Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 11, 2010

The Little Wet Spots of My World

How We Got them, What To Do With Them, and Who Is To Blame

When your dog is chasing his tail round and round and round and having a grand old rumpus, and whenever people happen to be watching, there will always be at least the one imbecile who will make the following comment:  “Isn’t he sweet!  But, of course, he doesn’t really know it’s his tail, does he?”  And you sigh, and roll your eyes and swallow your reply.  For the thing is, you know exactly what would happen if he caught his five year old son whipping out his willy in Kensington Gardens – right under the statue of ‘Peter Pan’ – and was joyfully chasing it round and round a tree.

Applying similar criteria to his son to that which he applied to your dog (who in your opinion is a whole lot more intelligent), do you think for one moment that this same imbecile would say (with the approved, embarrassed, fatherly chuckle), “Isn’t he sweet? But, of course, he doesn’t really know it’s his willy, does he?” 

No, I’m afraid he would not!  And not only would he not, but his first reaction would be to smack his son’s hand, stuff  the offending willy down  his son’s trousers – possibly circumcising him in the zipper in the process –  and drag him out of the park.  And all the while pretending that it was all the boy’s mother’s fault (or that the boy had a learning disorder) and that he himself – as the father – was merely an innocent bystander.  Needless to say, the minute they got home, he would immediately put his son across his knee, wash his mouth out with carbolic, and send him to his room without his tea.  And then – ten years down the line – this man will wonder why his son has joined a terrorist cell.

Now, I know that in society children must learn to operate on a ‘higher’ plane from that of ‘lower’ animals, but for God’s sake don’t smack them in front of the statue of ‘Peter Pan’!  The only thing that will accomplish (besides inspiring him to join a terrorist cell, of course) is to run away from home. In other words, after being sent to his room – and after drinking the glass of milk and eating the digestive biscuits his mother smuggled up to him the minute her husband had stormed out of the house and down to the pub – the son will manage to sneak his pet dog into his room.  Together, the two of them will wait patiently for night to fall and for his parents to go to bed.  Once everything is quiet, the little boy embarks upon the course of action he has earlier planned.  Now, it’s not that he doesn’t love his parents; after all they did promise to buy him the latest X-Box for his birthday.  However, his father did humiliate him in front of Peter Pan. And there are other certain mitigating circumstances, as well, and these alone demand precipitate action. 

The first circumstance involves having his penis rubbed with noxious substances that make it not to wish come out and play. And while he hasn’t yet experienced this in person, his best friend has.  And this best friend is currently filing suit against his parents and has moved in with his older sister and her husband.   The second mitigating circumstance involves the sudden plan to have him sent to the Jar-Head Mercenary Boot Camp in the Mississippi Delta – an accredited K through12 academy that guarantees to turn your liberal faggot son into a brutal ironman assassin, no questions asked.

With these images spinning round his head, the little boy can think of only one way out.  And so he fetches some of his mother’s talcum powder from the bathroom, sprinkles it over his and the dog’s head and calls it fairy-dust, after which he flies out the window to Never-Never-Land.  And if you were still waiting for the first mention of a little wet spot, let’s just say you should have seen what his little willy did the moment he jumped.

Now let us proceed to the second scenario: You come home from an afternoon spent visiting the neighbours’ new litter of kittens.  Your new puppy – who is usually so ‘good’ – is so excited to see you that he momentarily forgets his manners; a tiny sprinkle of yellow liquid splashes on your new white Nikes and leaves a wet spot on the parquet.  However, since he is usually so fastidious and since you feel guilty for leaving him alone so long whilst eating your way through the neighbour’s daughter’s birthday cake, you clap your hands and laugh and clip the lead on to his collar and take him outside for a walk.  Because, after all, he is only a little doggie, he is your precious love, and – let’s face – he’s not really very bright.  And also, you are thrilled that he was so glad to see you that he actually burst his bladder.  The ultimate compliment.

Now, let us substitute your aged, senile and foul-tempered mother for this sweet little puppy.  Suppose you left her alone – under a similar set of circumstances – only you didn’t come home until after eleven that night.  Let’s also suppose that, when the old bag hears your key in the front door, she struggles to her feet – knocks her Zimmer frame over on to your new glass-topped coffee table, smashing it to bits, and then totters into the hallway to tell you just what she thinks of you.  Keeping in mind that she is not a cute little puppy (and is not nearly as bright), would you still think – even though her Tenas have overflowed, resulting not so much in a little wet spot as in a loch the size of Ness – that the old harridan is an adorable little cupcake?  Or would you hold it against her that, even though you have been out partying and getting snockered while she has been sitting at home alone, she simply refuses to take the hint.  In other words, in spite of all your prayers and your donations to the church’s restoration fund, the old termagant keeps right on living (and does it intentionally to spite you); because of this, and because she asked for it, you will probably resort to the sort of punitive action that doesn’t exactly thrill the social workers.   And due to the fact that she will then yell at you and call you an ungrateful child and a changeling, you strap her down on to her bed. And when she has the gall to demand her bowl of gruel and inky black tea, you lie to her through your teeth and tell her she already had it.  Because you know that even if you did go to all that trouble, she wouldn’t appreciate it any more than she would remember it.

