Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 5, 2010

Does Your Willy Need a Bonnet…..?

More About Me – and About Bonkers Egypt – Than You Thought You Needed To Know.


Does your willy need a bonnet

When he goes into the sun?

Do you rub some ointment on it?

Or put it in a bun?


Does your willy put his collar up

In the cold and damp?

Do you mail it to the warmer climes,

And send it with a stamp?


I want you to know the only reason I am writing this is to offend my one remaining friend (yes, that’s what I’m like).  You see, she’s a woman, and as you all know, women don’t necessarily like talking about the same things that men do.  Women seem to be very delicate creatures, and very prone to attacks of nausea should certain topics crop up in a conversation.  This was brought home to me the other day when I was munching double roasted burnt chicken at one of the many eateries on Bitosh – which is by way of being the ‘South Beach’ of Alexandria, Egypt, where I’m currently hanging my hat (and no, not the kind of hat women don’t like me to talk about).  The woman I was with…

But first, let us clarify a few things. When I tell you I was actually sharing a meal with a woman in a public, I should emphasize that in Egypt, it is not often that a male will actually been seen in public with a woman of the opposite sex.  And as for eating food with her?  Don’t be obscene.  After all, unless she’s your mother and completely veiled, the sight of her opening her mouth and inserting something even as innocent as a bread roll into its depths, will probably inflame you.  Is that clear?   No?  Then we shall discuss it a little more before coming to grips with today’s topic, i.e. foreskins.  

Now, I like woman.  Not necessarily as sexual partners, but that’s neither here nor there. Let’s say, I tend to prefer them to men as companions. And I have an unusually large number of female Egyptian friends, but not more than one or two males (for reasons I may or may not address in the future). Now this is sort of rare.  It makes me one of the few men I know in Alexandria who’s ever been seen in a cafe with a woman.  But, here you must bear with me a little longer – for women such as the one with whom I openly consorted in such a blatantly public venue as a burnt barbeque chicken eatery on Bitosh, are obviously ‘bad girls’. Now, there two principal types of bad girls.  If you are an Egyptian bad girl, you will never ever be able to get married, and – what is more – the mere sight of your wantonness, makes older men (the ones with beards and bruises on their foreheads) look for the nearest pile of stones.  Then there are the foreign bad girls.  Now, in the case of these abominations, they are already so bad that the only thing they crave is to give desperate Egyptian males their first (and possibly last) fuck of their lives.  In other words, foreign girls should count themselves lucky to get a nice dry Egyptian fuck from a nice steroid-filled Egyptian fucker,  after which they will be begging to convert to Islam, marry the fucker, help him immigrate to America (or possible to Ireland, or Canada or Sweden, or to one of those other places with free healthcare).  And then as neo-Egyptian wives, they will spend the rest of their life scrubbing the floors of their mother-in-law’s apartment, doing the washing, and hanging the carpets from the balcony.  And, oh yes, if they want some wifely excitement, they get to lower a little basket from their window and ask their husband’s brother if he will go and buy some food for them.  They then beat the carpets for another twenty minutes, or until the brother-in-law returns with the requested items, at which point he dumps everything into the basket, and the wife gets to exercise her muscles by hauling the entire load up to her apartment (on the seventeen floor) by hand.  Now, if the foreign bad girl will not consent to marry and convert and cover herself with a blanket, there’s always the possibility that – although in Egyptian terms she is already a slut – the male might consent to marry her via one of those friendly little arrangements called a weekend marriage. Now in a weekend marriage, the bad girl agrees to become a good girl, but only just for the weekend (hence the name a weekend marriage).  In other words, it is a legal arrangement lasting just long enough so that the good Egyptian male can finally feel the difference between a vagina and a little boy’s anus.  Then, after the weekend is over, the newly-proclaimed good girl is divorced (for not having had a hymen when she got married), and she abruptly reverts to being a bad girl again.  And, it goes without saying, that being a born-again bad girl puts her in a whole new category.  Not only is she a defiled bad girl, but she is a despised and outcast divorced and defiled bad girl.  And it’s even more special if she is a despised and outcast and defiled foreign bad girl, for this makes her a double-strength, double-dip bad girl who was such a bad girl to begin with  that she deserves everything that’s coming to her, but we won’t get in to that. Let us just say that, as a double-strength, double-dip foreign bad girl she does have a certain allure. Not only that, but it’s probable that she will also have an abundance of pubic hair. For an Egyptian male, this opens up a whole, new, uncharted territory.  For you see,  the removal of every hair on a woman’s body with hot sugar is another exciting Egyptian preoccupation, and one that occupies a good twelve hours of every good girl’s day – in other words, the hours when she is not scrubbing the floors of her mother-in-law’s apartment, washing clothes or beating the carpets.  This, of course, means that this activity is really a blessing, for without it a good girl might have time to go shopping for shoes – which is always the first step down the slippery slope.  And from there it’s almost inevitable that the good girl will go bad.

