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Johnnie's Cafe Archives |
So colossal are my genitals, that they compelled Stephen Hawking to theorize that my sexual gravity is such that a tablespoon of it would weigh more than an entire LA club full of amorous, cocaine-addled, Prada-clad Casanovas!
My genitals are so gigantic, and yours so woefully inadequate, that evolution laughs at you and promises that your male offspring will also be cursed with your ridiculous nubbin -- thus dooming your DNA!
My genitals are so sweetly intoxicating, I was able to convince Cornel West and Camille Paglia to violently disrobe and vigorously copulate with me in a Chablis-fueled, mind-bending threesome that made the seraphim in paradise blush with a mixture of shame and desire!
My genitals are so leviathan that Ahab himself, if he were rendered a non-fictional creature, would surely stand upon his masts crows nest and lob mighty harpoons at me!
If the teaming masses were to behold my juggernaut-like genitals, surely Marx's concept of the End of History would be nigh.
My genitals are of such behemoth proportions, it is to the world of genitalia what Noam Chomsky is to the study of global activism!
My genitals are so mammoth in size, that if inches were words, my member could fill every page of one of Ayn Rand's epic Objectivist tomes!
A fine 1997 Chateau-La Cardonne Bordeaux would go well with my robust and flavorful genitals, even after the third helping!
My genitals are so bursting with sexual magnetism, I could single-handedly seduce and defile the entire lesbian population of Sarah Lawrence University!
My genitals bloat with such passionate force, that upon arousal, I barely have enough epidermis to purse my lips so that I may recite Shelley's immortal poem "Ozymandias"!
If Philip Glass wrote an ambient opera in honor of my genitals, the title of the epic collection of random notes and sounds would be "Phantasmagoric Ode To Big Dong Number Five."!
Hemingway's lost book about my genitals began thusly: "His organ was big."
My virility is so profoundly cosmic, that in the event that every human male were to cease to be, my limitless supplies of genetically super-human semen could impregnate the remaining female population, thus siring a perfect race of confident, and impressively endowed men!
Tired Freudian references aside - your mother played my mighty skin flute like a surf crowned sea nymph trying to rouse Poseidon from his watery slumber!
Kurt Anderson secretly admires the cultural relevancy of my genitals, which have supplied artists and writers alike the inspiration needed to create great American works, and this admiration turned to sour envy when he ignored my zippered muse and wrote that appalling "Turn of the Century" that many have mistakenly referred to as a "novel"!
My genitals are comparable to Harvard University’s endowment - both are the largest of their kind, both are institutions that demand the respect of academics and undergraduate trollops, and both cannot be seen or used by anyone of low birth or intelligence, unless they work very hard to prove they are worthy.
Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates. "In honor of this holy season," Saint Peter said, "you must each possess something that symbolises Christmas to get into heaven."
The first man fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on. "It represents a candle," he said. "You may pass through the pearly gates," Saint Peter said.
The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells." Saint Peter said, "You may pass through the pearly gates."
The third man started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women's panties. St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, "And just what do those symbolise?" The man replied... "They're Carols."
A precious little girl walks into a pet shop and asks in the sweetest little lisp, "Excuthe me, mithter, do you keep widdle wabbits?"
As the shopkeeper's heart melts, he gets down on his knees so that he's on her level, and asks, "Do you want a widdle white wabby or a thoft and fuwwy bwack wabby or maybe one like that cute widdle bwown wabby over there?"
She, in turn blushes, rocks on her heels, puts her hands on her knees, leans forward and says in a quiet voice, "I don't fink my pet python weally gives a thit."
A lady goes into a bar with her goose. Then the bartender comes up to her and says, "Why did you have to bring the pig in with you?"
Then the lady answered, "Excuse me, I think this is a goose."
And the bartender says, "Excuse me, I was talking to the goose."
A string walks into a bar with a few friends and orders a beer. The bartender says, "I'm sorry, but we don't serve strings here."
The string walks away a little upset and sits down with his friends. A few minutes later he goes back to the bar and orders a beer. The bartender, looking a little exasperated, says, "I'm sorry, we don't serve strings here."
So the string goes back to his table. Then he gets an idea. He ties himself in a loop and messes up the top of his hair. Then he walks back up to the bar and orders a beer.
The bartender squints at him and says, "Hey, aren't you a string?"
And the string says, "Nope, I'm a frayed knot."
Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates. "In honor of this holy season," Saint Peter said, "you must each possess something that symbolises Christmas to get into heaven."
The first man fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on. It represents a candle, he said. "You may pass through the pearly gates" Saint Peter said.
The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells". Saint Peter said "you may pass through the pearly gates."
The third man started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women's panties. St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, "And just what do those symbolise?" The man replied... "They're Carols!"