent manhood. No lanterns burned. None were needed. The penises, in their spectral dance, bathed all of Sombrerete in their glow. I paid a mustachioed fellow three pesos to windmill his penis like a fire-spinner twirls his poi, and I tell you the mesmeric arcs of that unearthly appendage so transfixed me that I recall them more clearly than my mother’s face.
There is a recluse, deep within the rainforests of Peru, whose penis can paralyze. It stuns not with venom, but electric current—merely dipping his tip in a river musters a great bounty of stupefied fish with a terrible BZZZAP! I observed his penis from afar for days, and would have made contact had I not first found a chilling omen—an etching, burnt into a tree by his penis, of a skeleton dressed in the selfsame adventuring garb I wore. His message was clear: “Leave my cool penis to its solitude.” A lonely life, but alas, his to choose.
The penis of a Finn is a mirthful thing! Broad and flat, it resembles the tail of a beaver, yet bears a penis’s unmistakable veins. The Finn tucks it up against his belly and, launching forward, scoots effortlessly across the snow upon it as though riding a toboggan. I suspect the Finn achieves intercourse by rolling his penis tightly lengthwise like a crêpe, as I have witnessed Finns manipulating their members thus to extract grubs from rotten logs.
If, while snowshoeing the subarctic countryside of North Karelia, you happen upon a gaggle of chipper Finns darting playfully along a frozen riverbank on their penises, hold out a smoked herring at arm’s length. Though initially wary, a curious Finn will soon take the morsel, and all at once his merry brethren will surround you, penises slapping excitedly against their abdomens as each beckons for a herring of his own. Toss one forth, and see how the Finn bats it skillfully with his penis up into his own smiling mouth as the others bark a throaty sort of laughter. But o, do not taunt them by dangling a herring out of reach! The rascally Finns will shovel great penisfuls of snow upon your feet, immobilizing you, before one snatches up the very sum of herrings still in your possession and scoots away to his burrow.
After weeks of perilous climbing in the stormy peaks of Nepal, my expedition reached a secluded mountaintop monastery where legend spoke of penises cool beyond reckoning. Our ascent was arduous. Three men perished. But at last, exhausted, we arrived. A wizened monk stood in the cloister’s doorway, as if waiting for us. I bade him show me his penis, and he gestured for me—and me alone—to follow him inside. We walked to a windowless chamber, candlelit and redolent of incense, where I knelt upon an embroidered cushion in the room’s center. The monk stood before me. Slowly, weightily, he lifted up his robe.
I could hardly conceal my disappointment. His penis, though solid and well-made, was not worth my men’s lives. But then, to my saucer-eyed wonderment, its end flared open, and what poured forth was no bodily fluid but airy, glorious music! It sang in ethereal tones, thin and mournful, like a crystal of purest quartz given voice. Other monks processed in, surrounding me, and hiked up their robes to join their lengths in the symphony. Awash in the penises’ melancholy sound, I suddenly beheld a profound vision of my fallen companions crossing over to the world beyond, traversing a threshold of golden light to see penises far cooler than what mean chodes they had glimpsed on earth. They turned back to look at me, and smiled. I thanked them silently for the gift of bringing me here, and with a sad smile of my own, nodded a final goodbye.
When at last the music ended, I found my face slick with tears. The monks lowered their robes and left wordlessly. The older monk placed a comforting hand on my shoulder as he passed. I rose, surprised to feel a deep, abiding peace in my breast, and returned to my surviving men. The storm had ended, and our descent was smooth.
Several springy, elbow-like joints along the shaft of Ed Sheeran’s penis allow it to store enough elastic energy when bent back to smash through solid stone upon release. But never fear! Docile by nature, Sheeran exclusively uses this formidable penis to open coconuts, his only source of sustenance.