Now, let us be sensible here.  It goes without saying that, with all this special allure going for them, these double-strength, double-dip foreign bad girls can now be handed round to all the ex-weekend husband’s friends, and possibly also to most of the other men in the local cafes.   After which, of course, they should be stoned, but that’s all right; foreign bad girls can always escape that fate by giving private lessons teaching English, for this gives them a certain legitimacy when they renew their visa. But if they are not enamoured of teaching English to the entire law faculty of the university or to the entire shipyard in Wardienne, they should really put on their thinking caps.  In other words, before they declare their independence, they should think seriously about their options:  is it better to be stoned by a crowd of men wearing Armani jeans under their galabayas, or is preferable to spend one’s life scrubbing the floors of one’s mother-in-law’s apartment, washing the clothes, and beating the carpets?  It’s what we call a win-win situation, which is why we have all these young western girls flooding into the land of the Pharaohs to teach English.  Figure that one out if you will.

Anyway, to get back to the subject of women’s delicate natures, I was (yes!) sharing a slab of burnt double barbeque chicken with this double-strength, double-dip bad foreign women (she’s only been here a week, and she’s already on the fast track to seriously bad-girldom).  She was bemoaning the troubles she was having in adjusting to the cultural quagmire of being a western female in Egypt. In other words, she was still making eye-contact with people on the street, for which she has already lost her reputation in Agami. Now, I have been here for some time, and let us say that, although I am a man and therefore operate on a much higher plain in Egyptian society, I’ve been around the block a few times.  And, in a general sense, I know more or less what not to do, at least when it comes to the ‘big’ issues.  This means, of course, I am aware of certain cultural pit falls you do not hear about in the travel guides, etc. It also means I know almost everything there is to know about the good boy/bad boy/good girl/bad psycho-drama merry-go-round, which is a whole new other chapter.  Anyway, after listening to this double-strength, double-dip foreign bad girl for an hour or so, and commiserating – because, let’s face it; nothing you’ve ever been taught in the US on any subject whatsoever applies here.  But, of course, it goes without saying that westerners will insist upon bring their beloved values with them, trying to force them down the throats of the poor downtrodden natives, and then being miserable because they simply cannot cope, and because they don’t realise that the Egyptians (bless their little hearts) think all westerners are stupid fucking morons and there for the taking.   

Now, after we had dealt with how she should simply dump everything she had ever learned out the window (and for fuck’s sake, next time put some clothes on before you come out: you’re not in Wisconsin anymore), the conversation drifted on to other, more light-hearted topics.  One of these concerned the wonderful bidet attachments fitted into every Egyptian toilet.  Now, in Egypt – as in many, many other Middle Eastern and Asian countries – toilet paper is considered unclean.  Meaning it just smears everything around.  Instead the locals are accustomed to washing themselves.  Now, this is a very efficient methodology and it’s certainly very sanitary.  Plus the fact that it makes sense. And, also, it does prolong the life of drains. Anyway, I asked this woman – in all seriousness – how she was adapting to this, and she immediately squinched up her face, squealed “Eeeeouuuuu,” which was followed by a, “Oh don’tttttt,” like a six-year-old girl.  And I thought to myself, you are a fucking forty-one year old woman, you’ve had a child and you come from a country that bombs the shit out of every nation that isn’t their flavour of the month, and yet you cannot handle a serious question regarding the disposal of bodily wastes and how you clean yourself afterwards.  But, of course, I should have remembered that the country from which she came is also the only country in the world where they can’t even say the world ‘toilet’.  And this means that three of their major contributions to the rest of the planet – in addition to ‘Farmville’ and  ‘Facebook’  – are ‘comfort station’, ‘little girls’ room’ and ‘tinkle’.

Now, here I must apologise for dragging you along to Bonkers Egypt when all you were interested in was hearing my views about the conditions inflicted upon the wangers of the world.  Please forgive me!