Of course, once the old cow is safely in bed and her door is securely locked, you return to your lounge – the room you keep for ‘best’.  After all, considering everything you’ve been through you deserve a drink and a good sit down in front of your seventy-two-inch flat screen television.  It goes without saying that you’ve only recently refurbished this room.  It has all-white carpet, white upholstered sofas and chairs, black and white stripped wallpaper with real paintings of clowns, and – naturally – a black marble wet bar.

However, the very first thing you notice upon entering this holy of holies (which she has been forbidden under pain of death to enter) is that she’s gone and smashed your new Waterford  Crystal coffee table with her Zimmer frame.  And the next thing you notice is that she has left a very large and very noisome wet spot right on the sofa cushions – a spot that has spread to include every inch of the sofa.

Clearly, there is only one sensible thing you can do: first thing in the morning – even before getting her dressed or spooning her ounce of gruel down her gullet – you take her straight over to that nursing home – the one on the bypass that accepts walk-ins.  You leave her on the doorstep (or, if you prefer, in the middle of the street) and you don’t even bother to say goodbye – after all, what did she ever do for you except call you an ungrateful child and to wish she’d had the abortion her boyfriend had promised to pay for.  And, it goes without saying the last thing you’ll do is leave a forwarding address or her medication.  After all, even though this is ‘one of those’ nursing homes, there is still the matter of those telltale bruises and the broken arm and the fractured pelvis and the fact you haven’t changed her nappy for a good two months.  It’s a case of  “good-bye, mummy; don’t bother to wait up.”

But wouldn’t you have been saved all this bother if you hadn’t given her a home in the first place?  That way you would have had the spare room – which would, of course, be absolutely perfect for that delightful little puppy you saw making a cute little wet spot in the pet shop window.  And wasn’t he just soooo cute?

Having dispensed with the sort of large-scale wet-spot scenarios that we love to share round the barbie with our neighbours, let us get down to the ordinary, everyday, common or garden variety that are the bane of everyone’s existence.

And we shall start with underwear.  Men’s underwear, to be precise.  Now why on earth – unless you are endowed with one of those scrotums the size and weight of a bull elephant’s – should any man wish to wear underwear?  After all, it pinches, it makes you sweat, and it invariably gets caught in your arse crack and leaves embarrassing skid marks (because God forbid you – being a real man – should actually wash).

Now, let’s face it, there may be two reasons for a man to wear knickers; however, only one of them is honest.  The first one, which we shall dismiss out of hand as being unacceptable to any rugby player, is either because you are a male model – and therefore a faggot – or a premier league football player wearing it to please your sponsor.  After all, you do have that new Bugatti Veyron and the penthouse in the Burj Khalifa in Dubai to pay for.  As well as your string of newly minted pop starlette WAGS.  But, let’s face it, the minute the promotional photos are taken, the first thing you do is rip them off and go commando like the real working class lad he is.

That having been said – and believe me, although given the choice I will go commando any day of the week, there really is one good reason for a man to wear underwear:  The wet spot.  Now, let’s be perfectly blunt about this: when God created man, he included one really glaring flaw, for which – had man been a car – he would have been recalled.

The flaw is this:  no matter how hard or vigorously a man shakes his penis after urinating, there is always that one drop that waits to emerge until after said penis is returned to the trousers. And the result is a wet spot that no man can conceal.

Now, it’s not as bad for an uncircumcised male, for he can always pull his foreskin over his penis and a tie a ribbon round it.  However, if you are a real man and you are in a public convenience, and there are others around – especially that interested little specimen in the pink shirt and the champagne pompadour and the very large ex-fullback in the Security Guard’s uniform – the last thing you want to do is tie a ribbon round your willy in plain sight.

 The only other problem with the ribbon solution in dealing with that pesky wet spot is that the interior of your foreskin is, at the best of times, a moist, unwashed, rancid and foetid  receptacle for jism and other delights.  Add the wet spot to the brew and it will waste no time in fermenting and starting to smell like the den of a male lion.  And because of this, you might not ask your girlfriend to fellate you until after you’ve added a dash of cologne. Otherwise, your flavour will not be her flavour-of-the-month.

But, at least an uncircumcised man does have an option.  However, for an uncircumcised man all is lost.  You are out of luck.  There is nothing you can do about that one extra drop of urine, which will spread and spread and spread, and it will be a particularly virulent shade of yellow.  Especially if you are wearing white trousers and don’t have anything you can cover yourself with.

It goes without saying, the only solution is: underwear.  Because, if push does come to shove and you are wearing underwear when your wet spot runs amok, you can always wait until things settle down and then remove the wet-spotted underwear and bin it. This does, of course, mean bringing sixteen or seventeen extra pairs whenever you leave the house, but wa-HAY, why do you think God created rucksacks?

