Sean Salisbury's Penis is Angry

Hey, Sean!

No, you're not hearing things, it's me, your penis. I'm talking to you.

Look at me, godammit! You're making everyone else look at me, why shouldn't you?

That's right, thanks to you and your antics, Mr. Happy is now Mr. Sad. "Game Over" for the Joystick. The Pork Sword has gone vegan.

Sean, how the hell many times have we gone through this? For how long?

Oh, you don't recall? Well, loser, I do. It's been over thirty years since you started waving Rumple Foreskin around in public without an invitation.

I remember the first time like it was yesterday. That sixth grade field trip to Rancho Los Cerritos in the back of the school bus, when Cindy Frasier was upset cuz she forgot her lunch and you whipped me out and dangled me on her lap, whispering, "Try some yogurt" and she screamed and cried...

I didn't come out again for weeks.

From there it's been one humilating display after another.

The time at USC when you were shitfaced and got naked from the waist down, then chased a cheerleader out of the Student Union, yelling, "Screw Tommy Trojan, meet Salisbury Steak!"

You were too drunk to remember but people laughed at me.

Sean, do you understand? They laughed.

There was the night we were in that pub in Winnepeg, and you pulled that poor waitress into the men's room, unzipped your fly and slobbered, "Want some bangers with your mash?"

Yes, Sean, she laughed too.

Then on the movie set, you gave that hot P.A. an eyeful at the craft service table. From her reaction, trust me, she didn't think you had the longest yard.

It got so bad I took matters into my own hands (so to speak) and went into hiding, praying that would scare you straight.

But no, you just went to some Beverly Hills proctologist. Next thing I know, you're popping little blue pills and shopping for a new cellphone.

You don't get it, Sean. Don't you take a look around when you're at the urinal? You know, compare and contrast? Don't you check out Winer's weiner? Gaze below Ven Pelt's belt? Glance at Keith's sheath?

Don't you have the slightest idea what chicks and dicks are saying behind your back?

Lemme give you a hint: it rhymes with piny tenis.

Subconsciously, there must be a reason. Maybe this all is some exercise in self-hatred. Maybe Mom didn't love us enough. Head trauma, perhaps? Hell, I don't know, I'm not Sigmund Freud, I'm just your penis!

And maybe you don't care what they're saying about me but I do.

It hurts, Sean. It hurts bad.

So, consider this fair warning. You don't keep this fruit tucked safely inside the loom, you'll force me to extremes.

That's right, Sean.

You leave me no choice.

If there's a next time, I'm taking you down with me.