If you will remember, I did start this chapter by giving you a sweet little poem.  To understand me, you must realise that the pro-/anti- foreskin debate has resonated within me since the very first time I saw a penis that was (shall we say) differently enabled.  At the time, I remember thinking, how very strange! How wonder what it feels like?  And, of course, I wondered if it tasted the same, and if its owner would let me sample it… 

Now, let me be blunt (it’s amazing how many times I can be blunt in these blogs, isn’t it).  I do love penises more than practically anything else in the world.   Except perhaps horses.  A nice friendly penis – clean, of course – is far more sublime than any Mozart Sonata.   It beats the hell out of kicking a football around a pitch, and I would certain rather nibble on a happy wanger than I would on a bar of chocolate.  And as for pop singers, all I can say is, “Shut the fuck up and show me the willy!” Quite, simply, willies are delightful creatures, they are the miracles of the universe, they sing like heavenly choirs of angels (and if you’ve never heard them, that means you’re tone deaf).  And  it beats me how any intelligent man with a willy between his legs and reasonable health, would rather waste time in making a living or in ruling the world, when he could instead be sitting at home with a nice cup of coffee and perhaps a kipper, and discussing the meaning of life with his willy.

 I have spent a considerable amount of time researching the crimes perpetuated on innocent willies in the name of religion.  And what I have found is that it is a very painful subject.

Now, I refuse to be drawn into the more arcane traditions with which so many cultures are enamoured.  The whole business of having your penis mangled simply to prove your manhood seem to me to be somewhat of an oxymoron.  Or, in other words, completely moronic.  I mean, isn’t the whole idea of having a male organ to impregnate a woman and, thus, propagate the human race?  You know?  Go forth and multiply? Well, how can you fucking do that if you’ve mangled your willy so badly that it doesn’t really function again.  At least, not without the killing of a lot of small, endangered animals and seahorses and grey whales. Or even without inhaling little triangular tablets that turn your vision blue and give you a headache.

Yes, I know – the minute I mention circumcision, I am going to be bombarded with all five hundred fifty-six million, one hundred fifty thousand, three hundred twenty-five entries in Google, all of which set out in pedantic terms that the uncircumcised penis is both an abomination, and behind every plague and every misfortune ever to befall man. But, what you must understand is that every single one of these entries was written by an American.  Probably a member of the elite CIA/FBI propaganda unit.  Now, if the Americans want to be pro-circumcision, that’s up to them.  But why must they always try to justify their own peccadilloes by pretending they have the last word?    I mean, they yell very loudly about being ‘God’s own country’.  But if this is the case, and if – as they like to proclaim – we are made in God’s image, why is it they cannot grasp that man was created with a foreskin?  It’s such a handy little wrapper, and if they are so worried about it being unclean, why in the fuck don’t they simply learn to clean it.  You know: you retract it; you wash inside the foreskin with a gentle soap, and you wash the glans, and then wash the rest of your little willy, and then you bathe your little, wrinkly scrotum… and then you make sure you rinse it all very thoroughly with water.  And you always check it for any spiders nesting underneath the foreskin, and also check that there are no mousies having babies in the furry patch under your scrotum and between your legs. And then you dry everything using a soft towel or by standing naked behind the engines of a jumbo jet, or simply by having your significant other blow on it.  After it’s squeaky clean and to ready to start its own little willy day (for it is bound to lead a busy life, and its Blackberry is full to the brim), you moisturise it and powder it and gel its curly locks.  However – and this is important: whatever you do, please make sure your willy is nice and dry before you stuff it back into the underwear you haven’t washed since you graduated from high school and left home in 1956.

And herein lies the crux of the matter.  Not only do the Americans not openly teach about the proper washing of man’s most essential tool, they would rather blame its natural state for the ills of the world (including weapons of mass destruction and every single pandemic and epidemic) than they would in instructing their own citizens in proper sanitary practises – which is sort of in keeping with their insistence on smearing their shit around their bottoms and clogging their drains with toilet paper.  A very odd place, is God’s Own Country.

Now – never fear – as long as I have a willy, I will have a lot more to say on this subject.  But until I do, please remember to treat it nicely and try not to torture it.  Do not stick it through the meat grinder during one of your sexual escapades, and do not insert it into a fucking light socket.  That has been done before, and what always happens it that you will be found by the police; they will take a lot of photographic images, and these photographic images will be splashed all over the local paper, and then, of course, they will be posted on your sister’s Facebook page.  Most likely, she will be forced to commit suicide, and it will go and on and on… until her entire cheerleading squad is kicked out of their Sororities and forced to marry insurance salesmen, wear  shapeless polyester blend sweatpants and Crocs, and shop for their two dozen children at Factory-2-U.

And all because you tortured your little willy!

And in case you were wondering about the poem – no, it’s not finished.  But don’t worry your silly willy’s head that; it shall be.

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