Now, there is one piece of good news for male underwear sufferers, and that is that the new lycra boxers are really quite refreshing to wear.  You can almost fool yourself into thinking that you’ve got nothing on at all. But then, men also believe that vegetables cause impotence.

But then, of course, if you are one of those slacker student types, your cargoes will already be so stained that a mere wet spot will be redundant.  In fact, many students – particularly philosophy majors – can piss straight through their flies without interrupting their latest discussion in the cafe, and without exposing themselves to ridicule. Because, you see, nobody will notice anything different. 

Having said all there is to say about underwear in its role as a man’s wet spot-concealer, let us segue to the role of the wet spot as the reason for the male’s unwillingness to sustain (and endure) long-term sexual relationships. Long-term meaning – in the excepted vernacular of the sexually active male human animal – anything longer than it takes for him to achieve his first organism. And let us brutal about this: it is not the fault of the man; he would be more than willing – if not to spend the entire night (in which case there’s always the danger that the woman might say, “I love you”) – but at least long enough to achieve a second orgasm (and with any luck, by that time the woman might have become desperate enough to resort to the tried and true method of clitorising herself while the man huffs and puffs  and pumps and blows his wad up her tunnel – and always a split second after she has asked him not to come inside her).  For to listen and to have sex at the same time means multitasking; something mean are not designed to do.

But now we come to the reason why men are so bad at long-term relationships.  And quite simply, it is – once again – all the fault of the woman.  For, no matter what, she makes a wet spot.  And not only does she make a wet spot, but should the man remain even long enough for a second go – thus providing the woman with a heaven-sent opportunity to finally achieve an orgasm of her own – she will repay him by moaning that he is not taking his turn to lie upon the wet spot she made in the first place.

Now I ask you, is that fair?  And do you blame a man for sneaking off at the first convenient moment (such as when she goes to the bathroom after their first go-round)?  In my humble opinion if a woman wants to keep her man for any length of time, she will train herself never to leave a wet spot, and if she leaves one by mistake, never to suggest to a man that he might trade places with her.  After all (and this is purely a physical reason), a man’s bottom is customarily hairier that that of a woman.  The sort of fluids that make up this particularly annoying variety of wet spot, tend to stiffen the delicate hairs on the man’s posterior.  These stiff, clotted hairs will, if left unattended – (as it no doubt will be, men not being particularly well-trained in the bottom-washing department) – lead to a rash.  And a rash will lead to a certain unbearable itchiness, which – after it has been sufficiently scratched through the real man’s jeans – will develop boils.

I ask you this: Is a long term relationship worth getting boils for? 

Now, we segue to the unlikely scenario that the man actually does enter in to a long term relationship which leads to marriage.

What this usually means is that a compromise has been struck.  The man sleeps in his wife’s bed, but only long enough for her to make the wet spot.  He then adjourns to his own bedroom – where he remains until such time as she has freshened up (because, after all, she is probably not smelling too good by this time) and changed the sheet. And when everything is once again bright and breezy, it is then the cue for the husband to re-enter the marital bed and start the whole thing over.  And sometimes this procedure can be repeated as many as three or four times in a given night.  Now, pity the poor man, for every time he has exhausted himself by pumping and huffing and puffing and blowing his wad, he then has to traipse all the way into the other room and take a nap whilst the woman repairs the damage that her latest wet spot has done to the bed.  And then, as if that is not enough, the man is then obliged to get himself up from a sound sleep and return once again to his wife’s side. And it is about this time that she brings up the subject of love – and sometimes even babies – and the poor man is so tuckered out that all he wants to do is go down to the pub with his mates. After all, all the sheets are dirty, and he is certainly not going to lie on them until his wife stops pouting and gets up and launders them.  And, irons them, of course, because in spite of their hairy bottoms, men are delicate creatures, prone to developing not only rashes and boils, but inconvenient chafing.  And believe me, no man wants to take a shower in front of his mates at the squash club if he has any of these conditions.  For you know full well that every single one of them will know that his wife has forced him to sleep on her wet spot, not having had either the compassion or the foresight to keep at least a dozen changes of sheets in the cupboard.

There are, of course, many, many, many other types of wet spots, and eventually I will get to them all.  This may take time, as I value a scientific approach to life above all else. This means I shall have to experiment until I have personally researched each and every species and sub-species of wet spot, all their permutations.  I shall learn all there is to know about their shapes and sizes and molecular densities, about their odours and flavours and even about their musical tastes.  For believe me, the world of the seemingly insignificant wet spot is a glory to behold.  And just so you know, I might even dedicate a whole chapter to the strange and mysterious medieval curse that condemned the feckless willy to an existence without so much as one single, perfect aim.  It is truly a sad tale, but one that is worth the telling (besides which, it has only recently been declassified).   

But for today, let us finish with a snippet of culture.  To quote whoever it may have been: “some are puddles are large; some puddles are small; but throughout it all it was the good Lord who made them all.” And when the nights are cold and you are alone in your truckle bed, please remember that “even the tiniest wet spot is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.”

 

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